Chicken or the egg? It all sounds like lunch to me...

"I wanna wait until I see how it turns out, and then I'll decide if I want to stay in this relationship/keep the job/stay in this apartment/etc."

Yeah. You do that. Wait and see what happens. Here's my educated guess: you will pull a calf muscle from continuously running the pros/cons hamster wheel. Then, without much notice, you turn into a miserable reactor in your own life. It's like handing the steering wheel over to a four year old. "Let's just see what happens and then I'll decide to take action when something comes up." INCORRECT. Decide what you want and then commit to actions that honor your decision.

I've recently been a victim of the "I'm seeing what happens before I decide" philosophy. Here is where you do yourself, and everyone involved, a massive disservice when you think this way:

1. What is your spouse/partner/colleague/kid/student/client supposed to do while you wait for a sign from the gods or some circumstance to tell you what to do? Problem: other people don't necessarily want their futures to be left to a third party (if you aren't making the decisions about how to act or what to do, you're essentially inviting factors outside of your control to do so for you.). As the rest of us tap our toes and wait for you to employ some initiative or decisiveness, you're losing our a.) respect and b.) desire to be in a connection or relationship with you (hell, if we wanted our future to be left up to fate, we would have gone straight to the source!).
2. Your action muscles atrophy and you allow your reaction muscles to overtake your body until that's all you become: one big martyred, reactionary individual who feigns not having control over his/her life. Whine, whine, whine (cheese), violins, whine...NOT SEXY.
3. You lose your ability to efficiently deal with consequences of choice because you simply stop making any. Life kindly responds and excludes you from its game of Duck, Duck, Goose because you're too afraid to "lose." Life says "we know she's not playing, so why bother...she won't even try to catch us because she's too afraid of taking a risk. NEXT."
4. You start believing in "perfection." HI, WELCOME TO EARTH. WE LIVE HERE. PERFECTION IS A UNICORN. CALL ME WHEN YOU FIND IT.

What comes first, the chicken or the egg? The commitment or the outcome you desire? Fact: if you commit to having what you want (no, not in a crazy Gordon Gekko "I will get it at any expense" kind of way), and you reaffirm that commitment whenever the sh*t hits the fan (it will, repeatedly), then the outcome is more likely to be in alignment with what you want. Conversely, when you leave the outcome up to time (a construct), fate (a construct), or to the weather, you are scattering your energies in 1,000 different directions, and what you want will most likely elude you because you're being taken on a wild goose chase (a lot of fowl references, huh?). You choose it; it doesn't choose you.

Decide now. Act accordingly. Place energy on what you want. Exercise willpower and faith when things get rocky. Enjoy the outcome and the lesson that inevitably comes with it. Wanna fly with the eagles? Then stop playing with the turkeys.

Workin' It

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson) I’m a worker. I’ve always been. At 11 years old, I wanted money for the movies and ice skating, so I started babysitting. At 13, I figured I could make some dough performing, and so I joined a group and made some scratch while belting out Duke Ellington montages. Then, I applied for a weekly nannying position during the four free minutes I had somewhere between my dance classes, schooling, performing, and singing wedding and/or funeral gigs. I can’t remember ever asking my parents for movie money or for their credit card to buy mascara: I was flush with cash. I had earned it, and it made everything I bought feel more like “mine.” When college came around, it made sense that I’d continue my working streak, taking a paid intern position at Christie’s right after 9/11 while the anthrax scare took place in my building at Rockefeller Center. Daily safety threats and the Argentinian banking crisis made things interesting, but it also taught me how to focus despite the world falling down around me. Then, I decided to bartend for a questionable, and very wealthy, Russian restaurant owner in the Upper East Side. Spending my weekends behind the bar taught me how to listen. It also taught me that a little ego-stroking and an expertly made gin gimlet could help me buy purple suede pants and Louis Vuitton scarves while my friends were looking for change in the sofa cushions. The most useful thing I learned from my time babysitting all the way up to my directorial positions is this: timing is everything. Strike while the iron is hot. If it’s not hot, turn the stove on for them. And no one would stay in a bath after it got cold, so why stay in a position that’s no longer feeling “good?” Yep, “good.” And in a world where “good” is the antithesis of “reasonable,” I did something considered REALLY “good” today: I resigned from my managerial position. I had worked very hard to get here. I had the corner office and “great pay.” I had assistants and decision-making power. It was everything a high school counselor tells students they should aspire to, and here I was, handing in my keys and phone at 3:00 pm, and walking through the office parking lot for the very last time. Why did I do it? Well, I had stopped “working.” Sure, I showed up every day and did my job, but I wasn’t really “working” as hard as I could. The amazing thing about corporate is that you’re allowed to think, but just enough to do your job. You’re allowed to ask questions, just as long as they don’t lead to change. You can work to promote your company, but it gets kind of difficult when you’re supporting practices you don’t agree with. You can take a vacation, but you have to ask permission. You can work hard, but not so hard that you threaten the hierarchy, and not so intelligently that you force things to improve too quickly. And it’s because I felt that I wasn’t truly allowed to “work” that I decided to work harder and do something “good.” Counter-intuitive, sure, but a lot of things are “reasonable” that we’d never consider “good.” War seems “reasonable,” but it’s not “good.” Doctors used to leech patients because it seemed “rational,” but it sure as hell wasn’t “good.” We’re told acid peels are “practical” solutions, but I can’t say they’re “good” for anyone. The proverbial bath water had become cold. It was time to get out, towel off, and get on with something that felt, well, good. What now? Well, I’ve gone straight from the frying pan and into the fire. Freelance writing, school (I’ll soon be a certified life & career coach), and an intensive marketing course starting Monday means that even though I’ve left a “job,” I’ve once again found “work.” And though it seems illogical and certainly not “reasonable” at the present moment, I would say that performing my calling in this world and doing my own work in purple suede pants feels pretty damn “good.” Or maybe that’s just the gimlet talking.

