I'll say it, even if you won't.
Social media sucks in the summer.
Come early June and--voila!--gone are the endless snapshots of Junior's graduation and the mind-numbing Farmville requests, replaced by photos uploaded from exotic locales and botched Spanglish posts made from the beach ("Ola from Porta Vallearta! Montezuma hasn't visited yet!!!! LOL!!!!").
omg
The first few weeks of summer, I was utterly overwhelmed by all that digital evidence of everyone else's international intrigue. At one point, I was starting to feel like a real loser, and succumbed to a new low--posting about poop and colonoscopies. Whatever it takes, I told myself, as long as I get a little media buzz, too. As my children pointed out later (unfortunately, a little too late), poop does not a real friend make.
tmi
Had I only held out for another week, I could have joined the "Look at me! Look at me!" club without all the liquid poop-lah.
Ask me tonight what I think about the plethora of fancy vacation posts on Facebook and I will tell you that I feel nothing but sad pity for all those Pepto-popping people choking down exotic foods culled from the sea and placed directly onto their quavering tongues.
Sounding like some knock-off Mr. T, I pity those fools who have bankrupt their savings accounts and messed up their already-screwed-up sleep patterns just to say they've been there, wherever "there" is.
Yep, I've had myself a mountain-top experience this week, if you consider a 3,000-foot butte in northwest Nebraska a mountain. Something amazing happened Sunday morning when I gathered my brood and drove west. Over the next 8 hours, we witnessed a Nebraska transformed, a place pocked by sandy canyons, a land daubed with crystalline lakes tucked between grassy hills, a point on the map accented by pines waving their evergreen flags atop the buttes.
Why on earth would people go anywhere else on earth than right here? Our family trip required nothing but a tankful of gas and a willingness to slow down for the antelope running alongside our car. Oh, and a $25 Nebraska Parks sticker, to make it all official. I hope people will stop me, having spied the orange Parks tag on my windshield, and ask me about my adventures.
If they do, I will tell them--probably in one, long, sputtered sentence that would be very difficult to diagram--that, when you vacation in Nebraska, you can see cowboys and porcupines and bullsnakes that look exactly like rattlers, minus the rattle, and you can drive down a crazy gravel road in the middle of absolutely nowhere and happen upon heaping hills of beautiful rocks, scattered among a herd of cattle that, at one point, consider rushing you but then think better and head across the road to greener pastures and then you can visit the moon at Toadstool where exactly two other people are at the time and eat huge, cheap pancakes at the Fort Rob lodge before heading out to kayak and hike and talk with a rock-shop lady whose son dug up a real dinosaur just a few miles from there and then head home on a highway that feels like a rollercoaster ride, only no one else is on it, unless you count the antelope and porcupine and raccoon and curlew and a tractor or two kicking up dust along the horizon.
Ah, maybe it would just be easier to post a few photos. . . .
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Friday, June 21, 2013
Fifty Ways to Leave Your Mother
A few years ago, when This American Life posed the question "Which superhero power would you want?," I figured it'd be cool to be invisible. Now that I'm 51, though, I think I'd like to renege on that answer.
I had no idea that, shortly after turning 50, I'd wake up one day and really be invisible. It turns out that there is almost nothing cool about not being seen...even when I'm wearing my geeky "i > u" t-shirt and the tan shorts that are missing a button. If I owned a purse, I'd be spilling its contents, looking for my receipt so that I could get a refund.
After returning from my girl trip last week--a trip that was fun and funny and really, really good--I told my friend Jill that most of our cabin conversations were about self improvement, acknowledgement that we'd all like to feel a wee bit better about ourselves. I was lamenting to her that so much of our energy seemed focused on fixing rather than just being. That's when Jill announced that, as 51 year olds, we'd basically become invisible.
I was shocked that so many people could keep such an ugly secret for so long.
. . . seriously.
