The 5 Truths About Dating (That No One Ever Tells You) by Melissa Lafsky.
The best thing I've ever read on the Internet is this. And the best line is when the author, a confirmed bachelor, says of his married friends: "I doubt many of them would actually choose to trade places with me. Although they may miss the thrill of sexual novelty, absolutely nobody misses dating."
There's no denying it: we all despise dating. It's a cruel joke played on us by modern society -- while human beings are hard-wired to seek love and companionship, our culture plops giant boulders in the path of intimacy and calls them "dates." Movies and TV and YA books and grandmothers of all ethnicities push us to partner up, but the actual skills for successfully navigating a dating situation somehow get overlooked. Since my last column about weddings, I've gotten a slew of unhappy replies from women (and the occasional man) saying, "Quit complaining -- I'd love to have your problems. Meeting the partner is the hard part." Fair enough. Dating friggin' sucks.
Assuming you are a person who puts up with the suckiness of dating for a purpose -- to find a longterm partner -- then chances are you're looking to find an end to your dating days (if you're someone who goes on dates simply to have sex, or get out of the house on weekends, then this column will hold no use for you -- but read it anyway!). And a big part of reaching this proverbial happy end is facing a few icky truths. Full disclosure: I met my husband-to-be at a party in New York City, when I was in my early '30s (meaning I'm now in my less-early '30s). "You're so lucky!" people gasp when I tell them the story, as if I was a prepubescent plucked from Ceský Krumlov and handed a supermodeling contract. Casey Anthony was lucky. I'm just someone who decided I was ready to find a husband, and then did the necessary work to procure one. Yes, I said "work." Which brings us to the five truths about dating that no one ever tells you (but are nonetheless true):
1) Dating takes work.
We're taught to work hard to achieve our goals. Study until your eyes bleed, and you'll make the Honor Roll. Take 6 zillion extracurricular activities and snort Adderall before the SATs, and you'll get into college. Stay late and work weekends, and you'll get the promotion. And on and on until you fulfill the American expectation of constant accomplishment (or you die, or both).
Yet somehow, in the midst of all this cultural "can-do-it-iveness," a crucial lesson gets lost: meeting your life partner also requires work. Lots of work, in fact. This reality gets totally scrubbed from the lore of modern romance. We honestly think it just happens. We arrive at a bar on Tuesday night and our beloved is standing there with a rubber stamp on his/her forehead and 2 tickets to eternal bliss. Not true. Even the people for whom this sort of thing "happens" are lying about it -- they worked (whether they realized it or not) to ready themselves and prepare their lives to meet someone, be it by conquering fears of intimacy or overcoming emotional scars that kept them from nabbing the great people they did meet, or just cleaning out all the crap in their apartments to make room for someone other than the cat. And most of all, they got their butts to that bar on a Tuesday night.
So what's the specific work you need to do? Hell if I know. All I know is that if you're dating like a fiend and never getting what you want (more on that later) then there is work left to do. In a way, deciphering what work is necessary for you is like 10th grade algebra -- if you study the same way for every test and flunk them all, then clearly the way you're studying isn't working. And if you're putting on the same makeup/dress/mental state and heading to the same bar/restaurant/speed dating hall and expecting different results every time, same rules apply.
2) Chances are, you don't really know what you want.
All the frustration that accompanies not meeting the beloved of your dreams can be exhausting. And yes, it (both the dating and the frustration) can go on indefinitely. People do find themselves 60 and alone. Hell, people die alone. No point in sugarcoating it. But whether this happens to you is a choice -- specifically, it's a choice right now to make one thing a priority over another. In other words: figure out exactly what you want right now. Do you want to get married? Do you want it badly enough to do the work discussed in Truth #1? Why? What's so great about being married that makes it worth your time and energy? What traits/activities/emotional needs are you focused on enriching/fulfilling with a partner? What major life goals (travel/children/etc) are you looking to achieve with this theoretical spouse? Because if you don't have a clear idea of what you're trying to accomplish by dragging yourself on dates every week, you're just tossing matches at a tree and hoping it ignites. Or something.
