I’m staring at a blank page, not because I have writer’s block. In fact, I have too much to say.
An Emily Wright original shared secret of a dark reality. Depression, tigers and the inability to fight, just no today. One woman’s struggle to cope, January, mental health, financial woes.
The problem is, today, I feel worthless and mocked. I am doubting all the things I have told myself, trained myself to think in resistance to a broken childhood. I am rejecting that voice in my head that tells me that I am good enough and the words I write have value to someone somewhere, even if it is at my expense. Today, I am drowning in debt. My partner from yesterday has gone. Slipped off from the side lines swallowed by his own darkness that casts a shadow that today is too heavy for me to hold up.
There is so much to say. Why would I feel as though it is worth the time, effort, and draft space to express? I am a silly girl who has been faking it for too long. Yesterday, an error of my own was dropped at my feet. I let down the one person I vowed to never let down. I have tripped over this mistake and am struggling to get up.
Down here are all of my mistakes. I can not push them aside to find purchase on the ground below without looking at them and rolling them over in my hands. They are scattered around me like bones in a mass uncovered grave. They tumble and clatter together like a morbid mosaic of my life.
What business have I raising teenagers with a collection of bones just below the surface? I have no right to attempt to direct them on this path of life given this pit of my own making. Among these scattered bones, not one is for my children. Some are of parenting decisions and behavior I should have thought better of, and conversations that were better left unsaid. They make up the many chips and fragments of bone that dig into my hands and knees. They peirce my thin exterior and tear at my already raw and battered self-worth. Now punctured, my armor is exposed for the camouflage vail it is, an exhausting illusion I can not bare to carry today.
The idea of my children having their own basement of bones stops me cold as I consider how many I have personally put there. This thought robs me of breath and drags my heart through the dank dirt of bad decisions. Entitled decisions on the self-proclaimed pedestal of superiority made up of the falsely earned right of the parent to abuse priveledge through lecture, demand, and rule.
Today, I am sad. Too empty and weak to dig through in an effort to find solid ground I can stand on before climbing out of this pit. Today, in the cold darkness of January, I dwell on financial woes and all that could have been in my life. Today, I will allow the words of doubt and self-criticism, the voice of my own parents, hold me down and bury me alive.
A dyslexic writer! Hah! Who am I kidding? A lifetime of academic and professional wrong turns, yet I think I deserve more. Why? How delusional am I? I am nothing but a fraud who is able to convince others that I am somehow capable, confident, and credible. Today, I am anything but. Today, I will continue to fake it for the sake of my children and colleagues, aware that it is to my own detriment. For today, as I go to work and put in another day, my mind will continue to drag my heart through my collection of mistakes. Pointless torture from yesterday, a past I can not change.
Behind my forced smile and deceptively warm eyes, there is a cold dark pit to which I have fallen. It took so little to get here, but it is going to take everything I have to get out.
How could Mother Nature do this to me? She thought, catching a glimpse of her own silhouette in the window. A fat drop of condensation streaked down the fog covered glass as the school bus bumped and clambered its way down the road. Nicole Bradley had been dreading the first day of school ever since the hair dresser had given her the worst hair cut known to man. Even the most well balanced adult would be stripped of their self-confidence and forced to face their meager and humble insecurities. For this preteen, this was devastating at a catastrophic level.
Nightmare Hair Cut
It was 1988, and she was going into grade seven. To over compensate for her misgivings, Nicole had strategically over stocked her back to school wardrobe with skirts and dresses in every color and length. Her body had betrayed her over the summer. It seemed a cruel joke that puberty had somehow managed to come calling on every other girl in her class, while confining Nicole to the underdeveloped frame of a fourth grader. Nicole had spent the entire summer beneath an oversized t-shirt in hope of concealing what she did not have. Meanwhile, her friends sported two piece bathing suits and outfits that made it hard not to notice their newly blossomed womanly figures. Her lack thereof, was just as obvious and she was insanely aware. Insecurities rendered her breathless. She nearly drowned in the deep turbulent waters of self-consciousness that held her back from splashing around in just a swim suit. On more occasions than she cared to recall, Nicole had been mistaken for a boy. Such blunders crashed against her with an undertow that continually pulled her self-esteem below the surface.
Gender confusion at a hair salon was probably the most tragic scenario possible for any twelve year old and considerably more prevalent for one desperate to come into her own. Nicole stayed true to her unbearably awkward adolescence and wished for nothing more than to appear older. The thought of looking like a younger boy was so inconceivable that her ego had not even considered it for fear she would short circuit.
“You’ll be beating the girls off with a stick.” The hair dresser said, whisking a handheld mirror around Nicole’s shoulders and neck displaying the back of her newly shaved scalp.
