Somehow, I've become the guy a number of people turn to for advice on relationships and life. In some ways I'm a strange choice—I haven't actually been in very many relationships, after all—but nevertheless I'm a good choice; I pay careful attention to how people live and relate to one another, I empathize with people's pain and joy, I think carefully about what I see and feel, and I can explain things pretty well.
One piece of advice I give again and again is, "Take care of yourself!"
So many of the people I talk to tend to put other people (or other things)—whether a family member, a significant other, an organization, or an ideal—so far ahead of themselves that they neglect their own needs. I caution and counsel these individuals to put themselves in the equation; maybe not first, but high enough on the priority list that they don't neglect their own needs.
I don't insist they put themselves first because I understand what it means to love someone or something. I know that love sometimes demands we put another's needs ahead of our own. And sometimes—like when a loved one's life is in danger or when choosing between a child's legitimate needs and a parent's reasonable wants—we can and should be prepared to make sacrifices.
What we shouldn't do (but often do) is put another person's (or organization's) every need ahead of our any need. It's like a household budget: we should prioritize so that all needful things are taken care of before we spend emotional capital on things that aren't vital.
The challenge is putting our own needs in the "needful things" category. When we love someone (or something), we tend to see our own needs as luxuries... and they aren't. Our emotional investment in who (or what) we love is drawn from a "well-being account", and if we draw it down without making deposits, sooner or later the account runs dry.
It's actually really good advice, isn't it?
The irony is that it's advice I've generally failed to apply to myself. For whatever reason (probably relating at least a little to poor self-esteem), I've felt that it was only right that I put myself dead last: after family, after loved ones, after friends, after students, after institutions, after programs, after everything.
Eff that.
It just occurred to me that there's a bit of a vicious circle—a positive feedback loop—in this. By putting myself last, I reinforced the feeling that I belonged last, which made it easier to put myself last, which reinforced my sense that that's where I belonged, which reinforced the habit of putting myself last... ad infinitum.
Eff that.
I am done putting myself after everyone and everything else. In fact, I am ready to assert that sometimes, I should put myself first; ahead of everyone and everything else. Not always, but often.
Eff always being a good sport. Eff being only or mostly a giver. Eff doing what others want when it isn't what I want. Eff all that.
If I'm ever going to persuade myself that I am as worthy as I (intellectually) believe, I need to treat myself well. I need to stop doing things just to please others and start doing things to please myself. If I'm ever going to believe in my heart that I deserve the good stuff, I need to begin by giving myself the good stuff I've got.
I need to make some deposits in the well-being account, and stop writing so many checks drawn from it.
Maybe that's selfish. And maybe that's okay.
Precarious human existence.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
A Chorus of Crickets
When I ask my students a question and no one has a response, after a while I say, "Cricket... cricket... cricket..." When all else is silence, what is left is the sound of chirping crickets (if you live where crickets do, too).
The sound of crickets, then, is a metaphor for silence; either literal silence or the absence of meaningful response.
Like many U.S. citizens/residents, I've been conditioned to be uncomfortable with silence. In recent years I've come to appreciate silence and even be comfortable with silences that others find awkward, but some silences (as in "the absence of meaningful response") still challenge me.
It isn't simply that I find them awkward. It isn't awkwardness at all. It's the "failure to communicate" that pushes me off balance.
Long ago I learned a mantra from one of my dearest friends: "Open, honest, maintained communication." I believe in communication the way coaches believe in discipline, or music teachers believe in practice; persistent, consistent, open, honest, and maintained communication grows understanding, and understanding grows all kinds of relationships: business/professional, collegial, familial, platonic, and romantic.
Therefore for most of my life, I've gotten worried when I could "hear the crickets." I'm a pretty good communicator, so when communication wasn't happening, I'd be out of my comfort zone and I got nervous. Coupled with a poor self-esteem that tended to paint silences in the worst possible terms, that anxiety created a positive feedback loop that made me feel worse.
Please note that those statements are written in past tense. "I got nervous," it "created a positive feedback loop," it "made me feel worse." That's how it has been in the past.
I still have poor self-esteem (though it's improving), but I am finding that silences are not creating the discomfort, worry, and bad feelings they would have in the past.
Part of it is that I've stopped trying to interpret it; sometimes a silence is just a silence.
Part of it is that I'm no longer so deeply invested in having things go "my way."
And part of it is that I have come to feel in my bones what I have always known in my head: communication is not one person saying something to another; communication is two (or more) people talking to and listening to one another, each working to make sure that what the other(s) heard is what s/he meant. If only one of the people is talking (or listening, or checking for understanding), then very little can be communicated.
Sure, silence can mean something. It probably does. But any guess as to what that meaning is will never be more than a guess. Knowing will have to wait until the silence is broken.