3) Even if you do know what you want, you don't really think you can have it.
We're so good at negating ourselves. No other human has a chance at making us feel as crappy as we can ourselves. It's not even a contest. Just listen to that little voice in your head for a second -- it's negating you right now: "This chick is full of it. She just got lucky. I never get what I want. Nothing good ever happens to me." This charming voice is screaming at you during every date. It knows every insult and jibe to slice right through your good time and sense of possibility. And to make matters worse, it has countless arguments at the ready to convince you that what it says is true: "It's been clinically proven that men your age only want models or cocktail waitresses. Plus the 2010 census showed that single women outnumber single men in this city 8 quatrillion to one!" (I had a professor once who loved the quote "Statistics are like prostitutes -- play with them enough and they'll do anything for you." He may belong in a high-security ward, but there is truth buried in his awful metaphor).
Here's the thing: That godawful voice in your head is basically a life-destroyer. It will almost never help you achieve blissful happiness. It will never tell you that you can/will/should have everything you want in a lover/partner/spouse. And not to go all motivational speaker on you, but we all die in the end. So why not at least try for what you really want, inner voices be damned??
4) Every date really does go how you say it will go.
Whether you realize it or not, every time you go on a date, you've performed a mini-voodoo ritual to predetermine how it will go. If you've shaved off every body hair and wrapped yourself in lacy pink underthings, the chances are high you're gonna get laid. If you demand that your best friend wait a block away to sweep in and rescue you in case he's a psycho? Guess what -- you'll date a lot of psychos. When you're a hammer, every dude from Match.com looks like a nail. So to speak. You set it up from the moment you say yes to the date (or have the other person say yes). Just keep this in mind -- it'll save a lot of wondering "I wonder how it's gonna go tonight?"
5) The hardest part of dating is hearing reality -- even if that reality makes you want to rip off your fingernails with a pliers.
Dating is all about uncertainty and hard truths. You're not really sure what this person across the table thinks of you, and that opinion could be a hard one to hear.
The good news is that after every date, there are only 2 outcomes: either 1) you will see this person again, or 2) you won't. (Once you get into the relationship phase, it's much more complicated -- but that's fodder for another column.) The really tough part is going to be when it's option 2 -- and you'll have to face rejection. Which is never, ever something anyone wants to hear -- we'll yank out our eyebrows and rip off our pubic hair without hesitation, but hearing "I don't want to see you again" is somehow exquisitely painful.
The important part is facing that this pain is a possibility, and making yourself hear what is so. Not what you want to be so, not what romantic comedies say will be so, but what is actually so. He or she does not wish to continue seeing you, and the possibility for that relationship is now gone. Which sucks, but it doesn't MEAN anything (remember that nasty "meaning" trick we're all so good at?). If this guy doesn't fall-down adore you, it MEANS NOTHING about your status as a worthy and valuable human being. It also means nothing about your ability to find partnership in the future. Likewise, if a guy rejects you, it doesn't MEAN anything about men in general. All it means is that this one was a douchebag. And that you found out early enough to recover, pick yourself up, and get back to work. Which is precisely what I did approximately 38 times before meeting my husband. And hey -- it was worth it.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
A blog of another kind
I'm taking a moment to relish the good things. At the moment, I am in a beautiful city, I've never been here before but it is certainly growing on me. Vancouver, BC, is clean, green, kind and diverse people, active, vibrant. This city has everything, mountains, rivers, seaplanes, city trains. I've noticed that people seem very healthy here, everyone walks. This seems like Canada's Miami with the glass condos lining the entire length of the harbor. I've heard the "ouuut" in about, out, shout, etc. It's cute. It feels like home. I know my Mom would love it here.