How Driving the Speed Limit Made Me a Careless Driver

I got a speeding ticket. Yes. My first. I had never been pulled over before. Ever. Parking tickets--I had scores of them, but speeding? No way. Until the day I was caught (going downhill, I might add) only about a mile from my home. The second I drove past the hidden cop car, I knew I was had. I was speeding after all, and it wasn't 10mph over, either. As I lowered my car window, I didn't know what made me more angry: the fact that I was caught, the fact that there were much "worse" crimes being committed within a 4-yard radius, or that I had ruined my perfect record. There were two things that I prided myself for never having: cavities and speeding tickets. Not only did I get a ticket this summer, but I also learned from my dentist that despite my perfect teeth, I need gum surgery to repair the severe recession caused by brushing too aggressively (in my f&*cking attempt to not get cavities, of course).

Resisting oral surgery had become futile. I basically dug my own grave (or gum trenches) with that one. But the speeding ticket was worse. It was akin to having my mouth sewn shut. I felt feeble and helpless as the cars whizzed past me with a feverish sense of haste, while I had to practically adopt blinders so as not to suffer the glares of people whose lives I was holding up on the parkway, freeway, bridge, side street, and parking lot. It was humiliating, and I felt an amazing sense of rage at the policeman who gave me so many points, I'd lose my license if pulled over again. So...I spent a considerable amount of time looking in my rear view mirror convinced that I was going to be a. shot, b. rear-ended, or c. simply hated for going the speed limit or 5mph above it. I had never spent so much time worrying about what other people thought of me as I did that first month with a grillion points on my license and the longest daily commute of my life.

I even started thinking up creative ways to explain to my fellow drivers that this wasn't my typical m.o. I went so far as to draft a sign that read "SORRY, GOT A SPEEDING TICKET. CAN'T EXCEED LIMIT." But then I thought that it might be worse to be pulled over for obstructing my own view with signage and possibly distracting others on the road as well. Deep breathing came in handy, and I surpassed all of my cell phone minutes talking during my drives so that I was distracted from the pace I was forced to go. I could have driven quicker if all four tires were flat. Pissed off was an understatement.

But! As I was passed by a horse-drawn carriage one day during rush hour, I realized I had to adopt a different attitude. I had become more concerned about others than I was about myself. When I felt pressured to go quicker to accommodate someone else's pace, I asked myself if they would take the bullet for me if I was pulled over. Of course they wouldn't, no more than they would pay for my clothes at a checkout aisle if I found myself without a credit card. So, I decided that they could either a. go around me, or b. deal for the few minutes they had to follow me. Women in labor, people having heart attacks, and those whose brakes were cut had excuses. But no one was going to die if they were home five minutes later than usual, or if they had to wait an extra three seconds in the Starbucks line that morning. Someone would die, however, if I lost my license, and I figured that I took priority over everyone's need to rush. Life had caught me rushing to and fro, and I had to pay the price. The least these frenzied chinchillas could do was realize that those big white signs with numbers apply to motorists, not skateboarders, and there's probably a good reason for it (even if that reason is not paying an exorbitant amount of money to the city and getting points on one's license).

