Travel Baggage

Two Fridays ago, I set off on an epic travel adventure.  I mean, it wasn’t around the world in 80 days epic.  Or even sail the ocean blue in 1492 epic. 

I was just trying to get to Minnesota. 

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When I was in 5^th grade, on the way home from school one day, the school bus driver forgot to stop at my stop.  I was terrified.  And I did what I always do when I’m scared.  I panicked.  And I started to cry.  Those tears were embarrassing because 1) I was a big 5^th Grader and 2) I was sobbing in front of my elementary school crush Greg Tarlo whom I was 97% sure was going to be my future husband one day. 

But as the bus rumbled past my stop, thoughts of my future marital bliss weren’t on my mind.  I was more concerned about where I was going to end up.  Even more concerning than that though was how I was going to communicate with my mom to tell her where I was once I ended up where I ended up.

This all happened before the age of the cell phone.  Before the car phone, even.  It was a time when people saved their quarters to pay Ma Bell for the privilege of using one of her phones.  Which worked great.  Unless you couldn’t hear on them.  Like me. 

The fear of being stuck somewhere without any way to communicate with my mother ship runs deep.  And usually results in lots of tears. 

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Two Fridays ago, at 3 in the afternoon, I set off on a trip that would end in Minneapolis at 8:00 Central Standard Time. 

By 3:45 PM, I ran into my first travel obstacle, a delayed flight from Baltimore to Philadelphia.  But I wasn’t worried…my flight from Philadelphia to Minneapolis was delayed too.  Travel Karma was on my side.

By 6:43 PM, Travel Karma had bitten me in the ass. 

By 7:05 PM, I was in full-scale-the-bus-driver-didn’t-stop-at-my-stop-and-what-if-I-never-see-my-family-again panic mode.

And then I started to cry.

I had no idea where I was going to end up. 

Two Fridays ago, it wasn’t Minnesota. 

Taking a Bite Out of the Big Apple

Looking up at the Chrysler Building

A couple of years ago, a friend from work came back laden with gifts after a visit to New York City.  I received a mug emblazoned with the bold proclamation “I [heart] NY” to add to my already sizeable – and much loved – mug collection.  But whenever I used that particular mug, I didn’t feel legit.  Certainly not as legit as I felt when I sipped from my #1 Sister mug.  ‘Cause, while it’s a well-established fact that I am indeed a #1 Sister, I never exactly [hearted] NY.   

I’m not exactly a fan of “the city”.  And by “the city,” I don’t mean a specific city; I mean cities that are really big and noisy and filled with really tall buildings.  I prefer my cities to be slightly smaller.  Or suburban.    

Last week, I spent three and a half days in New York City.  This was really my first time spending a significant amount of time in the heart of the Big Apple.  To be honest, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to it.  It’s just so big and noisy and crowded and there are all those really tall buildings.  I was filled with anxious trepidation.  And an overwhelming fear of getting swept away and lost.  Luckily, I was going with two friends, one of whom really, really [hearts] New York City.  And who knows how to cross the street like a true city girl. 

On my trip, I learned that New York City is many things.

It is extremes and in betweens.

It is hustle and bustle and moments of serene solitude. 

It is skyscrapers and shrines.

It is food carts and ice cream trucks and the Russian Tea Room.

It is bright lights and dark alleys. 

It is Upper and Lower.  East Side and West Side.  Downtown.  Midtown.  Uptown.

It is the city that never sleeps.  Except for that guy on the church steps. 

It is past, and present, and future.  All in one city block. 

It is the citiest of cities.

And I survived it.  With a little help from my friends. 

I [heart] NY might still be too strong of a sentiment for me; however, I can honestly now say that I [fondly appreciate] NY.

I wonder if that’ll fit on a mug.    

Give Thanks or Eat Pie Trying

Three things you should know about me:

1.   I don’t like Thanksgiving.  It’s not one of my favorites (which for the record are:  Fourth of July, Christmas, my birthday, and St. Lawrence day).  Thanksgiving for my family is just another turkey meal with a bunch of extra vegetables.  And rolls.  And dessert. 