In the meantime, I'll enjoy the chirping of the crickets.
The sound of crickets, then, is a metaphor for silence; either literal silence or the absence of meaningful response.
Like many U.S. citizens/residents, I've been conditioned to be uncomfortable with silence. In recent years I've come to appreciate silence and even be comfortable with silences that others find awkward, but some silences (as in "the absence of meaningful response") still challenge me.
It isn't simply that I find them awkward. It isn't awkwardness at all. It's the "failure to communicate" that pushes me off balance.
Long ago I learned a mantra from one of my dearest friends: "Open, honest, maintained communication." I believe in communication the way coaches believe in discipline, or music teachers believe in practice; persistent, consistent, open, honest, and maintained communication grows understanding, and understanding grows all kinds of relationships: business/professional, collegial, familial, platonic, and romantic.
Therefore for most of my life, I've gotten worried when I could "hear the crickets." I'm a pretty good communicator, so when communication wasn't happening, I'd be out of my comfort zone and I got nervous. Coupled with a poor self-esteem that tended to paint silences in the worst possible terms, that anxiety created a positive feedback loop that made me feel worse.
Please note that those statements are written in past tense. "I got nervous," it "created a positive feedback loop," it "made me feel worse." That's how it has been in the past.
I still have poor self-esteem (though it's improving), but I am finding that silences are not creating the discomfort, worry, and bad feelings they would have in the past.
Part of it is that I've stopped trying to interpret it; sometimes a silence is just a silence.
Part of it is that I'm no longer so deeply invested in having things go "my way."
And part of it is that I have come to feel in my bones what I have always known in my head: communication is not one person saying something to another; communication is two (or more) people talking to and listening to one another, each working to make sure that what the other(s) heard is what s/he meant. If only one of the people is talking (or listening, or checking for understanding), then very little can be communicated.
Sure, silence can mean something. It probably does. But any guess as to what that meaning is will never be more than a guess. Knowing will have to wait until the silence is broken.
In the meantime, I'll enjoy the chirping of the crickets.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Sauce for the Goose
I remember the summer I worked as an intern with a church minister whose calling was to the LGBT community in New York City. That experience challenged me—when the summer began, I still had some vestiges of homophobia in me (well suppressed, but present), but by summer's end it had been pretty thoroughly eradicated—and it taught me some important lessons, one of which I only got half-right at the time. I'm just getting the second half today, more than 15 years later.
We spent a lot of time at a gay and lesbian center in Greenwich Village. One vivid memory, from my first day there, is standing at a urinal in the restroom, and being greeted by a woman headed for the stalls. That's when I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I wasn't in Kansas any more.
That summer, I got over a lot of hangups. It only took a week or so before events like the one above became commonplace and normal. I came to be blasé about things that would previously have triggered body modesty and embarrassment. As a result of that experience, I have largely lost my self-consciousness about my body (not completely; I still worry about whether or not a woman will like it).
Even better, constant exposure to the GLBT community eradicated any remaining vestiges of homophobia dwelling deep in my psyche. I already knew (at an intellectual level) that homophobia was unjustified and inappropriate; what remained before this experience was a little of the emotional reaction that I'd been conditioned to when growing up. That embarrassing remnant was blown away that summer.
The first time a man hit on me, I was uncomfortable. I didn't react badly—that would have been embarrassing and just plain mean—but I have to confess that it made me uneasy. I told the man that I was straight, which led to a conversation about why a straight man was hanging out at the LBGT center, and it was all good. I overcame my discomfort and everything was fine.
By the tenth or twelfth pass, I was over it. One man explained to me that a gay man's "gaydar" was just about as accurate as anyone else's—that is, not at all accurate—and that helped, too. I came to see the passes as a compliment; I didn't have to be interested in men to be flattered by a man's attention.
So there's the first half of the lesson: I learned to be flatted by a pass even if—due to sexual orientation, marital/relational status, chemistry, or whatever—I can't take what's being offered. I haven't always remembered this lesson, but it's deeply engrained nonetheless; it pops into my consciousness frequently.
The second half of the lesson—and I can't believe it's taken me this long to "get it"—is that the same is probably true of the women I might be attracted to.
I know, "Doh!"
I've always been hesitant to make a pass at a woman. Partly that's been because I fear rejection (I know, a whole 'nother kind of stupidity), but partly it's because I didn't want to piss off a woman who might not be interested.
But why wouldn't (most) women feel the same way about a (gentlemanly) pass as I learned to feel about passes by gay men? Even if she isn't interested in me—because she's a lesbian, or married, or in a relationship, or isn't attracted to me—why wouldn't she at least see it as a compliment?
Am I wrong about this?