Another thing I've noticed that just warms my heart is when a complete stranger calls me an affection name - like sweetie, honey, cupcake. I think it's adorable and I wish I was bold enough to say so in return. The affection makes me feel more connected, it's always given with a smile, and often it feels truly sincere. I love sincerity, feeling connected, I love happy people. It also reminds me that I'm not the only one that believes happiness is contagious.
I had an enlightening moment where I'm sitting in the middle of a strange city, completely content, eating my po'boy lunch of baget, brie and salami, with my Harp's, taking in the surroundings. How fortunate I am to have a job that allows me to see these fine places. How great is it that I get to move to a new home when I return? How awesome is it that my family, dad included, was able to spend time with each other in one place, our cabin place, last weekend. How lucky I am to have friends that look forward to sharing their time with me. There are little complaints along the line, but all in all, when I look at the big picture, life isn't that bad. In fact, it's pretty damn good. Even if I don't have balls and chains!
Another thing I've noticed that just warms my heart is when a complete stranger calls me an affection name - like sweetie, honey, cupcake. I think it's adorable and I wish I was bold enough to say so in return. The affection makes me feel more connected, it's always given with a smile, and often it feels truly sincere. I love sincerity, feeling connected, I love happy people. It also reminds me that I'm not the only one that believes happiness is contagious.
I had an enlightening moment where I'm sitting in the middle of a strange city, completely content, eating my po'boy lunch of baget, brie and salami, with my Harp's, taking in the surroundings. How fortunate I am to have a job that allows me to see these fine places. How great is it that I get to move to a new home when I return? How awesome is it that my family, dad included, was able to spend time with each other in one place, our cabin place, last weekend. How lucky I am to have friends that look forward to sharing their time with me. There are little complaints along the line, but all in all, when I look at the big picture, life isn't that bad. In fact, it's pretty damn good. Even if I don't have balls and chains!
Keep my age to yourself
No one appreciates reminders of their advancing age, especially at 32 when a young gal still feels like 23. At one time, I saw my hairdresser because I wanted to, now I continue to see my hairdresser because I have to. My roots do not just grow out, so do my grays. At one time, my waist circumference used to be in the twenties. Evidently, waist size increases proportionally (x.5%) as age increases. And not just waist size, but jean size, bra size and panty size. And to put the nail in my puma coffin, I drive a four door tan sedan. Speaking of four door sedans, and speaking of this puma on the prowl, I was an innocent victim of high school giddy games recently that REALLY made me feel my age.
Ladies, gents, remember WAY back when... back to a time when boys and girls had little crushes that left you giddy, nervous, and excited? And do you remember being that underclassmen who totally adored that upperclassmen, that cutie patutie teacher, or that hot something-er-other working the McDonald's drive thru, or the star athlete? Do you remember being totally enamored with an older, wiser, and totally unlikely object of your realistic affections? I do. And while I'm flattered at the mere thought that a car full of barely-post-pubescent boys felt it necessary to honk (twice), yell, (thrice), and another time even louder for the full effect, and then get all giddyasaschoolgirl with big wide toothy grins from ear to ear, and wave the "helLOO!". My first thought was, "well, how cute is that?" and then it donned on me what was really going on. I've been punked. I'm not old enough to be that "woman" that gets the hollers, the looks, the silly cat calls from boys that could, in all honesty, be my offspring. I refuse to believe I've reached that point that I recall so well - doing those stupid embarrassing things, like driving in endless circles in the neighborhood of the crush, just to catch a mere glimpse in the window, add my phone number with his, write his name over and over with mine, scope out our "sign" compatability (oh, wait...). I am not old enough to be the object of fascious attention, just for $hits and giggles. I am not old enough to be that girl that waves for the sake of "making their day"! I don't want to be that girl, yet, I want teenagers to ignore me like I do them!!
