The Downside

Lately, every visit with my parents seems to remind me that they are getting old.  They're not just getting old; they’re turning into old people.  I mean, they’re not decrepit.  But it’s just a fact of life -  there are more aches and pains, the gray strands of hair finally outnumber the non, and sometimes it's too cold to go out.  And then there are other moments that cause me to worry because, well, they’re on the downside of the hill. 

Like when I was home at Thanksgiving and I found my mom sitting at the computer without her pants on.  Mentally, I went through my Dr. Oz-certified Alzheimers’ checklist:  did she forget to put her pants on?  Does she know she’s not wearing pants?  Does she know how to put pants on?  Does she know what pants are?  I stated the obvious first, “Mom, you don’t have any pants on!”  Now, my mom's far from having dementia or Alzheimers so she was well aware of her pantsless outfit.  I forget why she didn't have pants on but I'm sure there was a reasonable explanation.  The explanation isn't important.  What’s important is that she knew she wasn't wearing pants.  So hooray, my mother isn't suffering from dementia.  But she is getting old and I’m starting to worry about the stuff that happens to parents when they turn into old people. 

I’m starting to worry about when they’re not here anymore. 

I’m starting to worry about being left behind. 

So, there’s all that.  Then there are all the family and friends who seem to be going through major life changes recently – engagements, babies, Facebook relationship status updates.  They’re all moving forward in their lives.  And here I am stuck in a rut in a holding pattern.  A rut pattern of my own making, I completely admit.  A rut pattern that I can’t seem to get out of. 

Everyone’s getting older, everyone’s moving forward, and me? 

I’m starting to worry about being left behind.

I’m starting to worry about never catching up. 

But most of all, I’m starting to worry that there won’t be anyone to worry about me when I’m on the downside of that hill and not wearing any pants.

Reach Out and Touch Someone. Just Not Me.

TopChef, who is really noteverstill and is my Fairy Blogmother (since I still believe in the magic of fairies) wrote a really great post about massages at The DC Moms.  An email chain that began with a compliment about her post evolved into a discussion about pedicures and being touched.  Coming on the heels of a conversation with someone else about why a high-five is not an appropriate ending to a first date – and doesn’t bode well for a second – I figured that I’d better take a long, hard look at my feelings towards touch and intimacy.      

I don’t like people touching me.  I’ve never been one of those happy huggers who greets family and friends with big cheerful hugs…and when I’ve been enveloped by big cheerful hugs, I’ve wished that I could be anywhere else other than that tight embrace where you'rethisclosetoanotherperson.  Now, I’m not completely anti-touching.  I’m affectionate with my parents and is it too weird to tell you that I still sit on my mom’s lap?  You think that’s bad?  Imagine how my mom feels.  (I only do it occasionally…not like all the time, geez!)  You know that personal space thing?  My brother jokes that I like to have a good five feet of personal space around me at all times.  He’s exaggerating just a little.  I’d be fine with four.

So, how’d I get to be this way?  I’ve always attributed it to one event in my life.  While I can’t remember if it was after my first or second surgery, I can still see and hear what happened in my mind like it was yesterday.

If you manage to break through the four feet of personal space around me and look at my face really closely, you’ll see two very faint scars under my eyes.  They’re from my first cheekbone surgery.  Do me a favor and look at the hem on your skirt or the stitching on your shirt sleeve.  Now image those tiny stitches under your eyes.  Now image that you’re seven or nine years old and you have to get those stitches removed.  Snip.  Snip.  Snip.    

Let’s just say, I didn’t it handle it very well.  I made the scene from The Exorcist look like a heartwarming holiday tale.  I freaked out.  It was an absolute primal protect myself at all costs freak out.  I cried, I begged, I used words that would make truck drivers and sailors blush.  I was a little girl and I was scared petrified.  I didn’t know why my doctor was doing what he was doing, why my mom was letting him do what he was doing, why God was letting them do what they were doing.  All I knew was that I was going to do whatever it took so that no one touched hurt me.  Ultimately, after my mother managed to calm me down, the stitches were removed – with the gentlest of hands – and I apologized for my bad behavior and all the curse words.

So.  You know.  I don’t like being touched.  That horrible experience scarred me for life.  Or did it?  Am I just using this episode as protection against the unknown?  A defense mechanism?  An easy excuse to avoid this whole touchy subject?      

This is what TopChef wrote to me last week that made me think:

       You don't like people touching you because you fear intimacy? So really you're nervous about people touching you so you've convinced yourself that you dislike it? Nervous is not the same as averse…

Said with love, of course.

And with that my friends, my friend hit the (embedded pedicure joke alert) nail on the head.  It’s a habit I have – saying I don’t like something without giving it a chance (hello, food!) or because I’m plain old scared.  I used to say that I didn’t like driving on highways but really, I was just terrified of being killed by a tractor trailer.  I got over the fear and now I love driving on highways.  It’s super easy for me to say that I don’t like to be touched – I’ve got a whooper of a traumatic life experience to use as an excuse – but really, it’s because I’m scared.  It's time to stop making excuses. 