At first, Nicole was optimistic, thinking that she had just got the latest, chic style. Images of Pat Benatar and Annie Lennox flashed in her mind as she bobbed her head trying to convince herself that it was not so bad. The entrance chime rang and Nicole’s chair was left in a slow spin when all came into focus. Everything happened at once. The impact of the hairdresser’s words collided with the horrified expression on her mother’s face . For a moment there was no movement and no sound. The mood in the salon shifted. The proud grin of the hairdresser’s soured the instant she realized her disastrous error. Scrambling to lather her hands with styling gel, the hairdresser vigorously jammed her fingers into Nicole’s hair. Intentionally blocking her client’s view with her own body, the hairdresser was determined to spike and shape the obviously masculine do. It was the eighties; hair was all about height, right? It would be more feminine the higher it was, or so the women at the salon had encouraged.
The tears did not come until after Nicole had sat on the bathroom counter at home. With her feet in the sink, she experimented in the mirror with the little hair she had left. It was a mushroom. That was what they had called it, before she and her mother left the Salon, far from impressed. Nicole’s straight strawberry blonde hair seemed more golden now that her skin was visible beneath the extremely short hair around her ears and in the back. The top was much longer in comparison, all three inches of it. With exaggerated sighs, Nicole was trying to make the best of it until her sister charged into the confined room.
Enter Satan
“This, I have got to see.” Debra pushed open the door and stood with one hand still perched on the knob and the other on her hip. There, she stared at her little sister, unblinking for what seemed like minutes, before bursting into laughter. “Oh my God, she scalped you, like you needed to look more like a boy.” She left just as abruptly as she had entered but not before adding, “Well, you got the whole butch thing down.”
Nicole did not even bother looking back into the mirror before climbing down from the counter. Behind clenched teeth, she swallowed the warm saliva that often gathers when preparing to cry or throw up. Her eyes welled up and threatened to unload heavy streams of tears. Bravely, she walked down the hall and resisted all emotion until she reached her room and closed the door. Crumpling on the floor in a heap, Nicole pressed her back against the wall that separated her from her sister and the rest of the world. There, all alone, she wept in silence.
That was over a week ago. Nicole had been avoiding her friends ever since. She had clearly given up on the notion that her hair would grow out in seven days, though not from lack of trying on her budget and resources. The fact that beer, egg, and leave-in conditioners were not successful growing agent was a lesson she learned the hard way. Of course, both of these disaster remedies had been suggested by Debra, in her typical matter a fact tone. Once she cried tears of frustration, sadness and rotten odor, Nicole finally relented and relied on hope.
Back to School
She was hopeful that by the time school started, she would have grown comfortable with her new look, maybe even create ways to style it to give it flare. Hopefulness would not help that she looked like a confused little boy. All that distinguished her from the boys at school was the sea green pencil skirt she was wearing. Not permitted to wear make-up yet, Nicole hoped that her apparel would be enough to avoid the snickers and head tilts of pity. She glared at her spiky reflection in the window of the bus, again, dreading the first day of school. Fortunately, Nicole remained oblivious to the next crisis that lurked just around the corner.
She was slow to descend the very large steep steps of the school bus. Not only because she was reluctant to face her friends, but she was very careful not to stress the limited slit in her skirt. Distracted by this maneuver, she almost didn’t recognized Lindsay as the girl who grabbed her arm and ushered her from the bus. Stopping only after they reached the sheltered insert of the external gymnasium double doors. The massive steel slabs were set into the red bricked wall of the school. Once out of sight Lindsay’s giant blue eyes searched Nicole’s with wild intent.
“I know, I know. It’s really bad isn’t it?” Nicole plucked at strands of hair sporadically; a nervous impulse which had manifested itself into a complex over the past week.
“What? No. This isn’t about your hair, but now that you mention it, WOW!” Her eyes grew even wider which did not seem possible. A big eyed ‘wow’ from Lindsay Petticomb was never good, more sarcastic. Nicole translated this verbal and facial expression as only best friends can. Lindsay had managed to communicate in an instant that Nicole’s hair was shocking, not a great look, but they could be seen walking around together. This gave Nicole a little solace. “When was the last time you saw Frank Fortelli?” Lindsay asked with an interrogating edge.
“Why, is he here?” Nicole started surveying her surroundings with greater panic than she had anticipated.
“No.” Lindsay returned, holding each letter’s sound as if ready to burst into song.
“Good. He moved to go live with his dad.” Nicole said still looking around Lindsay. Once she realized that scouring the yard was pointless, Nicole’s gaze landed back to Lindsay who was still demanding an answer with her wide eyes. Nicole instantly began to blink. Her eyes were dry and irritated just looking at the strain in her friend’s unwavering stare.
“When did you see him last?” This time her words were slow and serious.
“The last day of school.” Nicole said in the same speed and exaggerated clarity. “When he dumped me!” She qualified this with a confused head shake and returned her speech back to normal. “You know this, you were there with me.”
Lindsay let out a deep breath. “I thought so. I just wanted to check.” She paused and pressed her lips together.
“Lindsay!” The suspense was eating at Nicole.
“I heard something.” She shrugged apologetically, “…something that you are not going to like.”