Ladies, gents, remember WAY back when... back to a time when boys and girls had little crushes that left you giddy, nervous, and excited? And do you remember being that underclassmen who totally adored that upperclassmen, that cutie patutie teacher, or that hot something-er-other working the McDonald's drive thru, or the star athlete? Do you remember being totally enamored with an older, wiser, and totally unlikely object of your realistic affections? I do. And while I'm flattered at the mere thought that a car full of barely-post-pubescent boys felt it necessary to honk (twice), yell, (thrice), and another time even louder for the full effect, and then get all giddyasaschoolgirl with big wide toothy grins from ear to ear, and wave the "helLOO!". My first thought was, "well, how cute is that?" and then it donned on me what was really going on. I've been punked. I'm not old enough to be that "woman" that gets the hollers, the looks, the silly cat calls from boys that could, in all honesty, be my offspring. I refuse to believe I've reached that point that I recall so well - doing those stupid embarrassing things, like driving in endless circles in the neighborhood of the crush, just to catch a mere glimpse in the window, add my phone number with his, write his name over and over with mine, scope out our "sign" compatability (oh, wait...). I am not old enough to be the object of fascious attention, just for $hits and giggles. I am not old enough to be that girl that waves for the sake of "making their day"! I don't want to be that girl, yet, I want teenagers to ignore me like I do them!!
Friday, June 24, 2011
Like nails on a chalkboard...
.... I resent "reply all" unless it is dutifully necessary to include each and every individual on that email chain to be fully informed.
I especially hate the "reply all's" that are nothing more than a polite acknowledgement, "thanks!". What? Really?
The "reply all's" that use the critical mass of recipients to make a point, gain buy-in, and issue complaint, as if we are all part of it and are contributing authors.
The unnecessary "reply all's" when it's out of courtesy, and one might be interested in the content, but in all likelihood, will trash it because I have 142 other emails that are addressed to me.
And lastly.
Four-way stop-signs. I think it was the other guy that had a stop-sign pet peeve that designed stoplights, where there are clear instructions and protocol when approaching them. But stop-signs are a little ambiguous, especially if one was napping during that drivers training segment. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL I STOP at my stop-sign TO ADVANCE THROUGH THE INTERSECTION!
Point made.
I especially hate the "reply all's" that are nothing more than a polite acknowledgement, "thanks!". What? Really?
The "reply all's" that use the critical mass of recipients to make a point, gain buy-in, and issue complaint, as if we are all part of it and are contributing authors.
The unnecessary "reply all's" when it's out of courtesy, and one might be interested in the content, but in all likelihood, will trash it because I have 142 other emails that are addressed to me.
And lastly.
Four-way stop-signs. I think it was the other guy that had a stop-sign pet peeve that designed stoplights, where there are clear instructions and protocol when approaching them. But stop-signs are a little ambiguous, especially if one was napping during that drivers training segment. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL I STOP at my stop-sign TO ADVANCE THROUGH THE INTERSECTION!
Point made.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Rumor Has It...
Rumor sure does have it! Word around town is that I've turned into an angry lesbian! It's funny what people start to believe when that little seed gets planted, and I have to send a shout out to David for spreading his seed. To anyone who will listen. Someone at our kickball game this past Sunday actually did ask if I liked girls...so obviously it's not a stretch that I may swing on either (or both) sides.