2.   I very rarely, like almost never, cook – especially if it requires opening the oven door.

3.   Until last year, the thought of having people in my home who weren’t related to me by blood in my personal space home filled me with intense anxiety – and not because I’m a closet hoarder, I swear.  Seriously, the four years that I lived in my apartment, I had one friend over and that was for like fifteen minutes. 

With all that in mind, how is it that tonight there will be 17 people gathering in my house for our Second Annual Pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving (PTT) Feast eating turkey that I cooked in my oven?  Yeah, I still can’t figure it out either.

Actually, to understand let’s go back in time.  So, last fall sometime I was eating a Healthy Choice frozen meal – the turkey dinner – for lunch.  Yum-yum!  I thought, well, gee whiz, this is really delicious…IDEA!  Let’s have a Thanksgiving potluck at work and we could all bring stuff in and eat a Thanksgiving-y lunch together.  I had the whole plan in my head – my contribution would be anything store-bought because like, seriously, was I going to cook?  No way.  There are people much more adept in that area than me.  Yea!  Thanksgiving lunch idea, woo-hoo!

Then I told other people and they got the crazy idea that the Thanksgiving potluck should be at my house because I never had a house-warming party and then it kept snowballing and before I knew it I was taking turkey-makin’ lessons at TopChef’s house, watching YouTube videos about carving birds, and preparing for invaders visitors. 

Except for one minor snafu, I survived last year’s PTT feast.  I even had fun and enjoyed having my friends in my home.  I know, crazy, right?  I jokingly said it would be an annual event (although I was pretty sure I said it would be a moveable feast…) 

I haven’t been in much of a celebratory mood lately so I wasn’t really planning on having a Second Annual Pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving.  I waffled on the decision and then said, what the hay bale, let’s do it.  If my friends – even some from the city – want to come and share food and fellowship (I totally stole that line…), wear Pilgrim hats, and give pre-thanks at my house, they’re more than welcome. 

By the time you read this, I’ll have cooked (and carved) two turkeys, set a table for 18 people, and convinced my friends that to really experience Pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving like the Pilgrims, we really must don bonnets and Pilgrim man hats.

Hey, anything’s possible.  

And a Happy Harvest to you and yours!

  

Speaking with a Little Class

You ever see one of those shows on TV when a hypnotist/self-help guru/Fear Factor host subjects someone to their worst fear so that they can “work through it”?   Like, if you’re afraid of great big hairy spiders they’ll make you stick your hand in an aquarium of great big hairy spiders or if you’re afraid of jelly beans they’ll make you go on a tour of the Jelly Belly factory.  And all this is supposed to desensitize you or minimize the fear so that while you still might not enjoy big hairy spiders or jelly beans, you’re not as afraid of them anymore.  It’s like Take Back the Night only it’s Take Back the Fear.

That’s kinda like me and public speaking.  I’m subjecting myself to Toastmasters to work through my fear of public speaking but that doesn’t necessarily mean I want to run out and speak publicly ever every chance I get.  But there’s a little thing called “work obligations” and you can’t exactly say no when you have to give presentations.  Well, I guess you could but it wouldn’t look very good, would it?

The last two weeks have been a veritable public speaking-fest for me.  Last Tuesday, I had to make the introductory remarks at a lecture that I helped organize at work.  I started off strong and then I realized where I was and I kinda panicked and sped through the last two-thirds of the intro.  All that breathing stuff?   It went flying out the window. 

This past week, I taught a few training sessions which was actually enjoyable – I mean, not as enjoyable as a trip to the Caymans but it wasn’t like I was facing a firing squad or anything.  I definitely wasn’t the best presenter but I learned something – use a memorable graphic in your presentation and people will remember what you want them to do have to say.

Friday was the culmination of my public speaking engagements.  My boss was going out of town so she asked me to speak to a bunch of up and coming/already arrived archivists about our online catalog.  To be honest, it was an easy crowd.  Half of the people in the class were my friends, the other quarter I knew from various work things, and the rest, well, you can’t know everyone!