We spent a lot of time at a gay and lesbian center in Greenwich Village. One vivid memory, from my first day there, is standing at a urinal in the restroom, and being greeted by a woman headed for the stalls. That's when I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I wasn't in Kansas any more.
That summer, I got over a lot of hangups. It only took a week or so before events like the one above became commonplace and normal. I came to be blasé about things that would previously have triggered body modesty and embarrassment. As a result of that experience, I have largely lost my self-consciousness about my body (not completely; I still worry about whether or not a woman will like it).
Even better, constant exposure to the GLBT community eradicated any remaining vestiges of homophobia dwelling deep in my psyche. I already knew (at an intellectual level) that homophobia was unjustified and inappropriate; what remained before this experience was a little of the emotional reaction that I'd been conditioned to when growing up. That embarrassing remnant was blown away that summer.
The first time a man hit on me, I was uncomfortable. I didn't react badly—that would have been embarrassing and just plain mean—but I have to confess that it made me uneasy. I told the man that I was straight, which led to a conversation about why a straight man was hanging out at the LBGT center, and it was all good. I overcame my discomfort and everything was fine.
By the tenth or twelfth pass, I was over it. One man explained to me that a gay man's "gaydar" was just about as accurate as anyone else's—that is, not at all accurate—and that helped, too. I came to see the passes as a compliment; I didn't have to be interested in men to be flattered by a man's attention.
So there's the first half of the lesson: I learned to be flatted by a pass even if—due to sexual orientation, marital/relational status, chemistry, or whatever—I can't take what's being offered. I haven't always remembered this lesson, but it's deeply engrained nonetheless; it pops into my consciousness frequently.
The second half of the lesson—and I can't believe it's taken me this long to "get it"—is that the same is probably true of the women I might be attracted to.
I know, "Doh!"
I've always been hesitant to make a pass at a woman. Partly that's been because I fear rejection (I know, a whole 'nother kind of stupidity), but partly it's because I didn't want to piss off a woman who might not be interested.
But why wouldn't (most) women feel the same way about a (gentlemanly) pass as I learned to feel about passes by gay men? Even if she isn't interested in me—because she's a lesbian, or married, or in a relationship, or isn't attracted to me—why wouldn't she at least see it as a compliment?
Am I wrong about this?
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Just a Few Sit-Ups...
Years ago I caught Richard Jeni on TV, joking about the difference between the way men and women in our culture view their bodies.
Jeni contrasted women's (culturally conditioned) insecurity about their appearance, epitomized in the clichéd "Do these pants make my ass look fat?" with men's sometimes excessive confidence in theirs; according to Jeni, middle-aged Joe-Six-Pack (or kegger) thinks he's "just a few sit-ups from major stud-dom."
Jeni was poking fun at both sexes, I think; at women for being insecure about their appearance and at men for being so ridiculously secure about theirs.
So why am I writing about this?
We all know that although these clichés may be true enough to be humorous, they are also generalizations that do not apply to every man or woman in existence. We all know (well I know, and I hope you know) women who are secure in their appearance. We all know men who aren't cocky about the way they look. And those women and men strike me as healthier and happier on average than those at the extremes. The extremes—"do these make my ass look fat?" and "just a few sit-ups from major stud-dom"—aren't good for us, but they are where so many dwell.
For most of my life I've been an extremist, but not on the side of the spectrum men typically occupy. I've been irrationally insecure about my appearance/attractiveness/sexiness/whatever for almost my whole life. This insecurity has (metaphorically) crippled me, the same way it cripples so many others, and it's on the list of things I'm working to correct.
A few weeks ago I had my nose rubbed in just how irrational my insecurity is. An attractive, assertive woman made it amply clear that she found me very attractive. My insecurity frustrated her (understandable!) and she expressed that, as well. It is that experience (and that woman) that has catalyzed my most recent attempt to "get it right," to build up my confidence and "swagger."
The effort includes perseverance and affirmation, and this morning I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to see with honest eyes, rather than insecure ones. And you know what I saw?
I look pretty damn good, actually (no qualification necessary: not "for my age," not for anything). In fact:
Jeni contrasted women's (culturally conditioned) insecurity about their appearance, epitomized in the clichéd "Do these pants make my ass look fat?" with men's sometimes excessive confidence in theirs; according to Jeni, middle-aged Joe-Six-Pack (or kegger) thinks he's "just a few sit-ups from major stud-dom."
Jeni was poking fun at both sexes, I think; at women for being insecure about their appearance and at men for being so ridiculously secure about theirs.
So why am I writing about this?