Frank Fortelli was one of those guys that people just liked saying their entire name. He was never just Frank, it was always Frank Fortelli. He was a boy that Nicole used to go with, whatever that meant at the ripe age of twelve. Nicole had always had a boyfriend from as early as grade two, if you could call them that. It never went beyond school. The inhospitable venues of the country did not encourage preteens to hang out, nor did people live close enough to go just visit one another. Nicole almost never spoke on the phone, and on those rare occasions it was always with Lindsay. When she had gone with Frank Fortelli, her interest in boys was limited to being able to talk to them at school and participate in some of their recess activities. She did recall that Frank Fortelli had attempted to hold her hand at Track and Field, an annual event that Nicole looked forward to every year. It was a big deal to her. As a retired tomboy, Nicole had always liked to consider herself an athlete, although her body and her skill level would disagree. This never stopped her from trying. However, her interest in sport drastically outweighed her interest in boys, explaining why she had ignored the subtle advances from Frank Fortelli.
This momentary flashback of a boy she had barely thought about all summer brought a resolve. His reasons for dumping her had never crossed her mind and now the mystery was no longer. She had turned him down and crushed his fragile ego. An enlightening smirk crept across her face with this sudden realization.
Nicole could recall the last day of school and Frank Fortelli catching up with her and Lindsay just before they stepped on their neighboring buses. She could not remember for certain what he had said but, it was clear that he had dumped her. The memory of hiding crying eyes on her way home made her chuckle.
The Power of a Rumor
The story Lindsay told her was quite different and socially devastating. Nicole’s reputation was undoubtedly scarred for the rest of her adolescence. Even at twelve, this she knew with certainty. While within the shallow depths of the doorway, Nicole remained protected from judgment and ridicule. For the time being, she looked out at the fake friendly faces, ignorant to her arrival and impervious to her truth. Nicole had only a moment to be insecure about that which she had already been prepared. Dealing with a haircut that was sure to grow in seemed a manageable predicament in hind sight.
Her world had just fallen and as it hung there suspended in the morning sun of the first day of school, its future was doomed. A circulated rumor was not her’s to refute. It had a life of its own. It had pulsated and morphed as it breathed off the lips of Nicole’s bored and stagnated peers throughout the summer. No one was interested in the self- exonerating truth. Her name had been whispered about unknowingly for weeks. Although she had never kissed a boy, Nicole was marked as a slut; a groundless label that would bore a permanent imprint on her flesh, her name and her soul like a repulsive tattoo. Unfairly, the boy who branded her had gone leaving only a rumour about him, Nicole and a blue blanket in his wake.
In their own right, teens are experts on the ‘now’ that exists in their world. Pop culture, music, movies, television shows, even hot current events regarding environmental issues are their specialties. Teens are excited about coming into their own. Being able to contribute to adult conversations that they have an invested interest in or knowledge of is a big deal. A significant milestone is achieved the moment one can relate and offer an opinion at the grown up table.
About Teens
The thing about teens is…
…their expertise is limited to the now, rather their ‘now’ as it holds value to them. They have no reference to three years ago.
And when an adult cannot comment on the newest Avril Lavigne‘s song that addresses depression and mental illness the teen then feels empowered even superior to the adult or in this case the parent who is not in the ‘know.’
That feeling goes to their head and then they turn into assholes.
My
kids are approaching their teens quickly and I do not want to hate them. So I
am doing everything in my power to prepare myself as well as do what it takes
to guide them towards becoming the exceptional teens that are not loathed by
adults around the world.
Here
is how I explained it. Using a deck of cards as a metaphor for knowledge and
expertise, I slapped it down on the table. This is you today. All that you know
is about today with few proceeding references. You are expected to know
everything about today. In five years you will also know about then. I fan the
deck out demonstrating less concentrated knowledge on a specific time period.
Then I spread the deck out further and explain that is what happens over
decades, as in the knowledge of their parents. This is not to minimize the knowledge
of others; for there was a time when we were all experts on a ‘today.’ All were
relevant at the time and significant in their own right.
I
do not know Avril Lavigne’s song
about mental illness, but I do know how in 1974, Jaws kept an entire generation out of all bodies of water and how
critical Public Enemy was to the
music industry as rap found its way to mainstream in the 1990s.
Pulling
the deck further apart, I explained that my parents have an even greater wealth
of information. It is spread across many more decades just more thinly. All are relevant, all equally as enlightening.
I would not dare question my father’s knowledge of the sixties because I wasn’t
there just as my kids avoid discussing anything predating 2017 because they
haven’t a thing to add.
They
are supposed to know more about today than I do.
And if ever they dare be condescending when I am not as knowledgeable about whom Taylor Swift is dating, I have reserved the right to smack them upside the head or pelt them with questions regarding Rodney King and the L.A riots or the impact Quentin Jerome Tarantino had on Hollywood. It’s amazing how quickly their pretentious smug expressions falter when I make mention of something outside of their expertise of today.
I have pleaded with my kids to be respectful no matter what.
Everyone is an expert on something and that deserves not to be minimized or disregarded. We all have a part to play. My concern are the parents who distance themselves from their know it all teens at a time when they need our social guidance the most.