Picture this. Twins game at Target Field. The weather is a balmy 70-something degrees and it's about as perfect for ball watching as can be. To my right sits David, and on my left, a nice married lady around my age (or perhaps 10 or so years younger but whatever) and her husband of 3 years. I make buds with this girl relatively quickly and David points out that I seem to flirt better with women than I do men. Probably an accurate observation. I don't have the pressure of 'flirting' when I am jiving with another chick, and I don't have the interest in her being interested in whether or not I am interested in her. And, the one time I managed to get someones number instead of giving mine happened to be the time when I approached my now good friend Elizabeth on a boat cruise in attempts of setting her up with my friend Mike. In my overzealous manner, I managed to walk away with her digits and form a great friendship instead of fulfulling my 'duty of the wingman' by getting HIM the number. He still, years later, refers to me as 'The C**k Blocker.' I think David may be one of my only friends who has witnessed my experiments with flirting. It never ends well and it always becomes incredibly painful to watch. Much like a train wreck. But worse. Once, at my waitressing job, an adorable regular customer came in and for the first time, sat in my section. He struck up a conversation with me and it started to appear that he could either have been being really nice, or that he was trying to find out some dope on me. Because he's hot, I decided it was the latter. As soon as I made that decision, the build up to impress was too great and I knew it was only a matter of time before my foot would be inserted deep into my mouth without any hope of recovering from what I may say. Sure enough.... "so, Christine, do you have any kids?" he asks. I chuckle and say (as cute as I can somehow make it), "nope! Guess I haven't found anyone who wants me to have their kids yet!" Uh. What?! Who says that? This customer used to come in religiously on Sunday's...generally with his kid. After that happened, nobody has seen him (although I did see him at a local gas station not too long ago so I know he hasn't moved.) Coincidence? I promptly went searching on my iPhone for an app that'll teach me how to flirt.
All of this really shouldn't make me question why then David would start spreading around the rumor that I like girls. I mean, it has been a significant amount of time since I've proven otherwise (262,080 minutes, but who's counting?) Can I just say, without any doubt whatsoever, that I am not an angry lesbian? I am not even a non-angry lesbian. Not that there is anything wrong with either, I just wouldn't be particularily good in that role. Then again, I am clearly not particularily good at being fond of men, either.
Picture this. Twins game at Target Field. The weather is a balmy 70-something degrees and it's about as perfect for ball watching as can be. To my right sits David, and on my left, a nice married lady around my age (or perhaps 10 or so years younger but whatever) and her husband of 3 years. I make buds with this girl relatively quickly and David points out that I seem to flirt better with women than I do men. Probably an accurate observation. I don't have the pressure of 'flirting' when I am jiving with another chick, and I don't have the interest in her being interested in whether or not I am interested in her. And, the one time I managed to get someones number instead of giving mine happened to be the time when I approached my now good friend Elizabeth on a boat cruise in attempts of setting her up with my friend Mike. In my overzealous manner, I managed to walk away with her digits and form a great friendship instead of fulfulling my 'duty of the wingman' by getting HIM the number. He still, years later, refers to me as 'The C**k Blocker.' I think David may be one of my only friends who has witnessed my experiments with flirting. It never ends well and it always becomes incredibly painful to watch. Much like a train wreck. But worse. Once, at my waitressing job, an adorable regular customer came in and for the first time, sat in my section. He struck up a conversation with me and it started to appear that he could either have been being really nice, or that he was trying to find out some dope on me. Because he's hot, I decided it was the latter. As soon as I made that decision, the build up to impress was too great and I knew it was only a matter of time before my foot would be inserted deep into my mouth without any hope of recovering from what I may say. Sure enough.... "so, Christine, do you have any kids?" he asks. I chuckle and say (as cute as I can somehow make it), "nope! Guess I haven't found anyone who wants me to have their kids yet!" Uh. What?! Who says that? This customer used to come in religiously on Sunday's...generally with his kid. After that happened, nobody has seen him (although I did see him at a local gas station not too long ago so I know he hasn't moved.) Coincidence? I promptly went searching on my iPhone for an app that'll teach me how to flirt.
All of this really shouldn't make me question why then David would start spreading around the rumor that I like girls. I mean, it has been a significant amount of time since I've proven otherwise (262,080 minutes, but who's counting?) Can I just say, without any doubt whatsoever, that I am not an angry lesbian? I am not even a non-angry lesbian. Not that there is anything wrong with either, I just wouldn't be particularily good in that role. Then again, I am clearly not particularily good at being fond of men, either.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Stranger Danger 2
In much the same way as Christy-Misty-Coco (CMC for short, from henceforth) appreciates the acknowledgement of her presence by strangers in a polite and courteous manner, I want people to leave me the (f expletive) alone! My story takes yet a different twist on (f expletive ing) people. I still agree with CMC, folks are rude, self-absorbed, unkind, and disrespectful, but I'd rather encounter an individual who wants nothing more than to pretend I don't exist than the (b expletive) who more than made her presence known to me yesterday.