The more I think about it, the more I think Jill's probably right. Fifty-plus-year-old women are not particularly valued or sought out by our culture. If we have kids, they're probably old enough not to need us much anymore. If we still work, we both sense and see the wave of the next generation pushing us out to sea, their radars focused on younger versions of ourselves, all huddled excitedly at the center of things.
My students, when they say they are surprised to find out I'm 51, are really saying "My God! Is it too late to change my schedule? What does this hag have to teach me about today's world?!" They're just too polite to say it out loud.
So, why aren't I jumping off a high cliff with rocks in my pockets? Because I know a little secret. And Jill backed me up on this.
Turns out that, if an American woman in her 50s can just hang in there long enough, she'll wake up one day and find out that people can see her again. If I can just endure the silent treatment, the long glances focused just beyond my person, for another 6 or 8 years, I'll be like a monarch butterfly, newly emerged from her chrysalis, all wet and exciting and new again.
And people will know that I'm there, even without me dieting and diagnosing my way back to the world again. I'll be like Harry Houdini, without all the hokum and hoopla--fondling the magic seeds of my 60s with my hands deep in my outdated pockets.
I had no idea that, shortly after turning 50, I'd wake up one day and really be invisible. It turns out that there is almost nothing cool about not being seen...even when I'm wearing my geeky "i > u" t-shirt and the tan shorts that are missing a button. If I owned a purse, I'd be spilling its contents, looking for my receipt so that I could get a refund.
After returning from my girl trip last week--a trip that was fun and funny and really, really good--I told my friend Jill that most of our cabin conversations were about self improvement, acknowledgement that we'd all like to feel a wee bit better about ourselves. I was lamenting to her that so much of our energy seemed focused on fixing rather than just being. That's when Jill announced that, as 51 year olds, we'd basically become invisible.
I was shocked that so many people could keep such an ugly secret for so long.
. . . seriously.
The more I think about it, the more I think Jill's probably right. Fifty-plus-year-old women are not particularly valued or sought out by our culture. If we have kids, they're probably old enough not to need us much anymore. If we still work, we both sense and see the wave of the next generation pushing us out to sea, their radars focused on younger versions of ourselves, all huddled excitedly at the center of things.
My students, when they say they are surprised to find out I'm 51, are really saying "My God! Is it too late to change my schedule? What does this hag have to teach me about today's world?!" They're just too polite to say it out loud.
So, why aren't I jumping off a high cliff with rocks in my pockets? Because I know a little secret. And Jill backed me up on this.
Turns out that, if an American woman in her 50s can just hang in there long enough, she'll wake up one day and find out that people can see her again. If I can just endure the silent treatment, the long glances focused just beyond my person, for another 6 or 8 years, I'll be like a monarch butterfly, newly emerged from her chrysalis, all wet and exciting and new again.
And people will know that I'm there, even without me dieting and diagnosing my way back to the world again. I'll be like Harry Houdini, without all the hokum and hoopla--fondling the magic seeds of my 60s with my hands deep in my outdated pockets.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Dead Poets
I really like living near two cemeteries, and I don't say that ironically, either. Still, I sometimes feel guilty steering Finn up "L" Street to Calvary's entrance, worried that some invisible employee behind the smoked-glass windows can see right through the thin veneer of my former Catholic self. Some days, I can almost hear him tsk-tsking me while his hand feels for the tiny "eternal emergency" button underneath the counter.
Generally, a cemetery is a sauntering place, although I tend to pick up the pace a bit, at least until I find the granite stone with "RAGLIN" chiseled into it. If I can just make it to this grave, where two crumbling brick roads meet, then, surely, they will call off the dogmas, so to speak. Surely, if the employee sees me hunkered close to the ground, running my hands along the large serif type, he'll think I belong, if only for a minute or two.
I visited my dad and brother just this afternoon, pulled there by Finn, who wasn't ready to end our walk. Normally, I like to bring along a nice river rock or find a good leaf to place atop the handsome gravestone, some marker that says I was here. Today, though, I was empty-handed, so I simply took a small stick that already was resting on their gravestone and turned it 90 degrees, hoping one of them might notice.