As I drove home from work last Friday, though, it finally hit me--I no longer really cared about what was going on behind me. I didn't care what drivers thought, I didn't care if I was keeping them from speeding, I didn't care if they got angry. I couldn't care less. Driving the speed limit literally made me a care-less driver, and it saved a few cars behind me from getting tickets themselves (ride my bumper all you want, but you're going to be kissing my ass when we go through a speed trap and you're saved by my speedometer--and yes, this did happen).

Lesson learned: when you feel yourself caring more about what the person behind you in line thinks, or paying attention to the hand gestures of the person behind you when you stop at a yellow light, remember this--is it your responsibility to enable their anxiety, inability to relax, or impatience? It's not. And would they take the fall for you if you got in trouble for accommodating their bad choices? No. So the next time you feel yourself absorbing the needs of others as your own, or silencing your own better judgement to assimilate and keep others happy, slow down, chill, and let others cope. It's not life or death. Everyone can just calm their nerves and breathe, unless, of course, that nerve is exposed from hostile oral hygiene practices.

Genetic Modification

It’s been a particularly shaky new year thus far, checkered with slumps, bumps, and a few disappointments. As the days wear on, it’s easy to get sidetracked by worry, and to not place as much attention on the habits that help me remain grounded like meditation and cultivating a positive outlook. I would be lying if a sense of panic hasn’t reared its head from time to time, and I had become very adept at keeping such emotions under control, so to experience it again (albeit in fits and starts) was alarming. Coming back from a litany of errands today, it took all the energy I had to drag a few bags of groceries into my home. When I realized that I hadn’t checked the mailbox yet, I walked towards the bank of boxes, waiting for a handful of bills to await me upon opening the little gray metal door.

What stared back at me from the dark recess, however, was a bright turquoise envelope with a gold sticker on the front. I happily ripped it open, knowing by the handwriting that it was an Easter card from my mother. I’m from a family that finds any, and every, reason to send correspondence. No holiday has passed where every window sill and shelf hasn’t succumbed to a staggered squadron of cards. As I expectantly pulled it from the envelope, I smiled, reassured that the small fortune I had sent to the government earlier this morning (tax season!) wasn’t being followed by another institution’s request for money. What awaited me was more than an Easter greeting, however. This bejeweled card held within it a black and white picture of my grandfather from 1951. It’s a photo of him in his military garb while he served on a base in San Diego during the Korean War. With my groceries melting on the entrance hall floor, I held the picture and began to cry. It was the most uplifting and nourishing message that I could have received at this time, and it wasn’t really a message at all, rather it was a reminder of why I hold such high esteem for this man, someone whom I consider the most influential man in my life.

When my grandmother tells the story of her courting days, she is adamant to include how meticulous my grandfather was about his appearance and image. He worked all throughout high school and college, pressing his clothes nightly and polishing his shoes after every wear. Loved by all who knew him, he was always laughing, smiling, and calmly plotting his next challenge. As a child of an Italian immigrant, he had a stigma to move beyond before attaining respect for his exceptional academic and social accomplishments. When he married my grandmother and returned from serving, he catapulted himself into a life that exemplified defying all doubt. He often made entrepreneurial decisions that held so much risk, my grandmother would look at him in shock with every new scheme he proposed. He put everything on the line many, many times. Whenever he was met with doubt or concern, he calmly replied with a signature smile, “it’s going to work.”

Because he had an unwavering faith in himself and in his dreams, he went from a small town kid in a working class Italian neighborhood to a man who flew his private jet to New York on a whim if he felt like a leisurely lunch. It was that confidence in the Universe that always helped him to remain on the crest of the tide, never succumbing to the fear that often puts so many of us underwater and drowning in a sea of despair. It’s that characteristic that I admire most in my grandfather, and I hope that maybe, just maybe, through some miracle of DNA, I acquired his stamina and hopefulness.

So even though my frozen grocery items may not have made it through my emotional contemplation today, I know in my bones that every single one of us can, and will, make it through as long as we retain that knowingness from within that we are the co-creators of our own destiny and happiness. In the words of a very smart man, it’s going to work.

Eight Days a Week...

As I write this, the woman on the floor below is singing Beatles songs to her newborn. It is particularly apropos, because it dovetails with what has been on my mind for the last 48 hours.

