A thing I learned in July about love

Here is a picture of how July spells its name
at the end of the month when it
doesn't feel confident.

It is the end of July, the 30th to be exact, which makes it the pond part of the year.  We've had the river of early and mid summer, and soon,  August, which is fifteen minutes long, will spill into the ocean of fall and all.

I feel sorry for this little end of July. It doesn't have the sizzle of the early summer or the cozy of fall. Because, well, look: 

• A lot of vacations are over.
• Staples is moving its back-to-school stuff up front.
• People are grilling, but are kind of running out of ideas.
• Summer camps will start soon, the appetizer before the school year for busy parents. 

The last week of July is like the late party-goer who put the wrong address in the GPS, or the one who comes a half hour early by accident. It's the kid who's too old to trick or treat, but too young to be a teen who's too old to trick or treat. It's a window between outside and inside, warm and cold.

In a way it's like February, the other month that sits between holiday fun on one side and languid beauty on the other like a hangover trying to wear off.

And yet, July has done me right.

In honor of people getting ready to send their kids all over the country in a month, and who are experiencing a kaleidoscope of thoughts about that, I'll share the gift that July handed me as it was getting ready to leave. 

Backstory

A few months ago, our daughter and her boyfriend, who live in Boston,  told us that before the end of the year, they would probably move to the West Coast. 

The news did not come as a surprise.  We knew she was restless and tired of spending her morning commute underground. We knew that her boyfriend wanted to go back to his West Coast roots, and that both the climate and his lovely family had turned her head.

I didn't, you know, think it would be this soon, but okay.

We are close, we see each every few weeks for coffee or brunch or shopping. We're  similar. We pretty much agree on everything.  I'll miss having her so close.

I hugged and congratulated them for reaching and acting on this great decision. I asked questions about the job outlook and where they thought they might live, and how his father reacted to being told his son would be near again.

"Oh, he's happy," said the man who has put the young girl back in my daughter's smile.    

They want this, and more than anything else, instead of anything else, I want this, too. 

I have been reminded of a nice truth these last four weeks and it is this: every time my own children have seized a chance to grow - a departure for college, a departure for the other coast - I grow with them.  

Our relationships are more rewarding today than at any other time because over and over, I am being shown that remaining close depends on my growth as a person more than my presence as a parent.  

They have taught me that closeness to an individual does not end with what you have in common, but in the willingness to discover, explore, and embrace your differences.

Embrace. 
Your.
Differences.

More than once, our kids have made me examine my heart and change it, close my mouth and accept what I can't relate to, discuss new truths, question wrong assumptions, update my views.

None of that had anything to do with how far I have to travel to share brunch with them.  

With July came a renewed understanding of what I learned the day our first child left for college and started becoming the adult I would meet next. It is this:

Love, like life itself, means being willing to let go of the known and turn to the great unknown, where lies the chance for sublime growth that cannot happen any other way.    

July has done me right.  So thank you, July. 

August, best of luck.

College parents, Godspeed. 

Love, Susan

You don't have to have lunch with Shirley

Here is a lion who does
not want to have
lunch with Shirley anymore.

My mother  told me a story once about her friend Mary, who decided in middle-age to no longer be around people who were a bummer. Period. The end. Starting now. 

Shirley, another woman in their circle who was negative, and self-absorbed and needy was the first casualty.

"I'm past fifty," Mary said to my mother. "I don't have to have lunch with Shirley anymore."

This happens a lot to fifty-somethings. 

They don't just wean themselves off negative relationships or pleaser behavior. They figure it out in the night and the next day, they look in the mirror and say, "That's it. We're not doing that anymore."

Figuring it out never ends. Boomers, Millennials, small children, and the elderly all have that in common.

At age never-mind, I'm understanding the things we learn after we know them; things we have to practice for a long time before they become as natural as walking across the room.  

As a recovered pleaser, I can tell you that one of those things is the concept of choice. Choice is worth talking about because it often hurts before it rewards you with self-respect which, we all know, is delicious.  

It takes a while to become good at it because even bad choices can make sense before they don't. 

We choose to be silent when we should talk, to keep the peace.

We choose to talk when we should be quiet, to keep someone's attention.

We choose to dismiss someone's behavior rather than call them on it, to avoid conflict.