We all know that although these clichés may be true enough to be humorous, they are also generalizations that do not apply to every man or woman in existence. We all know (well I know, and I hope you know) women who are secure in their appearance. We all know men who aren't cocky about the way they look. And those women and men strike me as healthier and happier on average than those at the extremes. The extremes—"do these make my ass look fat?" and "just a few sit-ups from major stud-dom"—aren't good for us, but they are where so many dwell.
For most of my life I've been an extremist, but not on the side of the spectrum men typically occupy. I've been irrationally insecure about my appearance/attractiveness/sexiness/whatever for almost my whole life. This insecurity has (metaphorically) crippled me, the same way it cripples so many others, and it's on the list of things I'm working to correct.
A few weeks ago I had my nose rubbed in just how irrational my insecurity is. An attractive, assertive woman made it amply clear that she found me very attractive. My insecurity frustrated her (understandable!) and she expressed that, as well. It is that experience (and that woman) that has catalyzed my most recent attempt to "get it right," to build up my confidence and "swagger."
The effort includes perseverance and affirmation, and this morning I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to see with honest eyes, rather than insecure ones. And you know what I saw?
I look pretty damn good, actually (no qualification necessary: not "for my age," not for anything). In fact:
I'm just a few sit-ups from major stud-dom.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Perseverance
In my previous 'blog, a commenter correctly pointed out that I have tried before to make changes, and I've failed. He wasn't suggesting that I not try; rather, he was noting (correctly) that I've been here before.
It wasn't news to me. I know I've tried before to make these kinds of changes in who and how I am, and I know too that I have not (yet!) been successful. I know that it all sounds good, and I don't blame those who are going to save their enthusiasm until they see I've succeeded. I understand all that.
I understand, too, that what really matters here is that I keep trying.
It wasn't news to me. I know I've tried before to make these kinds of changes in who and how I am, and I know too that I have not (yet!) been successful. I know that it all sounds good, and I don't blame those who are going to save their enthusiasm until they see I've succeeded. I understand all that.
I understand, too, that what really matters here is that I keep trying.
Thomas Edison had something to say about the importance of perseverance. He said, "I am not discouraged, because every wrong attempt discarded is another step forward." He said, "I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work." He said, "Nearly every man who develops an idea works at it up to the point where it looks impossible, and then gets discouraged. That's not the place to become discouraged." He said, "Many of life's failures are men who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up."
I don't intend to give up.
I am not certain that I will succeed in my attempts this time. I am optimistic—optimism is an integral part of the success I am seeking—but I am not certain. What I do know for certain is that I will not succeed if I do not try.
My real problem is the ridiculous amount of time I allow to pass between attempts. If I fail, I fail; do I really need two years to recover?
I say, "Hell, no!"
The other half of my commitment to address my shortcomings is a commitment to try again immediately (or nearly immediately) if I fail. It's time to 'man up."
My real problem is the ridiculous amount of time I allow to pass between attempts. If I fail, I fail; do I really need two years to recover?
I say, "Hell, no!"
The other half of my commitment to address my shortcomings is a commitment to try again immediately (or nearly immediately) if I fail. It's time to 'man up."
Affirmation
So this self-esteem thing; as I continue to grapple with it, I've moved steadily from depressed through frustrated, and now I'm just flat pissed off. I refuse to be held hostage by my gut. I'm not putting up with this any more.
I've always felt that my 'gut' had the final say over me; that my mind (my best feature) couldn't really win the day. Because I believed that, I've never really put it to the test, instead just letting my 'gut' carry the day.
Well, screw that. Maybe it's true, maybe it's false, but I'm not going to let it go untested any longer.
I've heard that self-affirmation—repetition of a single positive thought over the course of time—can 'reprogram' our subconscious assumptions about ourselves. Hippy-dippy shit aside, this makes a certain amount of sense. One of the best things about being human is that we can make choices; we are not at the mercy of our genes. Just as we can be persuaded by the arguments of others to change aspects of who we are, so can we convince ourselves. It's another aspect of "fake it 'til you make it."
For the rest of summer, my mind is going to battle my 'gut' with consistent affirmations intended to build my social confidence. I will also take social risks that my 'gut' finds terrifying; my mind believes, and my gut is going to have to suck it up.
Don't wish me luck; I'm not going to need it.
I've always felt that my 'gut' had the final say over me; that my mind (my best feature) couldn't really win the day. Because I believed that, I've never really put it to the test, instead just letting my 'gut' carry the day.
Well, screw that. Maybe it's true, maybe it's false, but I'm not going to let it go untested any longer.
I've heard that self-affirmation—repetition of a single positive thought over the course of time—can 'reprogram' our subconscious assumptions about ourselves. Hippy-dippy shit aside, this makes a certain amount of sense. One of the best things about being human is that we can make choices; we are not at the mercy of our genes. Just as we can be persuaded by the arguments of others to change aspects of who we are, so can we convince ourselves. It's another aspect of "fake it 'til you make it."