It is perfectly natural to feel empowered with knowledge but constantly impressing upon our young adults that the wisest of us all knows that they know nothing at all.
Praise
your teens for engaging in conversation and celebrate their knowledge but instill
upon their new developing minds and opinion that their deck of cards remains a
short stack.
In
the meantime, if my son ever makes fun of me for not knowing the words to the
newest Shawn Mendez song I will
change the wifi password and send him to his room with the Joshua Tree CD.
Yes, by all means; career goals, financial budgeting, parenting approaches, retirement plans, blah, blah, blah.
All of those are shared priorities for the future, for the long run. But those are not the shared priorities of everyday bliss. They will not help you achieve a happy and successful relationship for the day to day.
There is a secret to a happy relationship and I am going to share it with you.
Shared Priorities
Do everything you can to make your partner happy. Ensure that they have the same goal.
If you are making them happy…
and they are making you happy….
happiness all around!
It is really that simple. That is the shared priority. Know your partner’s priorities and make them your own.
Clearly, this calls for an example.
Let me start by saying, do not compromise on what matters most. This method will not help you if you haven’t already picked a partner worth fighting for.
After a failed marriage, I realized that I had betrayed myself. I had fooled myself into ignoring the attributes that I had once held highest when choosing a partner. To me, one must possess an unflappable work ethic, a kind heart and capable hands. Once I reestablished my sure grasp of those character traits, I found my true love, to whom I married. These three attributes are the foundation of the man, husband, and father he is and why I love him so.
This, unfortunately does not mean that we brought the same priorities to the relationship. For the big picture future goals everything aligned. It was the small, everyday expectations that we just assumed our alike hearts would agree upon. They didn’t.
And I bet either do yours.
That being said, my partner likes for specific places in our home to be tidy and clean. This, I refer to as ‘showcase‘ clean. You may already be nodding with agreement, and I would nod too if these places were the kitchen, the bathroom, or even the front foyer. Nope, my husband wants the laundry room to be spotless. Yep, that room also known as the mudroom.
He once dedicated an entire day to clean this area to his liking. In doing so, he moved all which made this room functional into the garage. To be fair, when he was finished, it was showcase clean. It was a spotless, shiny, and useless laundry room, just like a Home Depot floor display.
To be clear, I don’t get it. The need to have the room that is meant to be hidden away behind closed doors clean, over all other rooms in the house, is beyond my comprehension. I mean, we keep that cat’s litter box in the laundry room, for Pete sake. However, I do try to keep the washer and dryer clear of clutter and the floor free of laundry when I can. On the flip side, he returns the favour by refraining from hanging things on the banister at the bottom of the stairs – which drives me crazy.
When we were first together hats, coats, and bags could often be found dangling in the middle of the living room from the railing of the stairway in centre view of the front door. Grrrrrr.
This meeting of the minds or sharing of the priorities did not come easily. It came after an explosive argument.
We all believe that we are easy to live with. Your partner would disagree. Just ask them. Have an open conversation. Do not make it a competition. Listen. Do not get defensive.
If they are brave enough to share with you what irks them, be strong enough to accept what you hear.
Be prepared to express your priorities too- again not a competition. You do not need to ‘out do‘ their uncapped toothpaste complaint by lashing out about the swallow of milk they left in the fridge, that, honestly had not bothered you before the conversation began. In addition to listening and not getting defensive, take a moment to pull on a thicker layer of skin if you haven’t already got one.
It is also important to understand that this takes time. Just by expressing your priorities to your partner does not mean that they adopt them as their own immediately. Again, I still don’t get the need to have the dryer top clear. It took a long time for me to stop myself before haphazardly emptying my arms onto the first surface when coming into the house from the garage. The drier is a natural catch-all. Avoiding unloading there was a process.
At first, I would make the laundry room part of my tidying routine. Once I realized that the clutter collecting on the drier was mostly mine, I began curbing the habit.
Do not get me wrong. When things are hectic, the house is a mess, and I am dropping more balls than juggling, I have to admit the driers’ cleanliness is the first to fall off my priority list. Why? Because, the drier top is not my priority.
It is natural for the priorities of others to be the first dismissed or ignored when distracted. It is also really easy to dump my things on the drier when I see a rogue backpack looped over the banister of the stairs. This, I know is 80% petty, but 100% honest.
Hey, I said that the theory was simple, not the practice.
But, imagine how wonderful life would be if your partners’ aim everyday was to meet your priorities. If their number one goal was to make you happy, how easy would it be to match that goal? Sounds pretty incredible, right? So why not have the conversation. Start there.
Make your partner’s priorities your priority. When they do the same…
Seriously, in a percentage, how much does romance matter?
Importance of Sex – pixteller
Health Trifecta
At the very least we need food, water, and sleep to survive. When a cold or flu take hold, these three components are essential in restoring our health and strength. A relationship is very much the same. As its own life force, it too has requirements to exist. These crucial elements ought to be thoroughly evaluated and weighed when a relationship is in need of a checkup.