We choose to over-compromise because "assertive" feels like "selfish."

We choose to stay where we know we don't belong because, change.

We walk past our crooked paintings of vague dissatisfaction when we should be stopping to straighten them. But in every situation, even the ones that lied to you, we still choose how to deal.   

Here is what you learn when you become age never-mind:

You can choose to stop neglecting your needs to make others comfortable
...and people who have taken advantage of you will think more of you, not less. 

You can say, "I just don't agree,"
... and people who value independent thinking will respect you more, not less.

You can say, "I'd really rather not,"
...and people who don't like being squeezed or manipulated will like you more, not less.

You can say, "That's not something I'm comfortable talking about,"
...and people who value privacy will honor yours more, not less.

You can say, "When you (use that tone/mock/tease/are sarcastic)  it hurts my feelings," 
...and people who care about you will not ask you to change your feelings, but will fix their behavior.

You can say,  "I love spending time with you," 
...and even if people don't know what to say, they will feel the right thing.

You can say, "You mean the world to me,"
...and some people will be awkward and turn red, but they will have a little joy where there was just happy a minute ago.

And you can say, "I need to be alone for a while,"
...and some people may wish that wasn't true, but will give it to you easily, because they love you more than they need you at the moment. 

You have a choice.

State your needs. 

Don't apologize.

Do it now. Period, the end. Starting today. 

You don't have to have lunch with Shirley anymore. 

Pet Peeves #10: Facebook edition

Here is a person who just looks
like she's doing something
 unhealthy on Facebook

In 2010, after I'd been blogging for a while, my son convinced me to join Facebook so that I could start posting "like everyone else."  

Also, he suggested, I might want to create a special page that directed traffic to the blog. 

"What's the difference between a Facebook page and a Facebook page?" I asked

"People can go to your newest post from your special page and not their newsfeed."

"What's the difference between a post and a status?"

"Same thing."

"What's the difference between a timeline and a wall?"

"Same thing."

"Why is this going to help?"

"It just will."

"Who can see what I post?"

"That's up to you." 

Loaded with information now, I signed up. 

There were bumps in the beginning:

It took me forever to post anything because to "go on" Facebook in the beginning is like entering a party where everyone has known each other since Pre-K. What to say?

My first posts were agreeable, possibly  sugary affirmations - neither incendiary nor interesting - which make me wince to remember, like most of my essays written around 2004 do.  

I shared videos of my cat with myself more than once before my son PM'd me about it.  

But soon enough, I was good at Facebook.  

I discovered the difference between sharing with friends and sharing  with the public.

I found, and was found by, people I've worked with, gone to school with, met through writing. I was "friended" by the kids' old babsysitters, which I found touching. 

I read everything on my news feed, at first.  When I became overwhelmed by provocative, angry, traumatizing or boastful posts, I learned how to "hide posts" without "unfriending," the Facebook equivalent of hanging up on someone and not talking to them again. Ever. 

I've been looking at Facebook more closely as we've endured these wildly inconsistent political times. It's not the coffee break it used to be when we were trading our coins of pretty food and pets and backyards and, of course, our latest articles and blog posts. Now, with steady frequency, it has become a place where one can trot out one's uncensored, angriest side and be reinforced in seconds by someone who might be as stable as a pinball. 

It can be an unhealthy place, Facebook, if you started as a frog in cold water with all those pictures of your vacations and girls' nights out. 

The majority of people who pop up in my feed still bring something of value, something that makes me laugh, or smile, or think. Post-Trump, I've toned down my own posts. But it matters that Facebook has the power to lure us from healthy thinking that springs from real engagement with the world. It is the McDonald's of social media. A little once in a while won't kill you, a little more, more of the time will kill you slowly. 

With that, I dedicate this edition of peeves to Facebook, the drive-thru social media that can feel good for a few minutes if you're bored, but a little queasy later when you know you should have had a salad instead.

1. Facebook "memory" posts.

What if "one year ago today!" you were battling depression, or thirty pounds heavier, or still married, or still the owner of the pet who has passed on? This is one of the most intrusive gimmicks Facebook has launched, right up there with:  

2. People we "may know" on Facebook

And yet, have not friended, and yet are being coaxed by Facebook to consider "adding" to the grid of faces, the way you were once encouraged to try peas because "you might like them now." 