For the rest of summer, my mind is going to battle my 'gut' with consistent affirmations intended to build my social confidence. I will also take social risks that my 'gut' finds terrifying; my mind believes, and my gut is going to have to suck it up.
Don't wish me luck; I'm not going to need it.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Switzerland (resurrected from my MySpace 'blog - dated November 25, 2007)
Sometimes bad can foster good. As I reflect in incredulous gratitude on a big change in me over the last two months, I find myself pleased that some good came of being the way I was before.
The lack of confidence and assurance that's been a fundamental part of who I am for most of my life has very little in the way of an "upside." It's kept me isolated, earned me a reputation among some as aloof or arrogant, kept me from asserting myself in any number of circumstances—generally, it's been a millstone or albatross around my neck. And yet…
And yet it has helped shape me as a gentle man. It has helped me accept even painful decisions by others without animosity or recrimination. It has made me one who tries to see the other side, even if the "other side" causes me pain. It has made me a man to whom every relationship is precious, and it has made me a man who (for the most part) refuses to blame others just for having the gall to disagree with me.
I believe that good persons of conscience can and do disagree with one another. I believe that good persons of conscience sometimes even dislike one another. I don't, however, feel any compulsion to demonize those who disagree with me; to vilify them or cast aspersions on their intelligence, character, or morals. I don't have to be right, and even if I am right, I don't have to rub anyone's nose in it. If they are not deceptive or malicious, I can respect the dignity and humanity of even those with whom I strongly disagree.
Yet this belief, which I now hold strongly, started as a belief that if something went wrong, it was my fault; if I disagreed with someone, I was in the wrong. If, in the course of a friendship or relationship, I got hurt by another's choices, I always believed it was my fault—that I had myself to blame. And if I was the awful person who caused all this mess, I didn't want my awfulness to cause the other person to suffer guilt over it, so I made excuses for them.
Pretty neurotic, huh? Only in order to make excuses for them, I had to understand why they did what they did, and I learned something—once I did understand, I couldn't imagine blaming them for what they did.
Their reasons weren't always great reasons by my lights, but they were always understandable reasons. And if I could understand their reasons, even if I didn't agree, I couldn't get angry about it.
Even though I no longer blame myself, I don't automatically blame others, when they say or do things that bother or hurt me. Although I suddenly and surprisingly find myself self-confident and assured, I still have the habit (and I think it's a good one) of understanding, or trying to understand, why others make the choices they do. I still have the habit of… empathy.
It would be emotionally satisfying, when someone made a decision that hurt, to decide that he or she was an idiot, a demon, a monster, a you-name-it… but it wouldn't be true. And if it isn't true, is it something I want to buy into?
No, I don't think I do.
And that, Wayne , is why I'm Switzerland
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Like a Party Balloon
I've been thinking lately about ego. I have sufficient ego when it comes to many of my qualities—my intellect, my education, my acting, my speaking, my writing—but the area where it'd be most useful is the one area where I have an ego deficit. I want to grow my ego in that area—some (including me) might even say I need to; ego is part of self-confidence—but I've found it to be difficult.
An ego is an awful lot like a party balloon; the kind you blow up. It's like this:
An ego is an awful lot like a party balloon; the kind you blow up. It's like this:
- It's pretty difficult getting a balloon started. Until it's reached a certain size, it takes a lot of energy to inflate.
- Once a balloon is up to a certain size, it gets easier to blow up bigger.
- After it's reached that size, it's pretty tough for a while.
- If you keep blowing a balloon up, it reaches a point where the skin is thin and delicate, and it's easily burst.
- If you continue to inflate it beyond that point, eventually the balloon will pop.
- Is difficult to get started. It takes a lot of work to inflate it to a reasonable size.
- Gets easier to blow up bigger once it reaches a certain size.
- Is tough when it's not overinflated.
- Becomes delicate and is easily burst if it's overinflated.
- Can be blown up to the point where it self-destructs.
So What's Up With This 'Blog's Name, Anyway?
If you've read much of this 'blog, you've already figured out that it isn't particularly humorous. Mostly, it's snapshots of my internal life or bits of my personal philosophy or occasionally rants and raves. Serious topics, in other words, so "One Foot On a Banana Peel" may strike you as a bit frivolous.
But "One Foot On a Banana Peel" is a pretty good metaphor for those topics. I write about life (as I know it), and life (as I know it) is uncertain and precarious.