Health 2 Trifecta
Experts cannot agree on the perfect balance of food, water, and sleep to remain healthy. This is because it varies among people. Age and activity level are both significant factors that help determine an individual’s perfect balance. Such conditions have the same effect on one’s relationship. The balance continues to be the catalyst for harmony.
Communication, shared priorities, and sex, these are the essentials of a relationship.
That is not to say that they are the only components. Family, finances, free time, future plans along with a slew of factors that don’t start with ‘F’ contribute to the overall wellness of your bond. But if your relationship has come down with a cold; communication, shared priorities, and sex are the foundation. Everything else can melt away.
Sex is not only a primal need but it is also an expression of love, togetherness and intimacy that can be matched with no other.
This is not to rate the quality or quantity of your physical relationship. Follow the seduction links if you need help with that. This is a way to gauge the importance of sex to your relationship.
Understand that this is an ever changing number. Commonly, there is a very strong co-relation between quantity and importance. Those who feel that they aren’t ‘getting any’ or complain that is comes about too rarely, will often put a greater importance on sex in the relationship.
Consider a long distance relationship or when someone in the couple travels; the prolonged union is often extremely sexually charged. Why? Because sex is the only component that cannot be satisfied across the distance. Phone sex is a small consolation, a temporary substitute – but I encourage THAT all the same.
Sex Health Trifecta
Another example would be make-up sex. Far from boring, this particular form of love making is known to be fiery and explosive. Why? Because too much communication about shared priorities has squeezed out or neglected the sex element. Like any starved flame – it flares at the slightest hint of oxygen.
The point is, every couple will find harmony in their relationship using a different ratio depending on where their relationship stands. All that matters is that both parties agree on that number.
If you have just had a very ‘active’ weekend away, you should find that sex carries less weight on the importance counter- for a little while anyway. A new relationship usually has a very high necessity for sex as there is no foundation for communication or shared priorities. Once the couple has established a sense of a history, the other components have had an opportunity to develop. It is then that their numbers begin to shift.
Here’s the catch. Happiness is achieved when both people agree on the numbers. In order to find that balance, the couple must communicate and establish their shared priorities to determine where sex lies in their pie chart.
If you sweep things under the rug, eventually someone will trip over the lump.
In my experience, it is best to wait for the fire to die out before revisiting the source of the inferno. For the passionate, this is not easy.
Be patient
It is all too tempting to hash it out, right there and then, while still flush from its heat. Sometimes this can result in a hefty helping of the Silent Treatment; the heartburn kind. Often, conflict is like an episode of Three’s Company; something or someone has been misunderstood or not completely transparent. Purely open communication is
…the ability to fully express your perspective to your partner and, brace yourself, seeing things from your partner’s perspective.
It is best to wait until both parties are calm and ready to listen to revisit an issue. The aftermath of an argument takes time.
Argument Aftermath
Often couple`s therapists will use tools for listening like the ‘speaking rock.’ The person in possession of the rock is the only one allowed to talk. This means that the one without the lump of stone is to listen. Corny! But it works. If nothing else, a huge spotlight exposes how often we interrupt one another – especially when we don’t like what we are hearing.
I once read on Pinterest,
‘Most people do not listen with the intent to understand; they listen with the intent to reply.” Steven R. Covey
Something to think about the next time your partner is holding the rock. If an apology is in order, and it probably is, see my article on apologies to better your approach.
Don’t
Do Not Use the Car.
Fight the urge to approach the ‘we should talk’ conversations when driving. Why, you ask?
argument aftermath
You have a captive audience. Literally, your partner is trapped with nowhere to go. If they are not ready for this conversation or you are not abiding by the sharing rules of the speaking rock, you will land yourself in a bigger argument and possibly on the receiving end of the Silent Treatment.
Trust me on this. Getting out of the car to walk is so clické, but young couples everywhere have been there. Perhaps, it is their flair for the dramatic. But as we get older no one has time for walking (or the shoes because, let`s face it, these talks always happen when we are dressed up) and more often than not we are on the highway.
Avoid Tight Spaces
Even if you have all the best intentions and you promise yourself not to let the conversation become heated the odds are that it will blow up in your face. Cornered animals tend to jump to the defensive. They turn rabid and snarl. When strapped in and forced to start straight ahead there is nowhere for the anxious energy to go. People need their space and freedom to truly express themselves, especially when threatened. Body placement says a lot about what we are communicating; standing wagging a finger, sitting with crossed arms or even pacing are all conditioned ways to process and respond. We pick these up in our childhood and they are our own coping mechanisms.
Not only does the trapped person need an outlet for this energy but it serves the partner well to bear witness. We take greater cues from one another’s body language than words, especially from our partners.
When a driver is backed into a conversation and stopping is not an option, I promise you that they are visualizing pushing you out of the moving car. Okay, if it was meant to be, they may drop you at the next corner even in their fantasy.
Regardless the mental message is the same; SHUT UP or GET OUT!
argument aftermath
But to avoid the drama that would certainly follow that scene, not to mention criminal charges, the driver may opt to white knuckle the rest of the drive. They may pick up speed and begin to drive recklessly and erratically. Do not kid yourself. They are not distracted by the conversation. They are trying to get home as fast as they can to get you the hell out of the car.