Cemeteries, I've decided, are full of these secret messages, evidence of our desire to touch base somehow. My mom planted a yew next to the gravestone soon after my dad died. It's now threatening to take over the small plot, slowly erasing my name, because I'm the youngest. Soon enough, I suppose, it will simply say "James H. and Sally Raglin--parents of Mike, Steve, Jack, Ann, ..." my name eaten up in greenery.
A walk through a cemetery isn't just about me and my family, though. At Calvary, it also means I check in on my friends' families, too. I tell myself that it is enough to pass quietly and nod at Mrs. Clifford, Mr. Rowson, Mr. Lawlor and all the rest who surely have someone missing them as well.
In a cemetery, I like being the stranger who misses these people, their histories but fuzzied question marks in my mind. I take my duty seriously, letting my eyes linger on the bare-boned details of their extinguished lives--when they lived, who still remains, what it is that might have done them in. And I take imaginary notes for myself, pondering form and fonts, flora and farewells for my own exit.
My dad and brother both knew the value of a well-told story. I imagine that, on some nights when the sky is clear and the moon is busting out all over, people whose homes bump up against Calvary are awakened by the cackling laughter of my dad and brother, another rotten joke shared between them. I honor them and all the others who rest there as well, by leaning in to hear the stories that waft up from the warm ground below me.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
A Happy Case of Cabin Fever
A friend once told me that the stupidity of a teenaged boy increases exponentially with the addition of every other boy in that room. This was her warning to me to expect some rough waters in Eric's future, especially if he lived that young future in the company of other males.
Aside from an expensive Pokeman card-collecting habit and the purchase of some strange, multi-sided dice, Eric managed to manage his teen years in relative quiet, or at least as far as I'm aware.
My friend's warning got me thinking, though. What, exactly, is the algebraic explanation for what happens when a half dozen middle-aged women get together?
perhaps? (To be fair, I have absolutely no idea what this equation is stating. Like all middling 21st-century has-been mathematicians, I simply copied and pasted it from some unsourced website)
Tomorrow, I head out for what can now be called the Third Annual Gathering of Middle-Aged Spartan Women. With two years' of evidence in my possession (mostly in the form of fuzzy photos and equally fuzzy memories spawned when the occasional synapse fires), I believe that I can make a scientific claim that explains what occurs when six women gather:
1. We become exponentially funnier.
2. And louder.
3. And, depending on external variables, such as the quantity of two-buck Chuck and artery-clogging snack items, we lose all concern about the thoughts and opinions of others (herein referred to as Those Who Do Not Matter Right Now).
Given all the good vibes that flow when I gather with my female peeps, I cannot for the life of me understand why most men seek solitude rather than social gatherings. Why they have "man caves" rather than "coffee klatches."
Maybe it's all that stupidity they gathered in their youth, those painful memories of death-defying idiocy. Maybe they like to be alone now because they can't shake their youthful pasts, all rolled up in kerosene-soaked Sun Newspapers, and tossed into a blazing fire that left them with no eyebrows for some long-ago August.
True, it may be safer to lock yourself in a quiet man cave than to share a roomful of bunks with well-meaning world-class snorers. But, mathematically speaking, "safer" does not equal "better," no matter how you slice it.
Aside from an expensive Pokeman card-collecting habit and the purchase of some strange, multi-sided dice, Eric managed to manage his teen years in relative quiet, or at least as far as I'm aware.