But until I work through some more of my issues, a high five is gonna have to do at the end of the first date (when I actually go on a first date).  But if Mark, Steve, or Tom’s patient, he’ll get lucky…and I’ll give him a handshake on the second date. 

Dancing Queen

“Relax and just follow me,” he instructed as the music blared around us. 
Me in my crazy little brain, Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.  I'm going to kill them.  Isn't this how babies get made?!  
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So, a couple of interesting things happened to me at BlogHer. 

The first happened on Friday morning at the Newbie Breakfast.  Out of over 3,600 bloggers, I met someone who graduated from my high school two years before me.  She told me that she saw me at the 5K and she thought that I looked familiar.  I don’t like when I look familiar.  Brown hair, brown eyed girls are a dime a dozen.  I want to look just like them.  Boring brown hair, brown eyed girls who kinda fade into the background and who don’t look different from all the other brown hair, brown eyed girls in the world.   And who sure as hell doesn’t look familiar to you.  But you know what?  I decided to change my overly sensitive reaction.  Yep, I’m familiar alright.  I’m not just your average run-of-the mill brown hair, brown eyed girl…I can’t fade into the background; heck, I don't want to fade into the background anymore.  Yeah, I stick out a little from all the rest.  But, do you know what that means?  I’m memorable, damn it!    

So, this encounter with my fellow brown hair, brown eyed high school alumna (who I confess wasn’t familiar to me at all) brought memories of high school flooding back. 

Ahh, high school.  High school was where I perfected the “everything is great!” façade.  I was happy, smiley Denise.  The nice girl with the disturbing number of over-sized tee-shirts.  That style choice sure took a long time to grow out of! (Anyone?  Anyone at all?  Okay, no more jokes for you!) 

I was always happy, smiley Denise.  Happy, smiley Denise who didn’t dare look at herself in the mirror in the girls’ bathroom because, well, her face wasn’t worth primping or preening over.  Happy, smiley Denise who knew what hallways to avoid so she didn't have to hear the mean taunts and rude comments.  Happy, smiley Denise who loved to dance but who didn’t get asked to dances because girls like her didn’t get asked.  Happy, smiley Denise who didn’t feel worthy of being asked to the dance. 

That’s not to say that happy, smiley Denise didn’t go to dances.  Oh no.  My friends and I hit them all up, except for Prom, but we had other plans.  When we went to the dances, we danced together as a group.  There was never any boy asks girl, boy puts hands on girl's hips, twirl, twirl, dip, dip, kinda dancing.  At least, for me.  But that was okay, really.  Besides, that kind of dancing is how babies get made.      

I liked to dance.  I still like to dance.  Nowadays, my dancing takes place in my car (I’m a great driver’s seat dancer), my cubicle, my kitchen, Aisle 3 in the Safeway.  Usually, by myself.  Actually, that could explain the curious glances I get in Aisle 3.  Awkward.  I dance because it’s fun and I like it and if there’s music playing, I like to get my groove on.  I’m totally cool with getting that groove on without a partner.  Although, every once in a while, I think it would be nice to dance with someone.  Well, as long as no babies get made. 

On Saturday night, my pals and I went to the Latina Social Fiesta party.  They hired smokin’ hot, sexy as hell, professional male salsa dancers to entertain the crowd.  I was content to stand to the side, shaking my booty, swaying from side to side as I munched on an empanada and a quasi fish taco and watch as the smoking hot, sexy as hell, professional male salsa dancers pulled women from the crowd to dance because, you see, girls like me may go to the dance but we don’t get asked to dance.  

As one of the smokin’ hot, sexy as hell, professional male salsa dancers approached us, my naughty friends strongly encouraged him to lead me to the dance floor.  So there I was being pushed and pulled (for future reference, it’s physically impossible to dig your feet into a concrete floor) into the center of the dance floor. 

“Relax and just follow me,” he instructed as the music blared around us. 
Me in my crazy little brain, Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.  I'm going to kill them.  Isn't this how babies get made?!  Oh my gosh.  A real live boy is dancing with me.  Me!!

Under the stars in San Diego, I danced with a smokin hot, sexy as hell guy who put his hands on my hips and twirled me around and dipped me and led me in the salsa.  It was absolutely magnificent.  And no babies got made!   

Happy, smiley high school Denise?  She was totally worthy of being asked to the dance.  She just didn’t know it. 

Happy, smiley, salsa dancing Denise?  I'm totally worthy of being asked to the dance.  I know it.  And I believe it.    

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As far as I’m concerned Goal 6 has been accomplished.  It wasn’t the right song and my partner wasn't wearing cowboy boots but I danced the salsa under the stars in San Diego with a real live boy!  That deserves a spot on the Goal Board. 

Off the Usual

Last week, we had Memorial Day off.  It was a four day week that seemed to stretch on forever.  Tuesday was Monday and Wednesday was Tuesday and by the time Friday rolled around, my time-card was completely off and who knew what day it really was.  All I knew was that I wanted that unusually long four day week to end.   