It was nerve-wracking because it was going to be videotaped and everyone would be staring at me I was talking about something I’ve never really talked about before.  I did a lot of practicing - thank God for SuperJ who not only sat through three practice sessions but counted every “um” I said and reminded me that the presentation did not have to be one very long sentence without pauses.  A period and a comma are spots where you breathe – advice for the ages.   

With my heart pounding, I went down to the lecture room at 8:30 Friday morning.  I wanted time to set up, log-in to the computer, run through my speech using the microphone, and make sure I was breathing at all the proper intervals.  A prepared speaker is a calm speaker.  Until it’s ten minutes before show time and the speaker realizes that she’s supposed to be in the room next door. 

Once I was where I was supposed to be, I looked out at the sea of friendly faces and launched into my speech.  Sure, there were some flubs and probably one too many “ums” for SuperJ’s liking but I think, overall, it went okay. 

Do I want to do it again?  No, not really.  Will I?  Yes, probably.  They say you have to do the things that scare you the most to make you a stronger person…so I guess I will.

Besides, it could've been a lot worse.  I could've been on that tour of the Jelly Belly factory. 

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. 

Master of the Toast – No Bread Required

It’s rare for me to miss my afternoon nap.  It’s even rarer for me to intentionally miss it to do something that fills me with fear and dread.  But it’s a new year and I’m trying new things and having new adventures.  That’s why I found myself at a meeting of the local Toastmasters Club this evening.  Toastmasters – the club that’s been helping people “find their voice” since 1924.  I guess even back then people were terrified of public speaking!

It’s no secret – I love to talk.  But the idea of being in front of people when they’re staring at me, listening to what I’m saying, and wondering just how large the sweat rings under my armpits will get before the speech is over…well, that all petrifies me.  Only the idea of dying in a fiery inferno, doing my own taxes, and ending up in a federal penitentiary scares me more. 

I’ve always been afraid of speaking in front of people.  When I was in elementary school, I was in my church’s Christmas Pageant.  All the Catholic school kids got the good parts; the CCD kids were relegated to the secondary parts – the choir of angels and the farm animals - I was the donkey (yeah, I was a badass CCD kid).  I had one line to say – “I’m the donkey and I carried Mary to the manger.”  I got up to the microphone and timidly began – “I’m the donk – donk – donk –“  I’m pretty sure everyone in the audience was wondering the same thing – what’s wrong with the jackass?

Sure, I’ve made lots of speeches since then.  But I don’t feel like I’ve really improved since I was that jack donkey on the stage way back when.  I’m always in such a rush to get through the speech so everyone can just stop paying attention to me that I talk supersuperfastandnoonereallyunderstandswhati’msaying.  BREATHE.  Oh God, now I have to answer questions?!

I really want to become more comfortable speaking in front of large medium groups of people.  For three main reasons:  1) In my new job, I'll be doing some training in a classroom setting and I think it would be beneficial to all concerned if they understood me; 2) I’ve been going to more and more meetings and well sometimes I have things to say and I don't want to be so nervous about taking the floor, so to speak; 3) I want to be prepared just in case Oprah calls and wants me to go on a public speaking tour.  What?  It could happen.   

That’s why I decided to join Toastmasters.  I will admit that I asked the Head Toastmaster prior to my arrival if I was going to have to speak tonight.  Luckily, I didn’t.  But I had on my clinical strength antiperspirant, just in case.  Anyway, the whole thing was very chill and relaxed (well, for me at least – I wasn’t getting up in front of everyone to talk for 5-7 minutes!)  The people were super-nice and supportive because guess what – they were in my Crocs once upon a time. 

Here’s the best part.  Each speech gets evaluated and the best speakers of the night get a trophy.  Now, as much as I hate public speaking, I love a good competition and kitschy knick-knacks that can clutter up my house/car/cubicle.

So, game on Toastmasters.  That trophy’s coming home with me one day.