I think that at least occasionally, all of us feel that unsteadiness. Maybe it's when we are waiting for a job interview, or we're proposing marriage to the love of our life. Maybe it's before we get on an airplane, or when we move to a new city. Maybe it's when we see a newborn baby, or when we say our final farewell to a beloved parent. In those moments we have our noses rubbed in the unknown country that is the future, and it can tip us off balance.
The thing is, the future is always unknowable, and we always stand with "one foot on a banana peel." I don't say this to scare anyone; I say it because it's true, and living with the truth is better—more realistic, more fulfilling, more rewarding, and ultimately more joyful—than living with a convenient and comfortable fiction.
Even as I make plans for the future—and I do, make no mistake about that—I try to be mindful of where I'm standing: one foot on a banana peel. I try not to focus too much on that nebulous future at the expense of the tangible present, because I am well aware that the present is all I've really got.
Take, for example, my current (somewhat embryonic) five year plan to move to Kaua'i. I'm planning for a future I cannot depend on—any number of circumstances could derail that plan, and many of those circumstances would be just fine with me. So the things I'm planning are things that don't trap me on that train and no other. They're things that enrich me now, as well as empower me to move if, when the time comes, that's still what I want to do.
The trick to standing with one foot on a banana peel is knowing that you are. If you know you're standing on a slippery service, you stand differently: weight forward, alert and aware, ready for shifting footing. And if you're ready, you can adapt to it when it happens.
But "One Foot On a Banana Peel" is a pretty good metaphor for those topics. I write about life (as I know it), and life (as I know it) is uncertain and precarious.
I think that at least occasionally, all of us feel that unsteadiness. Maybe it's when we are waiting for a job interview, or we're proposing marriage to the love of our life. Maybe it's before we get on an airplane, or when we move to a new city. Maybe it's when we see a newborn baby, or when we say our final farewell to a beloved parent. In those moments we have our noses rubbed in the unknown country that is the future, and it can tip us off balance.
The thing is, the future is always unknowable, and we always stand with "one foot on a banana peel." I don't say this to scare anyone; I say it because it's true, and living with the truth is better—more realistic, more fulfilling, more rewarding, and ultimately more joyful—than living with a convenient and comfortable fiction.
Even as I make plans for the future—and I do, make no mistake about that—I try to be mindful of where I'm standing: one foot on a banana peel. I try not to focus too much on that nebulous future at the expense of the tangible present, because I am well aware that the present is all I've really got.
Take, for example, my current (somewhat embryonic) five year plan to move to Kaua'i. I'm planning for a future I cannot depend on—any number of circumstances could derail that plan, and many of those circumstances would be just fine with me. So the things I'm planning are things that don't trap me on that train and no other. They're things that enrich me now, as well as empower me to move if, when the time comes, that's still what I want to do.
The trick to standing with one foot on a banana peel is knowing that you are. If you know you're standing on a slippery service, you stand differently: weight forward, alert and aware, ready for shifting footing. And if you're ready, you can adapt to it when it happens.
Monday, June 20, 2011
A Father's Honor
I am glad there's a day to celebrate fathers. There should be. Fathers (and mothers) deserve celebration, at least if they've been parents (and so many have): made sacrifices and committed their time, attention, and treasure to their kids' well-being. I believe that days like Father's Day really, really matter.
That being said, the day itself has been bittersweet for almost as long as I can remember. A number of things contribute to that mixture, ranging from the... "difficult" relationship between Dad and me from adolescence until just before he died in February of 2009 to my own unrealized dream of being a dad. But despite the decidedly-mixed emotions I experience on Father's Day, I would never want anyone to think I disapproved of the day or its meaning.
Dad
Since Dad died, the day has had an added taste of bitter (and of sweet): bitter because he isn't here any more and sweet because he still lives in my memory.
No one is perfect, but when I was young my dad seemed perfect to me. I remember him playing with me in the snow when I was five years old, and making a marvelous fool of himself in a school talent show the same year. I remember fishing trips; getting up at some ridiculously early hour and riding down to Ventura with a boat following the truck all the way. I remember feeling safe and empowered and loved.
I put my poor dad through more than a fair share of anxiety, too. There was the time I fell against the sheet metal dashboard of his surplus mail truck: the sharp edge of the dash gashed open my forehead. Like any scalp wound, this one bled profusely, and the shock and pain of it caused my eyes to glaze over. When Dad looked over to see how I was, he thought I was dead. And there was the time when I knocked myself out goofing off on a boat launch dock at Ventura Harbor; I'm sure Dad had that "What if?" moment: "What if he'd rolled off the dock into the water? What if he'd been caught between the boat and the dock? What if..."
Then, just before I reached adolescence, Dad had a heart attack. After he recovered, he seemed different to me; more distant, sterner, less playful. In retrospect, and based on what Mom and other of his age peers have said, I think he pushed his family away after the heart attack because he thought his death was imminent. He was trying to prepare us to deal with his loss. From my perspective, he seemed demanding and unforgiving, expecting me to just get it right. I think he wanted me, as the oldest, to be ready to be "the man of the house" when he died.