Recap
Do not confuse the passenger seat with a soapbox or the car with an interrogation room. If…I mean when, an ugly conversation needs to take place, let it be somewhere that offers an escape. At least at home, if a door has to slam, no one is left on the side of the road (in uncomfortable shoes).
Thirty is the new twenty! Who has not heard this, especially if the big 3-0 is on the horizon or if you careened by it in the last fifteen years? Either way, this growing delusional trend allows us to prolong maturing, postpone responsibility, and provides us with an excuse to remain noncommittal about life decisions.
‘It is a welcome suspension of time and a 30 pound load of crap!’
When I first started dating my now husband, I asked him, “When do you see yourself as a dad?” At the ripe age of 33, his answer was, “Maybe in 3 to 5 years.” Easy for him to say, but that is another blog.
So, I let it go. A few years later, I managed to obtain some rock solid commitment in the form of a diamond but not a date. Then, I waited and asked again. “When do you see yourself being a father?” What was his answer? Brace yourself. “Oh, I don’t know. In 3 to 5 years.”
I reminded him that he gave me that same answer 3 years ago. Did that mean he meant within the next 24 months? Or did the last 36 months not count? It’s not that I was in a hurry to have a baby. I was growing increasingly frustrated with…
“the wide spread aloofness among today’s young adults.”
Sadly, this is a group of which I was a member. This new relaxed attitude that time no longer matters irked the planner within me. It is what I started referring to as
…Thirty Something Someday Syndrome.
young adults
It is the right to put off big decisions and continue floundering around like an experienced teenager indefinitely. And to some extent, there are a lot of benefits.
Don’t rush to get out of school; Once you start working you will be working the rest of your life and you are less likely to return to class if you take a break.
Hold off from marrying your high school sweetheart. If you are meant to be, then you will still be together in 5 years. If not, you won’t have to be the ugly half of that divorce statistic and save yourself a boat load of legal fees and heartache.
Travel before settling down. You don’t need money to see the world, you need youth and imagination.
These cautionary words that encourage the delay of life altering choices are sound and make sense… for people under thirty.
Thirty something someday syndrome – suspended time
To those, over thirty, who have used this advice as…
“a crutch to dodge having to make big decisions and put off growing up”
…that need to listen up.
Now, I have yet to figure out how one develops a case of Thirty Something Someday Syndrome. It could be based solely on an acute juvenile immaturity that lingers like a drunken buzz from your twenties. It could also be a genuine unawareness of age based expectations. If the latter is true, then maybe it was instilled within
Thirty something someday syndrome
us by our parents whom perhaps felt rushed to become adults by being thrown into careers, marriage, or parenting in their early twenties. Unfortunately, by not setting some age related goals, ideals, and responsibility they have (in some cases) stunted the growth of their own children. The fact that the number of thirty something children still living in their parent’s basement is on the increase kind of proves this point.
Gone are the days that one is expected to get married right out of high school. The term ‘cougar’ has replaced ‘spinster’ and a new mom at forty is more common than one at twenty-two. This is progress. Approaching forty without having to make one major decision in your life is not cutting edge independence – you are simply dragging your feet.
Do you suffer from Thirty Something Someday Syndrome?
Thirty something someday syndrome – time is slipping
If so, time to move out, put a ring on it, or start shopping for strollers. Do whatever it is that you are afraid of doing and maybe, you might just become a real life adult. Cease the day! Or, before you know it you will be closer to fifty than thirty and life will have passed you by.
For everyone who has ever been brave enough to organize an event, whether it be as intimate as tea or involved as a wedding, I appreciate your tenacity to follow through despite the slow demise of social etiquette upon us today. Will the RSVP be phased out because it is simply ignored by far too many? Will it be an old tired custom that will be abandoned like the curtsy or holding the door for another? Not if I have anything to say about it.
Let’s for a moment believe that there is a confusion with the translation. One of the first acronyms of our time, RSVP stands for répondez, s’il vous plaît, Yes, it is French.
The exact translation is ‘respond if you please.’
Perhaps, this is the cornerstone of the debate. “If you please,” is subject to explanation. This does not mean if you want to. Quite simply, if you please is a polite way of saying ‘please’ in French. Sometimes the most accurate translation is not the correct one. For instance, in German, hunger is a state to which one belongs to, so, they say ‘I have hunger’ but, the true English translation is ‘I am hungry.’ This rule applies with RSVP. Respond if you please simply means, ‘please answer.’
Or, like many hosts will secretly be chanting as the impending date encroaches,
….”Reply, damn it!”
This does not mean reply only if you are attending or only if you are not attending. This means reply, respond, answer in person, by phone, by text or by email no matter what. Announce your intentions even if it is the ever non-committal, maybe! It is the very least you can do when someone has gone to the trouble of planning an event and has been so kind to consider you as a worthy guest.
… Our ethics are being compromised with every fragmented and micro human connection we make.
