Indecision and Inertia

January...a month 'pregnant' with possibilities, an  'expectant' new year...Where best to spend my time?

Indecision has been the boon of my existence in recent weeks, months...years? Since turning 50, I have been frantically warming up for something, but I am not at all sure what it is. I puzzle over this every day, occasionally working myself up to a mild level of enthusiasm for this plan or that.

It feels like I am waiting by myself at the starting line of a one-woman marathon. The gun signaling the beginning of the race sounded hours ago in the distance, almost beyond my consciousness. I was not aware of it until moments later, when I recognized its meaning. I am having a delayed reaction, but I am still running in place for all of the reasons a runner might run in place: to keep my muscles warm and supple, to psyche myself up, to visualize a course of action leading to victory. This constant state of agitation and anticipation has resulted, inevitably, in  frustration, because I am inert. I am not a marathon runner. I more closely resemble a giant anvil on a pier that is used to hoist ships from water. There is really nothing more inert than that.

Maybe I am in the doldrums of life, adrift at sea without power and without wind. Unwilling to propel myself toward a hospitable port somewhere by paddling, I float along, hoping not to be overtaken by pirates or have my vessel toppled in a storm. The current, though slow, will carry me somewhere, and I will be on a new adventure.

A Post-Holiday Mood Swing

I am basically an even-keeled person, one who is optimistic most of the time. I generally believe that life is progressing as it should and that things will turn out okay, despite occasional negative thoughts and minor setbacks, but lately I’ve been experiencing mood swings – the slow moving kind of mood swings. Picture a schoolyard swing blowing in the wind, whining, like schoolyard swings do.

The night before my son was to return to school after New Year’s I made a general apology to our ‘nuclear family’ for complaining my way through the holidays. The apology was quickly accepted – Abby even gave me a warm hug – but no one denied very convincingly that I had been a grouch. I’d had moments of good cheer and laughter, of course, but almost everything about the holidays this year had seemed like an uphill battle. One event done, no time to rest, now onto the next. And I found myself falling short over and over again, arriving late, forgetting this or that, failing to send out Christmas cards, and not making many of my usual phone calls. Was it passive-aggressive behavior or human behavior? Was I overwhelmed by outside forces beyond my control, or did I bring all of the stress and malaise upon myself? Surely it was the latter, but why?

Who was I trying to impress? Everyone, I guess (especially myself, the hardest to impress of all).

First there was decorating the house for Christmas: a dozen boxes came out of the woodwork (quite literally) into a home already brimming with people and their people things. Then there was list-making, then shopping, then ‘preparing’ in all other ways to keep up with the traditions we’ve accumulated over the years: a company front of nutcrackers (one for each year), a large village on top the piano, recitals, parties, a mother-daughter book club, an all-women’s book club, St. Niklaus Day, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir Christmas Concert, gifts to be shipped, neighbor gifts, teacher gifts, office gifts, a family dinner Christmas Eve, Danish elf porridge, a nice breakfast Christmas morning, carefully selected presents under the tree, Christmas Day at Grandpa’s house toting presents to and fro, and a family party Christmas night. Throw in a few houseguests and some out-of-town relatives that I wanted to spend time with and you begin to sense my growing dissatisfaction. In my book it’s a good thing that ‘Christmas comes but once a year’ as much as we may think we’d like to have it semi-annually.

In between events I intercepted Christmas cards from the mailbox full of lovely letters and pictures of friends and college roommates and their families, all looking balanced and serene (probably taken in July), while I felt frantic, even robotic at times. Maybe it just wasn’t my year this year for Christmas. Maybe it was hormones or sun spots or politics.

I went into the season with a determined attitude and plenty of lists to see me through, but I knew going in that the holidays would be bittersweet at best. My oldest son will be leaving this spring on a two-year mission, and soon after he comes back, my second son will be going. This Christmas, in a practical sense, was to be quite possibly our last as one little family without in-laws or grandchildren or separation. And now it’s January and Christmas is gone.

I feel another mood swing coming on.

And now I’ve complained my way through an entire post on top of an entire Christmas season. I hope I’m not depressing anyone.

Maybe the whole premise of my desire to have ‘one last’ perfect Christmas was awry from the beginning. No one can bottle this year’s Christmas magic as a hedge against future Christmases that might not deliver. Maybe Christmas ought to come with a window sticker like a used car: as is. Take it or leave it. Celebrant beware.