3. Facebook users who post links to "disturbing," or, "heartbreaking," or "horrifying" stories with comments like  "This guy should fry for what he did."

Why, oh why, oh why, with all the unavoidable grief in the world, all the in-your-face opportunities to be sad, do we float these things around on Facebook like sad little balloons

4. Idealistic/Facebook memes

A. Memes that encourage us to live better right this minute (like I do here on the blog but never mind).  They are not annoying because they're banal. They're annoying because they're true and don't come with instructions. How exactly does one get to "the other side of fear where anything is possible." 

B. Memes that target toxic people who will never understand that "If I cut you loose, you gave me the scissors" is about them. They should, but it's not in their DNA to understand that a bad situation is, in fact, their fault.

                                                                      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This concludes another edition of Peeves. I hope you had fun, but mostly, as regards Facebook, I hope you know when to walk away and  know when to run, and have learned not to share videos with yourself.

Envy: ugly but useful

Journals are excellent listeners
when you're feeling wicked
insecure, and so are cars.

I read this recently:

When it hurts, pay attention. Life is trying to 
teach you something.

I thought about that. I thought about it a lot. A few days later, I needed it and did it come in pretty hamn dandy? Yes, it did. 

On Facebook the other day was a post featuring a long-ago friend of mine who has achieved, without breaking a sweat,  and not for the first time in her life, extraordinary success at something I kind of thought I would also have done by now, LOL.

It hurt.

Originally, I was going to try and describe the way my reaction unfurled, from the fake-cheery "Oh look at that!" to a more authentic "Oh, I did not need to see that today,  thank you very much," without using the word envy.

  

Because, oh my God.

Envy.

"Envy" in my teen world was worse than "jealous." Jealous meant you were (admirably) ready to tangle with anyone who wanted to slow dance with your boyfriend to The Air That I Breathe . "Envy" on the other hand, at least among my shallow, back-biting, blue eye-shadow and white lipstick-wearing peer group who knew about these things, was "wicked insecure."

Today, in my writer world, "envy" is the most uncomfortable of reactions to a peer's success. It feels disloyal. It feels childish. It feels wicked insecure. 

First I talked to my journal about it, then I went for a drive and thought about it. 

Do I wish I had her life? No.

Do I wish I were an award-winning writer? Yes and no, it's not a deal-breaker.

Do I wish I were younger and prettier? Not really, no.

Do I wish I could be more driven during times of scattered thinking? Or tougher, or more compelled to dispense every drop of talent from the gift set of skills that God gave me on my birthday?

Bingo.

I'm paying attention.

First, I'm realizing how infrequently I feel envious, because I have no practiced response to it. I just get wicked insecure.

Second, I'm understanding that I look up to some kick-ass writers, which means I have a pretty healthy opinion of my own potential if I think I should be up there with them, smiling down encouragingly on the Susans.

Third, if I'm side-eyeing my own accomplishments because of a Facebook post about a person I barely know anymore, I'm thinking it's time to have a little talk with the writer in the mirror.

Life is trying to teach me something.

Here are some things that occurred to me during my drive, after I felt the you-know-what.

Envy, even if it bums you out, is useful. It makes you think. It shakes you up. And, even if for a while you're pissed that someone else is more disciplined and driven, it can make you  change the way you behave.

Envy of course, is never about the person who's done "well" versus you, who have done "less well," because "well" is relative to one's personal failures and expectations.  What do we know from another person's idea of well?

Understanding envy doesn't come easy, and it doesn't  come with flowers and champagne. It usually comes with a mixed bouquet of self-pity, shame, and uncertainty over exactly how to feel better. 

Unlike perspective, which comes from inner reflection, envy is produced by outer events, the way a headache is produced by a rake in the lawn. Since you can't really know when an outer event might spring and make you wicked insecure, the best response is probably no response until you think about what life is trying to teach you.

Not for the first time, envious-me has sighed at how easy it seems for this one-time friend to soar, while real-me says from within, you know better.

I do know better. This person did not wind up in that Facebook post because she's lucky. She wound up there because she works her bum bum off.

