Radical Acceptance

Life has thrown me some curves.

This makes me absolutely the opposite of unique. 

For the past eight months or so, I have allowed my demons to consume me. I was helpless to change things -- so I accepted them -- but I did so while harboring a huge load of resentment. I resented the circumstances that changed my life. I resented everyone who wasn't dealing with those circumstances. I resented the people who were able to craft escapes from their own circumstances in one way or another. I became bitter and found it difficult to cultivate even the smallest seed of joy.

It was miserable to be me and it was miserable to be around me.

Then, things took a turn for the worse.

And the damndest thing happened.

I accepted it.

I accepted it almost calmly.

I accepted it rationally.

I accepted it -- radically.

I wasn't yet familiar with the concept of radical acceptance, but I was experiencing it.

It washed over me unexpectedly. This is my reality and I will be living with it. I may as well live with it harmoniously.

My thoughts had turned -- as I suspect the thoughts of many folks my age do -- to "What is my life worth? Is this all there is?" It's a really helpless, hopeless thought and it was difficult to bear.

Until I really considered it.

What if this really is all there is? 

I have the chance to see something beautiful every day.

I listen to music that moves me.

Every now and then I get to spend some time near the sea. I have mementos.

I spend time with clever people who make me laugh.

I have a hobby that feeds my creative side as well as my personal need to touch fabulous fibers.

I drink good coffee in the morning and good wine in the evening and I eat good food more often than I don't.

I love the people in my life and I suspect that they love me in return.

A kitten is purring in my lap as I type.

Like the song says, I've got the sun in the morning and the moon at night.

If that's all there is -- is that so bad? What am I looking for? What am I waiting for? Who could really want more?

Is my reality like yours? Nope. And yours isn't like his and his isn't like hers and so on and so on, scooby doobie doobie. But mine isn't so bad. I bet yours isn't, either. It's not what I would have chosen if I'd been provided with a drop-down menu, but it's not so bad.

Radical acceptance occurs in that moment when you stop fighting reality. When you accept things totally and completely as they are. No what ifs or if onlys or not fairs. Serenity, courage and wisdom, and all that.

I am completely at peace with my present. That feels pretty awesome right now -- almost blissful after all of that time buried under bitterness and resentment. I suspect that the bliss will wear off, but I hope that the peace will remain.

I couldn't really hope for anything more.

The Moment

Yesterday Lea and I went to our local Farmer's Market, as we have every Thursday all summer. It is a small Farmer's Market, but a nice one. Every week we walk through once to see what everyone has, then we walk through again and make our purchases. The whole process takes about 15 minutes. There was no reason to think that last night's visit would be any different. It was just another box to check off on our long weekly to-do list.

I would be hard put to tell you what shifted to make this visit different.

I suppose part of it is that my schedule is completely filled with meeting other people's needs. To be honest, I had allowed some resentment to build up around this. I'm not proud of that, but it's true. Give and take had turned into give and give and -- while I'd love to tell you that I rose to the challenge selflessly and without complaint, the truth is that I did indeed rise to the challenge, but I did so with a big-ass chip on my shoulder.

So there I was, in my usual-of-late grumpy state, completing my first round and ready to make my purchases when Lea ran into a couple friends. "Great." I sighed, "Now she's going to argue with me about leaving. Just what I need. Super." And then I stopped. As part of Lea's Dialectic Behavioral Therapy (DBT) she has been working on mindfulness -- on being in the moment. I looked at her talking to her friends -- happy -- carefree in that moment. Why would I want to take a pleasant moment from her? Was our schedule really that tight? It was not. I backed off and decided to appreciate the moment myself. 

Earlier in the week, a friend had said something that had really settled into my brain and made itself at home. Essentially, she said that if we don't make the most of the situations in which we find ourselves we are doomed to wallow in resentment. That was precisely what I was doing. I was allowing myself to resent everyone and everything that was causing me to put my own interests on hold. I was trying to think of ways to make my new situation palatable and I was hitting the wall with each suggestion. To say that I was frustrated would be a rather dramatic understatement.