Maybe in 2008 I will learn to take each Christmas as it comes. And maybe, now that it’s January 14th (!!!), I will just allow myself to quietly move on.

Cartoon Identification

I identify very strongly with two cartoon characters -- Lucy van Pelt and Lisa Simpson.

For Lucy, happiness may be a warm puppy, but dog kisses clearly go too far. She is a practical person who likes to win, but she is romantic, too (Schroeder). She's competitive, and dispenses advice readily because she has the world all figured out. Ask Lucy a philosophical question and she will give you a concise, direct answer without pulling any punches. In fact, she might punch you at the same time, just to get your attention or to make an indelible impression.

Lisa Simpson is best known as the brains of the Simpson family. (Bart may be just as bright, even brighter, but he uses his intelligence diabolically, earning him the lion's share of the attention and admiration of their parents.) Lisa is an idealist, always searching for a cause. She takes ethical positions and stands her ground against all obstacles. Her talents are unappreciated, but she works at them anyway. The slightest hint of praise buoys her. She sees the big picture and tries to convey the view to those around her, who are focused instead on minutiae. She admires other talented, idealistic people freely. But Lisa isn't perfect. She loves Ren & Stimpy and Crusty the Clown as much as Bart does. She can be jealous of the new kid in school who's smarter than she is. It's precisely because she isn't perfect that she's so believable. Though crudely animated, she seems like a real human being with an unpredictable nature, occasional moodiness, and human yearning.

Though I relate to both of them, I am not exactly like Lucy or Lisa. While I sometimes wish I had more of Lucy's brash confidence, I would not want to be as heartless and cruel as she sometimes is. Lisa, though scheming and caustic at times, is almost always well-intentioned and kind.

Fear of Rejection and the Quest for Perfection

For a long time now I've avoided telling people about this blog and I've avoided posting anything to it -- both for the same reason: if I say I am a writer and I do not write perfectly or do not write about interesting things (i.e., if I am not perfect), then I will be rejected. I will be revealed as a fraud -- I might even be pitied, which for me is the ultimate insult. Just yesterday it occurred to me, as the cat slipped out of the bag and people began logging onto my blog after Thanksiving dinner, that I will write anyway, imperfectly, and about any subject without worrying about the approval of my audience. So as Flip Wilson (or his alter-ego, Geraldine) used to say in my childhood, What you see is what you get!

For some reason I never really felt like an adult until I turned 40, when I gave myself permission to be one, or finally recognized that I was one, regardless of my illusions to the contrary. Being in my 40s is liberating in the sense that I can make declarations about myself. I can embrace my personality and celebrate it, instead of looking for ways to bend it to another's liking. I am a finished product to the extent that one can ever really be 'finished,' which is not to imply that I never want to improve or grow or learn. I still want to do all of those things, but I am comfortable with who I am. I no longer need to qualify myself - I declare myself qualified.

Now about perfection. For a long time, I couldn't send a first draft of a written letter. If the handwriting slanted to one side or if a word had to be smudged out, even on the back side of a long letter, or if I thought of a cleverer way of saying something, I had to wad up that page and start over. Page after page after page. In college, I ducked into restrooms before every class to brush my hair and retouch my make-up. I've agonized over having a clean house (especially for houseguests), over striking just the right tone in my communications with people, over dotting all my i's and crossing all of my t's, and I have reaped rewards for all of these efforts: occasional recognition for my excellent penmanship, favorable relations with every living person I've ever known, excellent credit, a respectable GPA, etc. But I have paid a price, too, in terms of personal satisfaction. As a perfectionist, I could not, by definition, be satisfied with myself.

The odd thing is that I am not a critical person by nature. I forgive other people their mistakes quite easily. I even make excuses for their bad behavior and try earnestly to love them anyway and to reassure them of their worth. From time to time I catch myself earnestly admiring the imperfections of others, imagining how wonderful it would be to allow myself to be flawed with impunity. (I am flawed, of course, but I punish myself accordingly.)

My inner critic turns a blind eye to everyone but me, saying he is who he is, and she is who she is, but you cannot be who you are. You must be better than you are. You must improve.

I am going to work at accepting myself as readily as I accept others.