By responding, the host can accurately accommodate the number of guests expected. That way they can avoid waste or worse, not having enough food or amenities for everyone. Oh, just so you know, everyone who has ever hosted anything…ever, just shuttered unanimously at the thought of running out of provisions.
Unfortunately, I believe that this growing trend of not ‘RSVP’ing is the root of a far bigger problem.
Our social accountability is depleting rapidly in this high-speed world we have created.
With the click of the mouse, we are able to scan images and messages with no real appreciation for the effort, time or individual responsible for the content. Our ethics are being compromised with every fragmented and micro human connection we make.
Let me give you an example. How is it appropriate to click ‘like’ on a Facebook status that illustrates someone struggling or announces the passing of a loved one? If you don’t have time to write a few genuine words of support or condolences, please resist the urge to click ‘like.’ This is about basic human respect, appreciation, and empathy. There seems to be a shared avoidance to commit or be responsible. With every click of the mouse or swipe of the screen, we are dismissive with expediency. Which brings us back to the RSVP. Please respond. When someone has sent you an invite, especially when it comes through the mail, has a real postmark or is hand delivered, allot them the common, quickly proving to be not-so common, courtesy of answering them.
There seems to be a shared avoidance to commit or be responsible. With every click of the mouse or swipe of the screen, we are dismissive with remarkable expediency.
Which brings us back to the RSVP. Please respond. When someone has sent you an invite, especially when it comes through the mail, has a real postmark or is hand delivered, allot them the common, quickly proving to be not-so common, courtesy of answering them.
Which brings us back to the RSVP. Please respond. When someone has sent you an invite, especially when it comes through the mail, has a real postmark or is hand delivered, allot them the common, quickly proving to be not-so common, courtesy of answering them.
Small human decencies are fading out of existence at a startling rate because we are too busy and so connected to the entire world that we loose sight of our immediate surroundings. The RSVP holds us to a higher standard of accountability. Rise to it because thanks to social media even ‘RSVP’ing is as effortless as clicking a response.
Sometimes keeping up with the neurosis of being a woman is just too much. I have enough on my plate without feeling the familiar rise of anxiety and insecurity when using the ladies room. As a mother of a little girl, I am doing my best to curb these shared experiences of irrational modesties and needless embarrassments. The problem is not only that we put these pressures upon ourselves. It is that we also refuse to sympathize with those suffering. It could be argued that this internal commotion is socially constructed or deeply rooted in old fashion upbringings. Regardless it is a well known, shared and understood and we do nothing to change it.
…..stupid hang-ups that denied my generation…..
When I look back to my adolescence, at a time when I was innocent and as flawless as I was ever going to be, I am infuriated with locker room behaviors and decisions. None of us girls sneered or snickered at one another. We were all too busy covering up and facing the wall when changing our clothes. Making eye contact let alone speaking to one another was out of the question. It is only decades later that I realize that
…this was a collective panic and fear of criticisms and judgement.
I hope my daughter’s generation is stronger, smarter and are able to reject such stupid hang-ups that denied my generation the courage to shower after grade nine gym. Think about it. All 25 of us refused basic hygiene as a way to avoid full nudity in a locker room full of other girls with the exact same anxieties. How bloody ridiculous is our gender?
Meanwhile, the boys are floundering around buck naked engaging in horseplay and literal sword fights on the other side of the cinder block wall. Can I get a what the hell? Unfortunately, this asinine dichotomy follows us out of high school and right into adulthood.
Where I work, there are three stalls in the women’s wash room. If one uses the guy code of urinal selection, no one should ever use the facilities in the middle. Who wants neighbors? Given that theory, the stall in the center should always have bathroom tissue and be the cleanest. I can only assume this folklore to be true for I never use door number two. But if women are neurotic about their nudity than natural bodily functions catapults that same anxiety into a realm of incomparable insanity.
It irritates me to no end when I slip into the soundless rest room to only find a closed stall door whose occupant is obviously trying to go unnoticed. Seriously, I mean they don’t move. Except for their feet, the wad of clothing bunched up on their shoes and (on occasion) the not so pleasant odor that one would (sorry should) expect in a bathroom, the person in the stall is absolutely still and quiet.
Only a woman could stop in mid-movement to prevent being embarrassed…
by her own bodily sounds, smells…function. Like I don’t know what she is doing in there. What’s more, I don’t care. Why do we do this? Unfortunately, I am no better. The food court, ten flights down, has a full public wash room; one with two long aisles of stalls. It is almost as if the first bank is designated ‘express’ and the second for, let’s say high maintenance. It is like a dream that’s only 10 stories, 2 escalators, and a half an underground block away.