My story begins at the end of my work day at the beautiful U. Each Wednesday and Thursday evening, I scramble from my office to arrive just in time to teach my BodyPump fitness class at the Y in South Minneapolis. To this day, eight years of teaching, I have never been late, once. And for those who know me, this is a great accomplishment. I really, admittedly, deserve a plaque for this. This particular Wednesday afternoon, we have a flash rainstorm, campus is surrounded by road construction in each direction, and I have been sitting in my car for 20 minutes, having moved no more than a few feet in that time. I start to get nervous, I still have my entire commute to the Y, now in less than 30 minutes, it's still raining and I'm convinced I'm not going to make it in time. I weasel my way around campus, and attempt a secret (although I discover it is not so secret) way to exit the area. And my futile attempt found me in another snag with road construction. As I'm sitting on Washington Ave bridge with nothing to do but wait, I decide that I need to initiate a Plan B, in case I cannot escape the gridlock and arrive to my class in time. As I am browsing my phone, in my lap, for phone numbers of other instructors, I am startled by the "excuse me!, EXCUSE ME!" from the woman in the car ahead of me, standing outside of her car. Immediately I begin to think, "oh no, did I leave something on the hood of my car, is my bike dangling from my rack in the back, are my high-beams on?" To my utter surprise, my confusion seems to spark a fuse and she begins yelling "Would you please (how polite, right?) get off your (f expletive ing) phone and pay attention to how you are (f expletive ing) driving?" Really? I am absolutely stunned. There is no one behind me, so I couldn't have be mistaken for someone else. I am not moving. I am not evening DRIVING at that point. I am at a complete dead stop on a road, marred by construction and when we move (which we hadn't been for a significant amount of time) we are moving only inches at a time. Perhaps she didn't like that I wasn't advancing with the traffic as they moved a few centimeters from moment to moment. Well, anyone who has driven a manual transmission knows, it (f expletive ing) sucks to continuously clutch and unclutch in rush hour, let alone, road construction. I laugh. I sit there and laugh at the stupidity of this woman. I am trying to be a responsible instructor by getting a sub and taking care of the participants that will be waiting for me. I am being a responsible driver by being completely aware of my surroundings and not moving while I'm accessing my phone. I am minding my own (f expletive ing) business. Who is she? The No Distracted Driving Police? Who do people think they are? Not to mention, who cusses someone out completely unwarranted, undeserved, and unprovoked? I am absolutely appalled by people. And this (b expletive) is so fortunate that I am who I am that all I chose to do was turn the other cheek.
My friend Elizabeth Becklin recently share the Four Agreements with me, to be a better person and to live a better life. I believe these to be so true. I had to put number 2 into practice immediately, to fend off my anger and to forgive a complete a (f expletive ing) stranger.
BE GOOD TO PEOPLE!
The Four Agreements are:
1. Be Impeccable with your Word: Speak with integrity. Say only what you mean. Avoid using the Word to speak against yourself or to gossip about others. Use the power of your Word in the direction of truth and love.
2. Don’t Take Anything Personally
Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won’t be the victim of needless suffering.
3. Don’t Make Assumptions
Find the courage to ask questions and to express what you really want. Communicate with others as clearly as you can to avoid misunderstandings, sadness and drama. With just this one agreement, you can completely transform your life.
4. Always Do Your Best
Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick. Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgment, self-abuse, and regret.