I was too young to understand. All I really knew was that Dad wasn't the same any more; didn't play like he used to, was more serious and sober, was different. And I mourned then: it felt like I'd lost my dad, even though I saw him every day.
Dad didn't know that; I've always been pretty reserved, and once he changed I was even more reserved around him. And it may not have occurred to him that there was a problem that needed addressing; he sincerely believed he was not long for this earth, and the problem would resolve itself. We butted heads, a lot, because I resented the change and because I didn't want to be what he seemed to want me to be and because—I have to face it—we were a lot alike: intelligent, stubborn, independent, determined.
Of course the joke was on him... he lived more than 40 years after that heart attack. And gradually, as he came to terms with the idea that maybe he wasn't going to die just yet, the funny, sarcastic, playful, delightful man he really was resurfaced. The birth of his granddaughter—my niece Madison—catalyzed... I sometimes think of it as a kind of resurrection.
And it was good to have him back.
Dad's motives were pure. He was doing the best he knew how to take care of the family he loved so much. And despite our conflicts and disagreements, I never stopped loving him, and I never doubted he loved me. He didn't always show it (and neither did I), but I think we both knew.
Still, we never actually reconciled until he got sick. I was living in his house—I'd sold my mobile home, and the deal for my new house hadn't closed yet—and for a while at least, I had time to spend with him. We didn't talk much, but we spent time together. Companionable time. Time just to be father and son. And I had the honor and privilege of helping care for him as cancer ravaged him. I had the privilege of being with him when he died. I got to say goodbye.
I can't tell you how important it was that I got to say goodbye. The time I had with Dad in the weeks before his death and the opportunity I had to say goodbye before he died, let me feel like he and I finally resolved our differences. It was among the finest gifts he ever gave me, with my life and my home growing up and my extended family and many wonderful memories.
Now, I miss him. Not more than anyone else does, but I miss him. That's one of the spices that flavor my emotions on Father's Day; I miss my dad.
I can't remember the first time I dreamed of being a dad. I know I was pretty young—not older than 19 or 20, and maybe even younger—and from that first imagining, it has been a constant in my life. I love kids (truth of the matter is, I love just about everyone, but I especially love kids). Whether smelly infants or silly 'tweens or surly teenagers or whatever, I love 'em.
That isn't to say they can't annoy and aggravate me—they absolutely can—but even in those moments I'm committed to them and interested in their well-being. I find them irresistible and amazing and delightful. Even when I was myself a surly teenager, I still enjoyed being around kids younger than me; I don't remember ever being "too cool" for kids.
Because fatherhood was a dream for me (and is; this has never changed), I actually and deliberately worked to make myself better "Dad" material. I paid attention to what the dads I knew did. I paid attention to what kids responded to. I did what "Dadding" I could; when my cousins or their kids were around, I played at being dad to them as best I was able. And I looked forward to that day, surely imminent, when I'd get to be a dad in fact; when I and my (hypothetical) partner would begin raising a family.
And it kept not happening. There were lots of reasons why, most beginning and ending with the personal qualities that made it difficult for me to get into a relationship that might lead in that direction.
I am an introvert (see 10 Myths About Introverts for some insights). That can be an obstacle. I also suffer from craptastic self-esteem and precious little self-confidence (though I'm making progress dealing with those: intellectually, I get it, but emotionally, not yet). I'm shy, too. It takes a pretty special woman to get past all these barriers and overcome my defenses to the point where she can see that I'm worth it. And all that overcoming takes time... understandably, women generally find someone who doesn't make it so difficult.
So here I am, *mumble* years old, and still no partner and no kids. I haven't given up hope—I am optimistic despite all the reasons I have not to be—but here I am. I'm surrounded by great dads with great kids and I want to count myself among their number... but I'm not a member of the club.
I do not begrudge fathers their honors on Father's Day (or any other day). Far from it. I envy fathers on Father's Day (and pretty much every other day). I honor the spirit of Father's Day, and in my heart I celebrate it.
But I can't not taste the bitter mixed in with the sweet.
And it was good to have him back.
Dad's motives were pure. He was doing the best he knew how to take care of the family he loved so much. And despite our conflicts and disagreements, I never stopped loving him, and I never doubted he loved me. He didn't always show it (and neither did I), but I think we both knew.
Still, we never actually reconciled until he got sick. I was living in his house—I'd sold my mobile home, and the deal for my new house hadn't closed yet—and for a while at least, I had time to spend with him. We didn't talk much, but we spent time together. Companionable time. Time just to be father and son. And I had the honor and privilege of helping care for him as cancer ravaged him. I had the privilege of being with him when he died. I got to say goodbye.