On those days that I happen to pop into the ladies room on my floor and there is a poor soul pretending the be invisible, mercifully I act as if she is. Okay, that is not exactly true. In fact, I usually respect her efforts to go unnoticed and do what I can to avert stage fright, up my PSI, wash my hands as quickly as possible and leave. I do not do my hair, file my nails or apply lipstick. What I don’t understand is why some women feel the need to chat or lounge around. It is one thing to do that when you are in the wash room alone, I mean really alone. It is another thing to stand around when you know there is someone sitting behind a closed stall. She is probably holding her breath waiting for you to get the hell out so that she can unburden herself. Why do women torture one another like this? I am not saying that it is rational for someone to be embarrassed while in a washroom, but we all know where that comes from. Hell, who hasn’t heard that you should always wear clean underwear in case you get hit by a bus?
…Is your underwear clean in case you get hit by a bus?
This was something a grandmother would say. Imagine how horrible it would be for the doctor or nurse to cut your blood soaked clothes from your mangled body to find dirty bloomers? It did not matter that if you were actually hit by a bus that you would surely poop yourself anyway. What matters is that you are always proper even at a time when being proper should be your last priority.
…comes down to building confidence, silencing judgement and prioritising our values.
Point being, these warped insecurities, regardless where they stem from, will hopefully phase out eventually. Until then, be kind, don’t linger. Why would you want to be putting on makeup or brushing your teeth when someone only five feet away is doing what we all would like a little privacy doing? Even my dog gives me that pleading ‘don’t look at me’ glance when I happen to catch his eye when he’s crouching. Let us poop in peace, please. We will address the irrational modesties and needless embarrassments by teaching our girls to be stronger and smarter. It all comes down to building confidence, silencing judgment and prioritizing our values.
When you make an apology you are actually promising that, if given the opportunity to do it over, you would do it differently.
An apology has two parts…
and includes two ‘I‘s. I am sorry that I… The first part is the admission and the second is the accountability. The second ‘I‘ is the most important.
‘I’m sorry that your feelings are hurt,’ is NOT an apology and
“I’m sorry that I hurt your feelings,’ is.
An apology should never contain the word ‘but’ either.
‘But’ implies a contradiction or it is a flat-out dismissive. According to Dr. Phil ‘but’ means forget everything I just said. That goes for although and however too.
Consider, “I’m sorry I hit you, but you made me mad.” This translate to I am NOT sorry that I hit you.
The weight of an apology is based solely on the impact your words or actions have on another person or party. You don’t apologize to absolve yourself of guilt or blame, it is an affirmation of apathy that helps someone else’s healing.
Let’s say you bump into a random shopper at the mall. You weren’t looking, either were they and the two of you collide. Other than the obvious startle, no harm has been done to either you or the stranger. Socially balanced people say sorry, maybe even excuse me and go on their way. But what if that same bump causes them to drop their fragile parcel or they are sent off kilter and fall down a flight of stairs? Then this would warrant a greater apology unless of course, you are the kind of person who would dart away as quickly as possible. In which case I have no idea why you are even bothering to read this because the likelihood of you apologizing or being accountable for anything is slim and I hope that you are wealthy and have a good lawyer.
The point is that the bump on your part did not change. The outcome forced upon the stranger did. Ergo, the apology is dependent on their experience, not yours.
It’s like the law of cheating. You are not governed by your own law but the law of your partner. If my husband does not feel an online affair is cheating but I do (please note my deliberate use of ‘but’), my husband does not get to have an online affair. Well, not if he wants to stay married to me that is. It is simple. It’s about respecting someone else’s boundaries and honoring them.
When you add a ‘but’ to an apology you are explaining why you did what you did. This will more often than not come across as an excuse or a way of casting blame onto the one you have wronged. This, therefore, makes the apology redundant especially if you failed to assume any responsibility.
Lastly, if you are not sorry and do not care how your words or actions affect others, then do not apologize. Avoid sounding disingenuous or worse sounding like the compassionate person you are not. Instead, be true to the tar hole you are and ignore the basic human response of remorse after hurting another. Perhaps take the short survey on…
‘Am I a Sociopath?’
On the other hand, you have no control over whether your apology will be accepted. If it is not, please point said person in the direction of this article and let them know that their response has hurt your feelings.
So let us recap. Three steps to a solid proper apology.
1- Admission ‘I am sorry’…. Followed immediately by
As a mother of a little girl, I am doing my best to curb these shared experiences of irrational modesties and needless embarrassments. The problem is not only that we put these pressures upon ourselves. It is that we also refuse to sympathize with those suffering. It could be argued that this internal commotion is socially constructed or deeply rooted in old fashion upbringings. Regardless it is a well known, shared and understood and we do nothing to change it.
Okay, that is not exactly true. In fact, I usually respect her efforts to go unnoticed and do what I can to avert stage fright, up my PSI, wash my hands as quickly as possible and leave. I do not do my hair, file my nails or apply lipstick. What I don’t understand is why some women feel the need to chat or lounge around. It is one thing to do that when you are in the wash room alone, I mean really alone. It is another thing to stand around when you know there is someone sitting behind a closed stall. She is probably holding her breath waiting for you to get the hell out so that she can unburden herself. Why do women torture one another like this? I am not saying that it is rational for someone to be embarrassed while in a washroom, but we all know where that comes from. Hell, who hasn’t heard that you should always wear clean underwear in case you get hit by a bus?