My story begins at the end of my work day at the beautiful U. Each Wednesday and Thursday evening, I scramble from my office to arrive just in time to teach my BodyPump fitness class at the Y in South Minneapolis. To this day, eight years of teaching, I have never been late, once. And for those who know me, this is a great accomplishment. I really, admittedly, deserve a plaque for this. This particular Wednesday afternoon, we have a flash rainstorm, campus is surrounded by road construction in each direction, and I have been sitting in my car for 20 minutes, having moved no more than a few feet in that time. I start to get nervous, I still have my entire commute to the Y, now in less than 30 minutes, it's still raining and I'm convinced I'm not going to make it in time. I weasel my way around campus, and attempt a secret (although I discover it is not so secret) way to exit the area. And my futile attempt found me in another snag with road construction. As I'm sitting on Washington Ave bridge with nothing to do but wait, I decide that I need to initiate a Plan B, in case I cannot escape the gridlock and arrive to my class in time. As I am browsing my phone, in my lap, for phone numbers of other instructors, I am startled by the "excuse me!, EXCUSE ME!" from the woman in the car ahead of me, standing outside of her car. Immediately I begin to think, "oh no, did I leave something on the hood of my car, is my bike dangling from my rack in the back, are my high-beams on?" To my utter surprise, my confusion seems to spark a fuse and she begins yelling "Would you please (how polite, right?) get off your (f expletive ing) phone and pay attention to how you are (f expletive ing) driving?" Really? I am absolutely stunned. There is no one behind me, so I couldn't have be mistaken for someone else. I am not moving. I am not evening DRIVING at that point. I am at a complete dead stop on a road, marred by construction and when we move (which we hadn't been for a significant amount of time) we are moving only inches at a time. Perhaps she didn't like that I wasn't advancing with the traffic as they moved a few centimeters from moment to moment. Well, anyone who has driven a manual transmission knows, it (f expletive ing) sucks to continuously clutch and unclutch in rush hour, let alone, road construction. I laugh. I sit there and laugh at the stupidity of this woman. I am trying to be a responsible instructor by getting a sub and taking care of the participants that will be waiting for me. I am being a responsible driver by being completely aware of my surroundings and not moving while I'm accessing my phone. I am minding my own (f expletive ing) business. Who is she? The No Distracted Driving Police? Who do people think they are? Not to mention, who cusses someone out completely unwarranted, undeserved, and unprovoked? I am absolutely appalled by people. And this (b expletive) is so fortunate that I am who I am that all I chose to do was turn the other cheek.
My friend Elizabeth Becklin recently share the Four Agreements with me, to be a better person and to live a better life. I believe these to be so true. I had to put number 2 into practice immediately, to fend off my anger and to forgive a complete a (f expletive ing) stranger.
BE GOOD TO PEOPLE!
The Four Agreements are:
1. Be Impeccable with your Word: Speak with integrity. Say only what you mean. Avoid using the Word to speak against yourself or to gossip about others. Use the power of your Word in the direction of truth and love.
2. Don’t Take Anything Personally
Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won’t be the victim of needless suffering.
3. Don’t Make Assumptions
Find the courage to ask questions and to express what you really want. Communicate with others as clearly as you can to avoid misunderstandings, sadness and drama. With just this one agreement, you can completely transform your life.
4. Always Do Your Best
Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick. Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgment, self-abuse, and regret.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Stranger Danger
It dawned on me not too long ago, how another frustration was growing into a new pet peeve. I realized one day, while walking my dog Lucy, that as we passed by people on the sidewalk, they refused to look at me. Or her. Neither one of us got so much as a look, a smile or that stupid head nod to acknowledge our presence. Since then, I find that it happens all of the time, every single day. I give people the stare down on their approach because I want the eye contact. I crave the eye contact. I need the eye contact. If I get the eye contact and a smile, I am happy. If they add in a, "hello!" I find myself drunk with delight.