"Eight Days a Week": the Fab Four exclaim how a mere seven days per week are not enough to fully express love to this nameless, faceless girl we imagine them singing to. How sweet it is to think that one could be brimming with so much emotion, that the Gregorian calendar and our feeble understanding of a time continuum is an insufficient vehicle to fully enjoy life's little pleasures. I happen to agree. Where things turn dicey, however, is when eight days a week is not enough to sift through the "trash" we are bombarded with daily. By "trash" I do not mean banana peels and rotting roast beef leftovers. I am referencing the electronic and technological build-up of garbage that is demanding we work at a faster pace (on par with robots, really) and in a harried state.

My mantra as of today: IT'S NOT THAT IMPORTANT.

I have known this to be true for some time now. About 87% of what I do is on "deadline," which is really a bloated way of saying "it'd be nice to have it on this day." Would the world stop in its orbit if it were to go by the wayside for an extra 24 hours? Probably not. And yet, we all "hop-to" as though our lives depended upon every stroke of the clock's hands. It reminds me of a Huxley novel. Welcome to the age of automatons. Dystopia is only an escalator ride away, if we choose.

As I rifle through an ungodly amount of emails that accumulated over a day and half of being away (and I specifically went to a place with no reception), I'm sorting them into piles: the "matters" pile, and the "what does this have to do with me right now" pile. As I read through the endless stream of email conversations from one particular client group (you know the kind, where EVERYONE is Cc'd on EVERYTHING, and your inbox piles up with faux snip-its and sound bites that mean absolutely nothing?), I begin to laugh when I see that no one takes the time to even read through the text sent by their colleagues, or to do their research. I'm answering questions that have been already answered, and I am watching as resolutions are made after hours of back-and-forth because someone decided to do the research necessary at last. It's comical. And toxic. And a total waste of time. My grandfather used to say: "haste makes waste." If that's true (oh, and it is), we're living in a landfill.

So, where does this insane merry go round stop? How the hell do we jump off, and manage to still be respected and paid? Here's my idea: set the precedence. Once a few of us start saying "enough," people will start listening. There's a revolution underfoot to dismantle the establishment, and it's gotten some good press. That's a big feat. All I'm asking is for you to do is dismantle the insanity of your inbox. Very do-able, folks.

In the circumstances where I don't have to reply right away, I'm not going to. Everyone can wait a moment, take a sip of tea, grab a breath of fresh air, and chill. And for those who don't get it? Well, for their sakes, I hope they find success in lengthening time to include eight days in the week. And! if they accomplish it, I sure won't be spending it under the auspices of a deadline or an inane email stream.

Reclaim your inner wisdom, your inner "clock," and allow everything that is not of necessity right now to simply drop away. Now, how to turn an inbox into a sandbox...

Breakin' Up is Hard To Do

A mere few evenings ago, I experienced a re-organzing frenzy. As a whirling domestic dervish caught up in religious ecstasy (I was moving just about as fast and in as many circles), I felt it necessary to "ground" myself with a few pod-casts that otherwise, I never would have made the time to listen to. I happened upon a brilliant episode of Doreen Virtue's show on Hay House Radio, and listened to her offer a caller advice. The caller was a woman, and after she received guidance from Doreen regarding her vocational direction, she asked a question regarding a relationship. "I'm waiting for things to change," she said. "I don't know what to do. I love him, but..."

Doreen gently leveled with her, explaining that yes, it was a complex and painful situation. But then, she asked the caller a question: "Would you stay in this if you knew that he would never change?" There was a brief interlude of silence. "Uh, no, I don't think so. No, I wouldn't," she finally decided. The caller then started to quietly cry into the receiver (and over the air). Doreen, being the ever-nurturing counselor that she is, soothed the caller and told her "there's your answer."

I had listened to hours of this radio show that evening, and I had heard a myriad of interesting scenarios unloaded over the air. This one, however, stopped me in my tracks. I put the IKEA shelving piece down and blew the hair away from my face. I started running through the Rolodex of "what do I wish would be different" in my life. I didn't come up with anything too major, but there were a few situations that I was waiting to either extinguish, allow to blossom further, or to let die a long, slow, painful death. Anyway you cut it, though, I was waiting for something to change. I asked myself the question that Doreen posited. I then considered Eckhart Tolle's infinitely wise advice about situations we are uncomfortable experiencing: we either change them, leave them, or accept them. "Anything else is insanity." Insanity being that which we often espouse: wait for them/it to change, hope that they/it will, imagine that things are not what they are, day-dream about what it would be like if there was a metamorphosis, and drive ourselves batty devising ways to change everyone and everything else but our own perception of, and reaction to, the situation.