My friend's warning got me thinking, though. What, exactly, is the algebraic explanation for what happens when a half dozen middle-aged women get together?
perhaps? (To be fair, I have absolutely no idea what this equation is stating. Like all middling 21st-century has-been mathematicians, I simply copied and pasted it from some unsourced website)Tomorrow, I head out for what can now be called the Third Annual Gathering of Middle-Aged Spartan Women. With two years' of evidence in my possession (mostly in the form of fuzzy photos and equally fuzzy memories spawned when the occasional synapse fires), I believe that I can make a scientific claim that explains what occurs when six women gather:
1. We become exponentially funnier.
2. And louder.
3. And, depending on external variables, such as the quantity of two-buck Chuck and artery-clogging snack items, we lose all concern about the thoughts and opinions of others (herein referred to as Those Who Do Not Matter Right Now).
Given all the good vibes that flow when I gather with my female peeps, I cannot for the life of me understand why most men seek solitude rather than social gatherings. Why they have "man caves" rather than "coffee klatches."
Maybe it's all that stupidity they gathered in their youth, those painful memories of death-defying idiocy. Maybe they like to be alone now because they can't shake their youthful pasts, all rolled up in kerosene-soaked Sun Newspapers, and tossed into a blazing fire that left them with no eyebrows for some long-ago August.
True, it may be safer to lock yourself in a quiet man cave than to share a roomful of bunks with well-meaning world-class snorers. But, mathematically speaking, "safer" does not equal "better," no matter how you slice it.
Friday, June 7, 2013
A Conspiracy of Strangers
I don't remember signing anything, but, clearly, everyone at Holmes Lake--from the Western Meadowlarks and lone vulture to the fishermen and Shiba Inu--had somehow decided we wouldn't talk about it.
And so, it was in a state of near silence that we took it all in, this perfect Nebraska morning.
Even the lake paused in reverence, unfettered by winds, its crystalline appearance broken only by the occasional "vee" of a mallard exploring its watery realm. I was self conscious about my shoes noisily meeting the gravel path, envious of Finn's leathery pads, his paws tapping lightly atop it all.
It was such a jaw-droppingly beautiful morning that, at one point, I just couldn't help myself, and I breached our unspoken contract.
"Have you ever seen a more beautiful morning?" I uttered to another walker, immediately regretting the question.
Thank goodness she was thick-tongued and silent in response, offering only a mild nod in my general direction. She knew what I should have known--that it was ridiculous to even try to put words to this thing we shared. That even speaking of it presented a kind of veiled threat to this temporary Eden, and that I had just eaten the apple, acutely aware of the momentary shift of things.
Halfway around the lake, I had trouble imagining any other place I'd rather be or any other form of transportation that could hold a stick to feet on earth.
Well, that's not entirely true. I actually could imagine somewhere else and even went so far as to make a second secret pact in the early warmth of the day. Someday, I told myself, I will walk the Camino Trail in Spain, all 484 miles of it, one step at a time.
Until then? Until then, I will walk happily--sometimes in silence, sometimes with a quiet song or shared story on my lips--along the Camino Trails of my home, atop the wind-blown dam at Holmes Lake, through the virgin grasslands of Spring Creek, weaving my way among the hallowed dead at Wyuka, trying hard to honor the secret pact I've made with the larger world.
And so, it was in a state of near silence that we took it all in, this perfect Nebraska morning.
Even the lake paused in reverence, unfettered by winds, its crystalline appearance broken only by the occasional "vee" of a mallard exploring its watery realm. I was self conscious about my shoes noisily meeting the gravel path, envious of Finn's leathery pads, his paws tapping lightly atop it all.
It was such a jaw-droppingly beautiful morning that, at one point, I just couldn't help myself, and I breached our unspoken contract.
"Have you ever seen a more beautiful morning?" I uttered to another walker, immediately regretting the question.
Thank goodness she was thick-tongued and silent in response, offering only a mild nod in my general direction. She knew what I should have known--that it was ridiculous to even try to put words to this thing we shared. That even speaking of it presented a kind of veiled threat to this temporary Eden, and that I had just eaten the apple, acutely aware of the momentary shift of things.
Halfway around the lake, I had trouble imagining any other place I'd rather be or any other form of transportation that could hold a stick to feet on earth.