So I looked at Lea -- just enjoying a late-summer moment -- and I followed her lead. 

I took note of the sunshine, and the way it felt especially nice after the light summer rain. I became aware of the smell of the homemade warm donuts that were being made and decided to treat us to a bag. The girls had asked for them before, but I'd always said no. This felt more like a yes moment. As I waited in line, I listened to the street musician, singing songs from my youth and from his heart. I thought about how much my dad loved homemade donuts and I missed him, but in a warm nostalgic way, not in a painful empty way. I took a bite then lifted the rest in a toast. Cheers, Tut. I turned the resentment aside and started letting the love flow in. How appropriate that Lea and Tut were the ones that created the impetus for this. The negative drained out as quickly as the positive flowed in. It was summer, I had a bag full of delicious fresh produce in one hand and a bag full of hot fresh donuts in the other. Yin and Yang. Balance. The sun was shining, my daughter was smiling, my thoughts were loving and all was well in my universe.

Just for a moment.

Of course the rest of the daily obligations remained. We didn't stay forever. It wasn't forever. It was a moment.

A really nice moment that put the rest of the day into perspective.

Maybe there's something to this.

Maybe I can find the good in this less than optimal situation I find myself in. 

I've been looking at the big picture.

Which is sometimes the right thing to do.

But for me, right now, I think I might fare better if I put the big picture in the background and concentrate on the details.

Take the time to smell the donuts.

People Are People (No Matter Where They Shop)

It has taken me almost a year to be ready to write this post.

Last fall, we were all geared up for a high school football game with our cross-town rivals. Both teams were undefeated at that point and it promised to be a great game. I think I was more interested in high school football last year than I was when I was in high school myself. We pre-purchased our tickets because a sold out crowd was anticipated. I wore team colors -- purple and black -- to work that day, as I did every Friday, so that we could head straight to the game when I got home. I was psyched.

It was a rough day at work. My supervisor kept me after my shift was over to deliver a nasty blow. This was not only devastating personally and professionally, but it made me late getting home which made us late for this sold out game. Being late, of course, meant that we had to park farther away which made us have to walk farther which made us even later. Still stinging from my supervisor's words, I had barely spoken to my family throughout this -- fearful that words would lead, as they so often do when I am vulnerable and hurt, to tears.

There's no crying in football.

When we finally made it into the stadium -- still a few minutes shy of the pre-game show -- the stands were packed. There was absolutely not a single place to sit. The throngs of people standing on the sidelines were thick. As I am on the shorter side of tall, any glimpse I got of the field was stolen. Awesome. I listened to the pre-game show, then followed the game as well as  I could by listening to the announcer and watching the score board.

By half-time, my back was in as much pain as my ego. The arthritis in my knee was screaming louder than the pep squad. Feel free to throw in some other figures of speech of your choice to illustrate my physical and emotional misery and/or exhaustion. I was miserable. I was exhausted. You could've put a fork in me kids, 'cause I was done.

At this point, I just absolutely needed to give my back some relief. I knew it would look stupid, but I couldn't go another moment without stretching it out. As I bent over to touch my hands to the ground I heard a girl say, "Oh my God!" and mid bend I caught a glimpse of her nudging her boyfriend and pointing at me. As my fingertips grazed the track and I experienced a millisecond of relief, I saw a flash and heard a click.

She had taken my picture.

She. Had taken. My picture.

I know there are cultures that believe taking your picture steals your soul and in that moment I briefly grokked that notion. She had stolen something from me.

I rose to standing and narrowed my eyes at her. She caught my gaze then quickly dropped it, turning and walking away. She was pretty -- in a generic teenage girl sort of way. Not drop dead, head-turning, oh-my-God pretty, but pretty the way hoards of high school girls seem to be. Pretty because she was young and her hair was long and blonde and her jeans came from the smaller end of the juniors department. She was no different than dozens -- perhaps hundreds -- of other girls there that night. She oozed a casual confidence that she would be young and pretty forever. 