When faced with a decision that has you waffling over whether you should wait until things improve or leave before more precious time is invested and more disappointment felt, know that the answer lies in the cradle of another, bigger inquiry: "If you knew things wouldn't change, would you still submit yourself to the present scenario/person/circumstance?" There lies all the truth, for therein lies a maxim: the only thing we can control is ourselves. Make your decisions from there, because
much in life is a calculated risk, like love, political negotiations, and IKEA furniture assemblage.

I'm Okay, You're Okay...

I was having a conversation this week with a woman (let's call her "Jane") who had been on a first date recently. Despite the fact that there were some blatant red flags as to why this man was definitely not ready to enter into a relationship, perhaps one of the most disturbing aspects of the evening was his inability to try to understand her line of work. Jane has had a successful business for over a decade practicing an ancient Japanese healing art. Though she is modest, she certainly is not ashamed of what she does. It has brought her much joy to see her clients feel lighter, healthier, and more joyful following a regimen of treatment. It is, one could say, Jane's gift and calling.

So, imagine her disappointment when her date immediately interrupted her and began listing why he couldn't possibly be with anyone who did what she did for a living. Because he had met someone previously who claimed to be a practitioner of the same healing art, and because said woman was "nuts" in his humble estimation, it became impossible for him to consider that anyone else with a similar interest could be anything else but crazy. As quickly as Jane had answered his question about her profession, he was at the ready with a narrow-minded reason as to why he thought it was all hogwash. Clearly this man exists in a world where everyone is a one-dimensional label. On the menu that night was an artfully crafted appetizer of superiority, followed by an entree of steaming hot ego. And for dessert: insecurity flambe. Needless to say, Jane shan't be going out with him again. "I just can't be with someone who doesn't respect what I do," she explained. I agreed with her, and she flew off into the night sky on her broom, sprinkling fairy dust on the ground below, and waving to the aliens in other galaxies. At least that's how he imagined she got home that evening.

Now, had this man been genuinely interested in learning about her, he could have asked her to explain it to him. Even then, he may not have "understood" it fully, but lack of understanding does not have to mean judgement.

To this day, I cannot garner an ounce of pleasure from metal music. It grates my nerves, makes me anxious, and sends me to a dark corner to cry. It makes my senses bleed, however, I am sure there is a feeling of exhilaration for those who do like it. I think no less of metal music fans: I simply prefer they do their thing out of earshot. I feel the same about Reaganomics, but my perspective has not prevented me from dating some fabulous men who swear by it. I like the same level of acceptance to be extended to me. When I tell someone that I'm interested in astrology and they roll their eyes, it's a physical sign that I've been written off. My desires are "foolish," "unsubstantiated," "crazy," or "out there." For a sensitive soul like myself, it's enough to want to fly away on my magical broomstick (the preferred mode of transportation for "crazy" people like myself and Jane), but then I realize that it's the other person's misunderstanding and unwillingness to keep an open mind that is being projected onto me. And I don't accept it as a personal flaw. It's their junk. Not mine.

Now, we could collect examples of this all day long. Judgement is more readily available than a D-list celebrity for a weight control supplement. Watch people's eyes glaze over when you tell them your religion (or lack thereof), your views on politics, your belief in life after death, and your astrological sign. As you get written-off for your opinions, examine how this makes you feel. Also be very sure that you aren't immediately judging others when they express their viewpoints to you. Those who are misunderstood are not immune from slinging judgement themselves. Espouse behavior that you wish to have expressed towards you, and forgive others when they display limited awareness and a narrow mind. Remember: forgiveness doesn't mean that you have to hang around them or welcome then into your life. It simply means that you accept the limitations within yourself and others. At the basis of judgement is fear, and we've all felt it at some point. Forgive. Move on.

Lastly, if you find yourself in an intimate relationship (and this probably goes for friendships, too) that makes you feel "silly" for being yourself and loving the pastimes and activities that you enjoy, then consider why you are there. Are you subconsciously seeking approval? Do you secretly judge yourself too, like the other person judges you? Are you hiding your passions or perspectives for fear of being rejected...and you don't think you deserve to be fully accepted? If this is the case, ask yourself if you're content to limit yourself so that your partner can operate out of his comfort zone or his limited realm of acceptance. If that sounds exhausting or unfair to you, then it's time to summon the flying monkeys and high-tail it outta there. Life is too short to surround yourself with those who scoff, judge, or make light of the things you love. Even your adoration for trickle-down economics.