It's been a little while, and I'm understanding that envy isn't about what my long ago friend has – but about what I haven't tried harder to get. I don't want what she's achieved, I just want the same flowers of tenacity and elegance in my bouquet when I walk into the future I am meant to marry.

I've seen a good example of what happens when you toss that bouquet.

You throw it to a Susan.

I feel better.

The power to make things worse

Guaranteed, the person at the head
of this line has no clue.

Recently, the editorial board of the Washington Post  published a column titled "Trump clearly won't change. Here's what the rest of us can do." 

Do tell, I thought. 

Long story short, the Post reminds us:

"We should all be focused on preserving a little flame of decency so that, whenever the Trump era ends, that flame can be rekindled into the kind of discourse that would make the country proud again."

Even before the Post suggested we work to protect our civility I'd added a great tool to my Life Kit which has a few parts:

First, if  you can't solve big problems, resist the temptation to dwell on smaller ones just to feel you've solved something. 

Part B, of course, is don't make it worse by noticing everything else that's wrong. 

Part C is that this tool only works with frequent use.

Let's say, that despite your efforts to rise above it, you've had it with the Trump tweets. With the trotting out of one rage-filled outburst after another, about which you can do nothing, you've developed a tendency to notice and complain about stuff you used to ignore: 

The weather. The lines at the grocery store. A co-worker's Eeyore attitude. Facebook nonsense. Selfish, demanding people.

You're on your way to Dunkin Donuts for something to bring to work and the person in front of you is doing twenty in a thirty. You are irrationally upset about this, you can feel your face get hot.  You hear yourself saying bad words about the driver. You look in your rear view mirror and it looks like the entire town is following you to work. 

There is a light up ahead where you can branch off in another direction but it's not efficient for you, so you linger behind that car. By now you don't even want to look at your own expression in the mirror while you think about how inconsiderate that driver is.

Which isn't true of course. 

The driver is clueless and lost in talk radio, or dwelling on the troubling phone call from an adult child he got just before leaving the house, or thinking this may be the day he's going to get fired, or feeling what he thinks is chest pain, or must deliver a presentation to senior management and would rather die. 

You gesture,"Come ON" and you're shaking your head and the driver catches the look of this and slows down to make a point. Now you've upset two people. You, of course, and the driver in front who is also fed up with those tweets.

We had dinner in Portsmouth recently at a restaurant that we love. The line was long, but we knew we'd earn a table by the water if we waited and so we did. 

We had just been handed our drinks when from behind us, a woman's voice rose like a siren.  "OH MY GOD!!! OH MY GOD!!!"  

It was a surprised, hysterical cry. She'd either won the lottery or lost her finger whilst cutting into her fish. 

Five heads turned to look at this woman, who was now clutching the shoulders of the woman in front of her who, it turned out, was someone she once babysat for!!!!!!!!!

"Oh my GOD!!" she went on,  " I CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S YOU, SANDY!!! OH MY GOD!!! YOU LOOK EXACTLY THE SAME!! 

Sandy's response couldn't be heard. 

"HOW IS CHARLOTTE???" (pause) "SHE'S WHAT????? " 

There was no way to know what happened to Charlotte because Sandy was responding at a normal volume.  We were left to wonder. Was she okay? This Charlotte?  

It might have been maddeningly distracting, intensely annoying. I might have been unable to block the shrill tone, or been drawn from my own conversation, I might have become irritated enough to shoot them this look:

                                                     .

Instead, a fun conversation developed between the four or five of us at the bar while we eavesdropped on the former babysitter and Sandy. 

"NO WAY IS SHE IN COLLEGE!!!!!!! OH MY GOD!!! HOW ABOUT BRIAN???? " said the woman.

"How do you think Brian is?" I asked another patron. She shook her head and smiled. 

"NO WAY!!" said the woman, suddenly. " OH!  MY GOD!  REALLY???"

On and on it went. 

It was great. 

Had our table taken a very long time after all that, it might have been a different Ketel of vodka. But in the restaurant that night, I made a choice with the first "OH MY GOD!" to be amused and not irritated by this woman's failure to use her in-the-bar voice. 

Some things you can't fix, and you can't make better, and you can't feel good about, no matter what. But as we lack the power to make some things better, we also possess the power to make other things worse, from moods to relationships. 

That is a choice to resist.

That is power you should not use.