I wasn't a person to her -- I was just a punchline. She didn't know what lead to me feeling compelled to bend over in what I knew was an unflattering manner -- nor do I imagine that she would have cared. A fat lady bent over. That was all she needed to know. That's funny stuff right there, kids, I'll tell you what.

People of Walmart are still people.

People who don't dress well, or who have the unmitigated balls to be fat in your presence, or who deviate in any other way from the arbitrary norms are still people. They deserve to go about their daily business as much as well-dressed people with perfect bodies do without being exploited for the amusement of the lowbrow masses. That we, as a society, find it so generally acceptable to shame and dehumanize those who don't fit into our personal aesthetic standards is deplorable.

A few months later a woman was in my office telling us a hilarious story about how she had been shopping with her teenaged daughter and they saw a transgendered person in the store. They -- this adult woman and her teenaged daughter -- nudged each other and giggled. Then the mother encouraged the daughter to snap a picture because her own phone was not charged. Her daughter refused, saying that she didn't want to be caught. Think about that. The mother was encouraging her daughter to dehumanize someone whose appearance she found bizarre. The daughter -- while amused -- refused to take it to the next level, and good on her for that, at least. Do we need a clearer example that this hateful behavior is taught?

Taught, and encouraged and widely accepted as harmless.

It is not harmless.

When someone I used to call a friend recently posted a picture of her neighbor -- a woman who clearly did not meet her standards of beauty -- getting the mail -- I was afraid to walk out of my door for days; fearful that one of my own neighbors might be lurking in the bushes, ready to expose my not-usually-exactly-carefully-polished mail-retrieving look to the world.  It was the football game all over again. (We won, by the way. So there was that.)

My heart broke for this woman whose adult (A very vocal Christian, by the way. WWJD - Who Would Jesus Dehumanize?) neighbor viewed her as nothing more than an opportunity to attempt to make a few of her friends giggle.

But I'll bet she has a story.

I have a story.

You have a story.

Every single person of Walmart has a story, too.

Groundhog Day

I have followed a pattern my entire adult life. 

The world tells me that I should be unhappy with the way I look. It's hard not to listen. But every now and then I break through it and decide: screw that action.  I'm big. So what. I can be the best looking big girl it's possible for me to be. This shift in attitude usually leads to a shopping spree. Out with the outfits designed to most effectively hide my bulk -- and me -- from the world and in with the outfits designed to fit and flatter and make me feel great. This shopping spree inevitably leads me to the makeup counter where I decide that an updated wardrobe deserves an updated overall look. New clothes and new makeup lead to renewed confidence and I start to feel good about who I am. When I feel good I am more active. I am able to completely accept and indulge -- almost celebrate -- who I (temporarily) unapologetically am.

This is a very good place.

I ALWAYS end up at the gym from this place. 

This is also, of course, good.

Because I love lifting.  I really, really do. But it is hard to drag oneself to the gym -- even for something one loves -- when one feels frumpy and lumpy and worthless. But when I feel good, it's one of the first things I want to do.

Then I lose a little weight. My proud new wardrobe becomes loose and I start to replace key items in a smaller size. This is exhilarating! This is the point in the pattern where I stop being content with myself. I don't want to lose a little weight, I want to lose a lot of weight. I want to lose ALL the weight! Maybe if I change my eating habits... 

I am no longer unapologetic or accepting at this point, but I am motivated and encouraged. I can do this! I start projecting. If I lost THIS much weight and THIS many sizes in THIS amount of time, then by THIS date I should reach my goal.

Whoa.

Let's backtrack for a moment.