I decided that perhaps it was just those lacking manners who were standing out to me. That, surely, there cannot be that many passive men and women in this 'Minnesota Nice' state we're residing in. So, one day I kept a running tab of everyone I passed on the way in to and out of work. Along with those I came across at Target while running in to grab a bag of Cheetos. And on top of all of those people, the ones I walked by as I hoofed it with Lucy during the 6 mile hike we took that day. In total, I came into contact with 37 people. Shockingly, I got a smile, look or hello from only 6. 7, if I count the cyclist who came up from behind me during my walk and shouted "on your left!" (incidently, she was the only one on a bike who let me know she was coming up on me. Most never tell you so you get to be shocked when they pass by and scare the heck out of your dog. Apparently, telling someone you are "on their left" is too much work.)
So, why can't we say hello these days? Does a smile indicate someones interest in you and therefore we hold back so they don't think we're a creep? I know I come off a bit aggressive in my stance here, because as I see someone approaching me, I'll literally stare at them until they look at me. I just want to say hi! Let me say hi! Most times, they stare straight ahead, like a woman in the delivery room finding her focal point to control her pain and breathing. They must think, "holy cow...someone is approaching me. What do I do? WHAT. DO. I. DO?" I'll just look away. Or stare off into the distance. Anything but make eye contact!
The worst experience during this sampling was my encounter at Target. I was in the express lane with my Cheetos, and a gal blew by me in order to make her way to the door, knocking into my side. She did this to the man in front of me as well, only knocking into him a bit harder. There wasn't even an "excuse me" whispered. She wasn't running out of the store because she was in that much of a hurry (at least, that's not how it appeared), she was simply walking by and decided it'd be better for all if she just bumped people without instead letting them know she was coming up and needed to get past. I found that incredibly rude. What is wrong with people?
I'll quit with the Tuesday gripe session. Here's the thing. I know when I do actually get a smile or acknowledgement from someone, it makes my day a little brighter. Maybe your smile can impact someone more than you'd ever realize. So tape your cheeks up and just smile. I want to see them teeth! Hell, be bold and offer up a high five. Or maybe even hug it out with another.
I decided that perhaps it was just those lacking manners who were standing out to me. That, surely, there cannot be that many passive men and women in this 'Minnesota Nice' state we're residing in. So, one day I kept a running tab of everyone I passed on the way in to and out of work. Along with those I came across at Target while running in to grab a bag of Cheetos. And on top of all of those people, the ones I walked by as I hoofed it with Lucy during the 6 mile hike we took that day. In total, I came into contact with 37 people. Shockingly, I got a smile, look or hello from only 6. 7, if I count the cyclist who came up from behind me during my walk and shouted "on your left!" (incidently, she was the only one on a bike who let me know she was coming up on me. Most never tell you so you get to be shocked when they pass by and scare the heck out of your dog. Apparently, telling someone you are "on their left" is too much work.)
So, why can't we say hello these days? Does a smile indicate someones interest in you and therefore we hold back so they don't think we're a creep? I know I come off a bit aggressive in my stance here, because as I see someone approaching me, I'll literally stare at them until they look at me. I just want to say hi! Let me say hi! Most times, they stare straight ahead, like a woman in the delivery room finding her focal point to control her pain and breathing. They must think, "holy cow...someone is approaching me. What do I do? WHAT. DO. I. DO?" I'll just look away. Or stare off into the distance. Anything but make eye contact!
The worst experience during this sampling was my encounter at Target. I was in the express lane with my Cheetos, and a gal blew by me in order to make her way to the door, knocking into my side. She did this to the man in front of me as well, only knocking into him a bit harder. There wasn't even an "excuse me" whispered. She wasn't running out of the store because she was in that much of a hurry (at least, that's not how it appeared), she was simply walking by and decided it'd be better for all if she just bumped people without instead letting them know she was coming up and needed to get past. I found that incredibly rude. What is wrong with people?
I'll quit with the Tuesday gripe session. Here's the thing. I know when I do actually get a smile or acknowledgement from someone, it makes my day a little brighter. Maybe your smile can impact someone more than you'd ever realize. So tape your cheeks up and just smile. I want to see them teeth! Hell, be bold and offer up a high five. Or maybe even hug it out with another.
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