Well, that's not entirely true. I actually could imagine somewhere else and even went so far as to make a second secret pact in the early warmth of the day. Someday, I told myself, I will walk the Camino Trail in Spain, all 484 miles of it, one step at a time.
Until then? Until then, I will walk happily--sometimes in silence, sometimes with a quiet song or shared story on my lips--along the Camino Trails of my home, atop the wind-blown dam at Holmes Lake, through the virgin grasslands of Spring Creek, weaving my way among the hallowed dead at Wyuka, trying hard to honor the secret pact I've made with the larger world.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
A Dash of Unabashed
I don't often think of moods or states of being as seasonal things, but, as I write this, I'm starting to believe that there just might be something to that theory.
As Finn and I made our way through Woods Park early this morning, a place where clueless squirrels and invisible scents awaited us, I was not expecting to see two teen girls enjoying the playground's swing set. Not yet 7 a.m., the sight of their silent, contented movement, undeterred by the presence of a middle-aged woman and her hound, made me think of a word I love--unabashed.
Summer is an excellent time to put on our unabashed selves, giving not two whits about what others may think of us or our behavior, thankyouverymuch.
As we neared the playground, I held my breath, hoping not to pop the unabashed bubble that protected those girls. Had my shoes been roomier, I believe I would have crossed my toes, too, so as not break the magic of that moment.
I was delighted that they ignored me, unwilling, even, to slow the pumping of their usually self-conscious legs. They were, in a word (or two or three), happily lost in the moment.
Just a week into my own summer, I could relate to their moment of unabashed joy, having already lost myself in books and bike rides and strutting, little dances exploding through me in aisle nine at Target.
For a people obsessed with Google Maps and GPS systems, we really should get lost a bit more. Instead of spending so much time fretting about how to get there--wherever "there" may be--we should be open to unabashedly losing ourselves in the here, unconcerned about the opinions or even the presence of others.
I know I'm asking a lot. But I think we'd be pleasantly surprised by the results, our wet, new wings unfolding in the warm breeze of a summer morning, the possibilities seemingly endless.
As Finn and I made our way through Woods Park early this morning, a place where clueless squirrels and invisible scents awaited us, I was not expecting to see two teen girls enjoying the playground's swing set. Not yet 7 a.m., the sight of their silent, contented movement, undeterred by the presence of a middle-aged woman and her hound, made me think of a word I love--unabashed.
Summer is an excellent time to put on our unabashed selves, giving not two whits about what others may think of us or our behavior, thankyouverymuch.
As we neared the playground, I held my breath, hoping not to pop the unabashed bubble that protected those girls. Had my shoes been roomier, I believe I would have crossed my toes, too, so as not break the magic of that moment.
I was delighted that they ignored me, unwilling, even, to slow the pumping of their usually self-conscious legs. They were, in a word (or two or three), happily lost in the moment.
Just a week into my own summer, I could relate to their moment of unabashed joy, having already lost myself in books and bike rides and strutting, little dances exploding through me in aisle nine at Target.
For a people obsessed with Google Maps and GPS systems, we really should get lost a bit more. Instead of spending so much time fretting about how to get there--wherever "there" may be--we should be open to unabashedly losing ourselves in the here, unconcerned about the opinions or even the presence of others.
I know I'm asking a lot. But I think we'd be pleasantly surprised by the results, our wet, new wings unfolding in the warm breeze of a summer morning, the possibilities seemingly endless.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Dog is Good, Dog is Great
Things really do improve with time, and not just in that "Antiques Roadshow" sort of way. Take Finn, for instance, a dog that has grown exponentially cuter since I first met him a year and a half ago. I'm not sure if he's been secretly secreting pheromones in my general direction lately, but I do know that I have become absolutely nuts about that hound.
Sure, he's got his bad habits--God help you if you have the gall to ring our doorbell or if you are a man in a hat bending down to pet him, not to mention that weird, wiry fur of his, which is winning him exactly zero admirers. But the guy's got the smarts and personality of a comic-book hero.