Shouldn't the goal be to be happy? Didn't I reach that goal earlier in the pattern? The part where I was -- um -- happy with myself and with my life? Isn't that ALWAYS the goal? But by the time I get to this stage I am no longer happy with myself as I am. I am, however, pretty sure that I can get myself to a place that will make me happy if I just work hard enough. I'm not happy NOW, but I can BE happy. I'll DESERVE to be happy when I'm in a smaller dress size. Oh, boy -- I sure will be happy then!

So my workouts become less fun and more -- well -- work. Meals are obsessed over. They are still delicious -- I'm not a TOTAL martyr -- but food becomes almost all I think about. I am eating one meal while thinking about the next. There is no spontaneity at this point, and if there is it is horrifying rather than delightful.

The scale moves a little, but not much.

And then it stops.

We're not talking about a plateau for a week or a month or a couple weeks or a couple months. It stops. I up the exercise. The scale won't move. I cut out more food. The scale won't move. Nothing works. 

I become desperate.

Then sad.

Then desperately sad.

I don't want to lift -- why bother?

I want all the carbs -- who the hell cares?

Quickly quickly quickly I regain all the weight I've lost plus a little for good measure.

Eventually, I start to accept myself.

And the cycle begins again.

This cycle has repeated itself more times than I care to tell you.

This time, though -- this time it is a little different.

Like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, I learn little lessons each time the same events repeat themselves. 

This time, I never completely stopped lifting. I backed off. I didn't hit it with the intensity with which I hit it when all is well, but I never quit. I gained back a third of what I'd lost then stopped. I stopped before I gained it all. I stopped well before I gained it all and then some. 

Cool.

Lately I've been buying clothes like it's my job. And I've noticed that I linger in the beauty aisle -- I've brought home new eyeshadow, lipstick and nail polish in the past couple weeks. Could I be getting back on at the top of the cycle before I completely bottom out? It would appear that I am. This has never happened before. The cycle is changing.

Woo and might I add a hearty Hoo.

Now.

The trick will be to stay here -- to stay here at the top -- exercising and eating well and dressing in a way that makes me happy and generally feeling good without falling into the formerly inevitable traps that await me.

Can I do it?

I hope so.

If not this time, maybe the next.

Like Mr. Murray, I am damned tired of repeating the same cycle over and over. It's stupid and it's futile and life is too short.

It's time to learn my lessons and get it right.

All the World's Indeed a Stage

When things get particularly out of control with my life, one of the coping mechanisms I turn to is to picture the events as they are unfolding as if they were a movie. Maybe that's crazy, maybe that's egotistical maybe it's a form of disassociation but it has often helped me to gain perspective. Would I be rooting for my character? Would I like her? Quite often the answer is no.

While that bothers me immensely, it doesn't always result in a change in my behavior. Real life isn't the movies. Traits that come across as plucky, quirky and delightful in the movies are often just plain weird in real life. And NO ONE wants to watch a movie about a mature adult making rational decisions. It's boring. When that character exists, it is presented as a stern and oppressive foil to the free spirits that surround it. The spirits that we root for. We root for the characters who live on the edge. We want them to be enough like us to be recognizable but they need to take chances we can't, won't or shouldn't take.

Lately I am certain that if my life was a movie and you were watching it, you would be rooting for everyone but me. I'm surrounded by people who are living -- or at least pursuing -- the lives they want. They are plucky, quirky and delightful. You would love them. They take risks; I advise caution. They pursue their interests;. I gripe about practical concerns. I resent being cast as the straight-laced repressed middle-aged resentful fat woman. Is it bad form to use two versions of the same word in one sentence? Technically, yes. But it's a word that would be used multiple times in describing my character. I resentfully resent being resented.

So I think -- if I were writing the story, how could I give my character a redemption arc? How could I -- as the playwright -- manipulate things so that this character was able to have her needs met without squelching the enthusiasm of those around her? 

I'm just not that talented as a playwright. Clearly this character needs to be less of a bitch if she is to gain public approval. (Or more, if we're going for the anti-hero angle.) But she can't just roll over and play dead -- she can't be given a supporting part in her own story. Nobody likes that character. I certainly don't.