It didn’t help that I was feeling pretty off myself.   I felt uneasy, unsure, and unconfident about everything; okay, even more than is usual for me.  At home, at work…I second-guessed and criticized everything I did.  Then I obsessed about it even more. 

It was just one of those weeks. 

It was an off week.

Tomorrow starts a new week.  It’s back to the usual five days.  Monday will be Monday and Tuesday will be Tuesday and my time-card should stay straight. 

I’m back on and not feeling so off anymore. 

I’m back to the usual. 

Family Food Friday!

My family and close friends (and a few long-suffering cubicle neighbors) know that I’m a bit of a chatterbox.  I’m kind of bubbly, outgoing, and it usually takes a little longer for me to walk to places at work because I usually run into two or three people whom I just have to stop and chat with.  Clearly, I’m an extrovert, right?  Nope.  I’m an introvert, through and through.  Did you know that intro- and extroversion actually has to do with energy levels?  While extroverts are energized by parties or large meetings, introverts are usually drained and exhausted by them.  Introverts wish they were anywhere but where the action is…and if they have a good book to curl up with, that’s even better. 

When you’re an introvert, your large family can be overwhelming.

When you’re an introvert with an inferiority complex, your large family can be overwhelmingly overwhelming. 

The closest thing that I had to grandparents were my Uncle Bill and Aunt Betty.  Uncle Bill was my mom’s older brother and the patriarch of the family who are the Delaware relatives, 8 kids and their many offspring (which include cousins-once-removed, second cousins, cousins by marriage, step cousins, etc.  I refer to all of them as cousins because it’s just easier.)  Some of my favorite people are among the Delaware relatives - they are an incredibly loving, accepting, loud, large group of people.  A very large group of people.  Not ideal for an introvert like me.    

We visited them a lot when I was a kid.  It was always fun, if a bit overwhelming.  As I got older and my personal insecurities started to massively mount, I didn’t look forward to those trips as much.  I was constantly comparing myself to my cousins’ kids who, in my estimation, were all beautiful, smart, artistic, and athletic.  I spent a lot of time asking why I wasn’t born “normal” like they were.  Or how come I was dealt the sucky hand and ended up with a stupid craniofacial abnormality.  I was so unlucky and it wasn’t fair.  (Does anyone else hear the violins?)  All this baggage combined with my natural introversion made going to family events torture for me.  This continued well into my adulthood…my mom strongly encourages me to go to things, I feel guilty so I go, but I’m miserable.  And I worry that I’m going to become Denise, the spinster cousin, who brings Aunt Margaret to all the family gatherings.  Gradually, my mom’s let me off the hook a little, although I know it annoys her. 

Around Christmas, my cousins, the Delaware Twins, invited me to a Swedish Smorgasbord at the IKEA close to where I live.  I accepted the invite but it was just something that I was doing because I knew it would make my mom happy.  I was relieved when it was sold-out.  Turns out, there’s an Easter Smorgasbord too.  I got another invite.  But, I’ve made a few changes in my life since Christmas.  I accepted their invitation and looked forward to the experience, trying new food and spending time with my family without bringing along all of my personal baggage.  

On Friday night, I joined my aunt, the Delaware Twins, their daughters, and some of my cousins’ friends at IKEA.  The food was definitely more different than anything I’ve ever had before…it blew the ‘roo outta the water.  There was salmon, cooked and not, herring, liverwurst, sausage, beet salad, potato salad, cucumber salad, carrots, scalloped potatoes, ham, and Swedish meatballs.  I piled my plate high and joined my cousins at our table.  I think I did pretty well - I liked the herring and the liverwurst; the beet salad was okay (although I got really grossed out when the redness of the beets dyed my deviled eggs…that was icky);  I’ve had cooked salmon before and it’s not one of my favorites.  I had a hard time getting the raw salmon (lax?) down…that was pretty awful.  I also had lingonberry juice and thought that was delicious.      

When this is the first thing you see,
you know you're in trouble!

Ewwww!

When we weren’t eating, there was talking because the Delaware relatives do that really well.  We talked about my grocery shopping habits (there are none!) and the Delaware Twins remembered that I used to eat stranger things than applesauce for breakfast.  Delaware Joan’s older daughter and I talked about the government shut down drama.  And I thought it was hysterical when she and her sister made fun of their mom for the way she pronounced Oregon.  I had just spent a week cringing every time my mom said Oregon!  Delaware Jean’s youngest daughter and I, both Smorgasbord first-timers, snapped pictures of the buffet.  And sure, when Delaware Jean’s middle daughter arrived looking like a million bucks after running, there was a little pang of jealousy, but that’s natural…we’re all human.  But then we talked about running, destination weddings, and Bethenny Frankel.  And I was having a great time. 

When I got home, I was exhausted.  Family (or any kind of large) gatherings are always going to be overwhelming for me but only because I’m an introvert…not because I’m holding onto baggage that only exists because I spent too many years feeling sorry for myself.  My family’s always accepted and loved me for who I am…it’s just taken me a lot longer to catch up to them. 

Food Friday isn’t always about the food.