As much as I've loved every dog I've ever had (minus, on certain days, Ginger the brown poodle, who could be snippy and petulant, especially with young children), when it comes to sheer brain power and entertainment potential, I've never had a dog like Finn.
Give him a Gallup StrengthFinders survey and Finn would nail the "positive activator" categories. The guy could care less that I often wake before 4 a.m. When I rise for the day, he rises for the day. And he acts like it's the greatest thing ever that we are waking before the Robins, more or less the Broxes and Housers and (sometimes) the Kellases.
The fact that Finn thinks I walk on water has done nothing to hurt my impression of him. Perhaps he's got a touch of Gallupian "woo" running through his scrawny frame, given how effective his smiling, sideward glances are as we head out on yet another walk through the neighborhood. Regardless, I have allowed myself to be happily swayed by his fuzzy-faced manipulations.
So, yes. I'm not so dumb as to think that his motives are entirely pure. I know that, without my opposable thumbs and ATM card, he'd pretty much be screwed at meal time. But I also know that--even given my propensity to ignore dust bunnies and toilet-bowl rings--a gig on Woods Avenue beats the heck out of the noisy, urine-soaked confines of his Missouri rescue facility.
Clearly, Finn--if not exactly coming out of this smelling like roses (more like fox urine and bad breath)--benefits from our symbiotic relationship. Ah, but so do I. So do I. And I have absolutely no plans to alter this "You do for me, I do for you" gig we've got going.
That's how much I love this dog.
Sure, he's got his bad habits--God help you if you have the gall to ring our doorbell or if you are a man in a hat bending down to pet him, not to mention that weird, wiry fur of his, which is winning him exactly zero admirers. But the guy's got the smarts and personality of a comic-book hero.
As much as I've loved every dog I've ever had (minus, on certain days, Ginger the brown poodle, who could be snippy and petulant, especially with young children), when it comes to sheer brain power and entertainment potential, I've never had a dog like Finn.
Give him a Gallup StrengthFinders survey and Finn would nail the "positive activator" categories. The guy could care less that I often wake before 4 a.m. When I rise for the day, he rises for the day. And he acts like it's the greatest thing ever that we are waking before the Robins, more or less the Broxes and Housers and (sometimes) the Kellases.
The fact that Finn thinks I walk on water has done nothing to hurt my impression of him. Perhaps he's got a touch of Gallupian "woo" running through his scrawny frame, given how effective his smiling, sideward glances are as we head out on yet another walk through the neighborhood. Regardless, I have allowed myself to be happily swayed by his fuzzy-faced manipulations.
So, yes. I'm not so dumb as to think that his motives are entirely pure. I know that, without my opposable thumbs and ATM card, he'd pretty much be screwed at meal time. But I also know that--even given my propensity to ignore dust bunnies and toilet-bowl rings--a gig on Woods Avenue beats the heck out of the noisy, urine-soaked confines of his Missouri rescue facility.
Clearly, Finn--if not exactly coming out of this smelling like roses (more like fox urine and bad breath)--benefits from our symbiotic relationship. Ah, but so do I. So do I. And I have absolutely no plans to alter this "You do for me, I do for you" gig we've got going.
That's how much I love this dog.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Canoodling for Friends
I haven't been on a date in decades. I'd like to think that this is good news to my husband, Mark.
But, while I may not have dated in decades, I have felt the giddiness that comes with forming a new relationship. Such is the pleasure of friendship without all those pesky benefits.
Not counting my teenaged stint back in the 70s, I've been at East High for 22 years. You'd think I would have met everyone there is to meet there by now. And yet, this year--a year that, at times, was so taxing for me--also was lined with the silvery glitter of new friendships.