I don't have the answers yet. The rest of this story is unwritten at this point. But isn't that exciting? It could go anywhere! I've cast the role in my head, though. The actress has the convictions of Susan Sarandon with eyes that are determined and maybe more than a little bit crazy. She will defend her children like a mother bear and dance with her friends with wild abandon. She is non-traditional yet classic and not too hard on the eyes. She'll also have a little Sandra Bullock in her -- she's in over her head and frazzled and the worse the situation becomes the more adorable she appears. Obviously there's a little Melissa McCarthy in the mix as well. She's sassy and brassy and cusses fluently, but more importantly she's the current fat girl. And whoever played me would have to be a fat girl. It shouldn't matter, but it does. It puts a different spin on every situation. These are not necessarily my favorite actresses, but I think they would combine well to play the part. Now I just have to feed this gorgeous hybrid some saucy lines and turn things around for her. 

Wish me luck.

Everybody Sings the Blues Sometimes

On my way to Kroger this morning, I was struck by the particular blueness of the wildflowers on the side of the road. ( I think if I ever searched my posts for all of the times I've used variations of the phrase "on my way to Kroger" I would die of embarrassment. Or sheer depression. But I've digressed.) These flowers -- some might call them weeds, because they are unplanned and not carefully placed in carefully tended gardens, but I've always liked wild, unplanned flowers more than I like cultivated ones -- really called to me today. Perhaps it was the way the early morning sun was lighting them -- giving them an almost unearthly glow and definition. Perhaps I was just in the right frame of mind to be beckoned by something wild and beautiful. For whatever reason, their role in the landscape took on more importance than it perhaps deserved as I made my emergency run for half and half.

I mused on their lovely hue -- and how it resembled the blue of the sky when the sky is such that you can't help but be happy. Blue flowers, I thought, blue skies, blue jeans, blue moon, blue blue my world is blue, blue jean baby, somebody turned the blues on me, I got the Sunday morning out of half and half running to Kroger blues.

Would you think I was making it up for the sake of the story to say that I parked next to a blue van when I got there? Because I'm totally not.

We almost bought a blue car this week.

I am not a car chick. Tom will argue this point -- because I turn to goo at the sight of old muscle cars or new muscle cars that look like old muscle cars or even some high end performance sport cars. They appeal to me on an almost visceral level for one and only one reason -- they are beautiful. My attraction is entirely superficial. I like the sexy, powerful lines. Open the hood to show off the hooziewhatsits and that's where a true car chick or car dude will start to show signs of what often appears to be physical arousal. I'll take a glance at it then wander back to reverently touch the upholstery or the dashboard. True car chicks and dudes are cringing -- amazed that I don't want to wax rhapsodic about torques or valves or any other number of things that hold absolutely no interest or meaning for me whatsoever except for the fact that they're housed in a bitchin' chassis.

My favorite favorite, bar none, is a Mustang. Make it a convertible and I become sort of incoherent.

My Accord is on its last legs and my life is -- hmmmm -- not where I'd expected it to be in these, the middle years. Tom thought maybe putting me in my dream car would put me back on the road to things making sense. I do like that Tom. Long story short, we ended up test-driving a couple Mustangs that we thought were in our price range. Both were blue. Like sunny skies and wild flowers and everything that is good and right and sweet and true. But when we actually brought ourselves out of the clouds and thought about it we realized that it is not quite the right time for us. I could run to Kroger and pick up half and half, maybe, but I couldn't haul the groceries for the four of us for the week. I could get the girls to their appointments and lessons and practices, but it would be cramped and uncomfortable for them. It just wasn't worth pushing our budget to its absolute limit so that I could soothe what is probably essentially a midlife crisis. 

Opting out was the right thing to do and we both slept better once the decision was made.

And we did just buy an uh-maze-ing new tandem which we should take possession of by the middle of this week. Tom says we'll need new shoes and helmets. Maybe they come in blue.

My Three Gripes

Since becoming a stay-at-home again, I have had to make a lot of adjustments. My self-esteem took a hit, my financial situation took a hit and my schedule took a hit. I am actually busier now than I was when I was working. The major difference (aside from the aforementioned hits), is that now I get to watch TV between chores.

We gave up cable years ago and dedicated ourselves to Netflix, but recently friends gave us rabbit ears so we can get a few channels. It's enough.

I had a little routine for my daytime watching, saving all the Netflix business for when Tom gets home. In case you're interested, my days looked something like this: Local News, My Three Sons, Donna Reed, That Girl, I Love Lucy, Leave It To Beaver, Rachael Ray, Anderson Cooper, Local News, Days of Our Lives, The Talk, Katie, Ellen DeGeneres. It's not like I watch all of those shows straight through every day -- I don't. Ever. But that's the schedule. That's what's on when I'm home. And to continue to be clear -- just because it's on, doesn't mean I'm sitting passively watching it. I do knock out a chore or two throughout the day. And when I AM sitting, I'm knitting. And you know what? I don't have to defend myself to you. It's not like every minute of your every day is filled to the brim with scholarly pursuits. If it was, you wouldn't be reading this.

Anyway.

Most of it is just background noise, but I almost always sat down and attended to My Three Sons and Donna Reed. My Three Sons is an old favorite, so there's a nostalgia factor, but there's more to it than that. First of all, like me, Ernie is adopted. Just like in real life, this is totally not a big deal. It is not ignored, but neither is it emphasized. It just is. I love that. But Ernie isn't my favorite, oh no. Like a good parent, I like all of the sons equally. The sons are not without their charm, but that Steve Douglas...  Now there's a man worth watching. What I love the most about his character is his ability to put everyone he encounters at ease. Sometimes he does it with a little twinkle in his eye, but he always does it. He is my parenting role model. He allows the boys to make their mistakes and pay the consequences in a spirit of gentle lovingness. He is the Mister Rogers of TV fathers. I want to be the sort of parent and friend that Steve Douglas is. I'm not. But I really want to.

And speaking of role models -- next on my viewing agenda is the venerable Donna Reed. I have never watched Donna Reed before. It was a little before my time when it was first run and I always sort of thought of it like a Leave It To Beaver sort of sappy salute to a perfect time that didn't really exist. I thought she was the quintessential submissive housewife and I really wanted no part of it. What a happy surprise it has been to discover that I was wrong. 

Of course ALL of the sitcoms mentioned also give me the added bonus of teaching me a valuable social lesson every day. Thanks to my viewing habits, I now know that it's wrong to lie to or manipulate or use people. I know that family is more important than money. And, thanks to Lucy and Donna and June I know that just because I'm unemployed doesn't mean I can't wear a nice new fit-and-flare dress and fix my hair. Even if Ricky -- I mean, Tom -- thinks I already have enough dresses.

So this morning, after dropping Liv off at school, I hurried home to pour my coffee and enjoy my daily dose of gentle wholesomeness with Steve and his boys.

I was not pleased when the familiar instrumental did not involve three animated sets of shoes tapping their toes and junk. MeTV had changed their schedule without consulting me, which seems rude, since they have Me right in their name. Family Affair is not the same. It's not even a good substitute. Now, if I want to spend a half hour feeling reassured by Fred MacMurray, I'll have to do it at 5:30. Which is, I suppose, a more pleasant way to wake up than the Local News. I'll adjust, but I won't be happy about it.

I looked into the rest of the changes -- I Love Lucy has been subbed out for The Lucy Show, which is NOT the same thing.

*pouts*

I adjusted to staying at home and to a new normal. Fine. But now I have to adjust my TV viewing habit, too? Enough. 

Uncle Bill is no Steve Douglas.

Mr. French is no Uncle Charley.

And I? Am crying uncle.