Consider Yulia, my sparkly, new friend who texts too much and does Zumba with an authentic Russian accent; Halie and Diane, both of whom endured my stupid lunch-time antics with aplomb and, eventually, an impressive display of sharp-tongued wit; Stephanie, whom I've known from afar since I'd gotten my first LPS job 24 years ago, and who magically and intimately emerged onto my scene like a 17-year locust, vibrant and fresh; Andrew, my cohort and pop-culture savant; Sam, with her impeccable handwriting, excellent stories and surprisingly parallel life; Doug, the musician and techno wonk, our friendship sealed tight after he viewed--and, more importantly, fell in love with--my copy of the Talking Heads' "Stop Making Sense," . . .
With 51 years under my ever-expanding belt, I still find myself valuing relationships over representations of material or professional success. Given the choice of a three-stall garage or a chance encounter with a future friend (not that anyone's offered me the garage), I'll take the friend every single time. That's because the friend has the potential to fill me, while the garage? It is simply there to be filled itself. And never with anything particularly interesting.
No surprise here, but I was never much of a dater in my youth. If boys gave me extra attention at all, it usually was because I was a fairly decent kick soccer player who also happened to be able to burp half the alphabet in a single sitting. Bottom line? I was not the girl one brought home to mother, unless the guy did so in a "look what I found at the zoo" kind of way. I'm not complaining, though, because I relish my male friends with the same giddiness I feel when considering all the fine women who've overlooked my faults and called me "friend."
While some folks have mastered the ability to locate a deeply discounted Coach purse or a higher rung in their corporate ladders, I must say that I've gotten pretty good at sniffing out good people who will settle for--nay, even celebrate--the "as is" me that I am.
When it comes to good friendships, it seems to me that what most people seek is someone who shares a steady thread with them, warts and all. I, for one, have benefited greatly from that spool of thread, its colors ever varying and always able to hold things happily together.
But, while I may not have dated in decades, I have felt the giddiness that comes with forming a new relationship. Such is the pleasure of friendship without all those pesky benefits.
Not counting my teenaged stint back in the 70s, I've been at East High for 22 years. You'd think I would have met everyone there is to meet there by now. And yet, this year--a year that, at times, was so taxing for me--also was lined with the silvery glitter of new friendships.
Consider Yulia, my sparkly, new friend who texts too much and does Zumba with an authentic Russian accent; Halie and Diane, both of whom endured my stupid lunch-time antics with aplomb and, eventually, an impressive display of sharp-tongued wit; Stephanie, whom I've known from afar since I'd gotten my first LPS job 24 years ago, and who magically and intimately emerged onto my scene like a 17-year locust, vibrant and fresh; Andrew, my cohort and pop-culture savant; Sam, with her impeccable handwriting, excellent stories and surprisingly parallel life; Doug, the musician and techno wonk, our friendship sealed tight after he viewed--and, more importantly, fell in love with--my copy of the Talking Heads' "Stop Making Sense," . . .
With 51 years under my ever-expanding belt, I still find myself valuing relationships over representations of material or professional success. Given the choice of a three-stall garage or a chance encounter with a future friend (not that anyone's offered me the garage), I'll take the friend every single time. That's because the friend has the potential to fill me, while the garage? It is simply there to be filled itself. And never with anything particularly interesting.
No surprise here, but I was never much of a dater in my youth. If boys gave me extra attention at all, it usually was because I was a fairly decent kick soccer player who also happened to be able to burp half the alphabet in a single sitting. Bottom line? I was not the girl one brought home to mother, unless the guy did so in a "look what I found at the zoo" kind of way. I'm not complaining, though, because I relish my male friends with the same giddiness I feel when considering all the fine women who've overlooked my faults and called me "friend."
While some folks have mastered the ability to locate a deeply discounted Coach purse or a higher rung in their corporate ladders, I must say that I've gotten pretty good at sniffing out good people who will settle for--nay, even celebrate--the "as is" me that I am.
When it comes to good friendships, it seems to me that what most people seek is someone who shares a steady thread with them, warts and all. I, for one, have benefited greatly from that spool of thread, its colors ever varying and always able to hold things happily together.
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