I can't tell you how important it was that I got to say goodbye. The time I had with Dad in the weeks before his death and the opportunity I had to say goodbye before he died, let me feel like he and I finally resolved our differences. It was among the finest gifts he ever gave me, with my life and my home growing up and my extended family and many wonderful memories.
Now, I miss him. Not more than anyone else does, but I miss him. That's one of the spices that flavor my emotions on Father's Day; I miss my dad.
Me
The other main spice is my unrealized dream of being a dad.I can't remember the first time I dreamed of being a dad. I know I was pretty young—not older than 19 or 20, and maybe even younger—and from that first imagining, it has been a constant in my life. I love kids (truth of the matter is, I love just about everyone, but I especially love kids). Whether smelly infants or silly 'tweens or surly teenagers or whatever, I love 'em.
That isn't to say they can't annoy and aggravate me—they absolutely can—but even in those moments I'm committed to them and interested in their well-being. I find them irresistible and amazing and delightful. Even when I was myself a surly teenager, I still enjoyed being around kids younger than me; I don't remember ever being "too cool" for kids.
Because fatherhood was a dream for me (and is; this has never changed), I actually and deliberately worked to make myself better "Dad" material. I paid attention to what the dads I knew did. I paid attention to what kids responded to. I did what "Dadding" I could; when my cousins or their kids were around, I played at being dad to them as best I was able. And I looked forward to that day, surely imminent, when I'd get to be a dad in fact; when I and my (hypothetical) partner would begin raising a family.
And it kept not happening. There were lots of reasons why, most beginning and ending with the personal qualities that made it difficult for me to get into a relationship that might lead in that direction.
I am an introvert (see 10 Myths About Introverts for some insights). That can be an obstacle. I also suffer from craptastic self-esteem and precious little self-confidence (though I'm making progress dealing with those: intellectually, I get it, but emotionally, not yet). I'm shy, too. It takes a pretty special woman to get past all these barriers and overcome my defenses to the point where she can see that I'm worth it. And all that overcoming takes time... understandably, women generally find someone who doesn't make it so difficult.
So here I am, *mumble* years old, and still no partner and no kids. I haven't given up hope—I am optimistic despite all the reasons I have not to be—but here I am. I'm surrounded by great dads with great kids and I want to count myself among their number... but I'm not a member of the club.
I do not begrudge fathers their honors on Father's Day (or any other day). Far from it. I envy fathers on Father's Day (and pretty much every other day). I honor the spirit of Father's Day, and in my heart I celebrate it.
But I can't not taste the bitter mixed in with the sweet.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Fake It 'til You Make It
A friend of mine said that in his experience, there were three things that women looked for in a man: 1) gainful employment, 2) self-confidence, and 3) a good sense of humor. In his view, I'm all set with 1 and 3 (although what constitutes a "good" sense of humor is a subjective matter), and if I can address the self-confidence issue, a welcome change may follow.
That makes sense to me; I'm sure the "list" varies a little from person to person, but self-confidence is likely to make everyone's list. I like self-confidence in a woman, after all; it makes perfect sense that a woman would like it in a man.
The thing that makes self-confidence an issue for me is... Well, it doesn't really matter, does it? I know in my head that I should be confident, so I am justified in acting confident even if I don't "feel it." "Fake it 'til you make it," as they say (obvious, I know! But still a very recent epiphany for me).
Assuming I have the will to 'fake it 'til I make it,' the question becomes how? Approaching it as an actor and playwright, I think I'm beginning to get an idea (feel free to add to the list in comment):
That makes sense to me; I'm sure the "list" varies a little from person to person, but self-confidence is likely to make everyone's list. I like self-confidence in a woman, after all; it makes perfect sense that a woman would like it in a man.
The thing that makes self-confidence an issue for me is... Well, it doesn't really matter, does it? I know in my head that I should be confident, so I am justified in acting confident even if I don't "feel it." "Fake it 'til you make it," as they say (obvious, I know! But still a very recent epiphany for me).
Assuming I have the will to 'fake it 'til I make it,' the question becomes how? Approaching it as an actor and playwright, I think I'm beginning to get an idea (feel free to add to the list in comment):
- Pay attention to what you are doing and who you are with.
- Think before you speak; don't talk nonsense (have less to apologize for).
- Don't talk just to fill silence.
- Make and hold eye contact (but don't let it become a competition).
- Stand tall and speak your mind firmly but softly, without apology.
- Don't fidget.
- Be courteous and play fair; neither dominate the conversation nor opt out of it.
- Avoid being drawn into arguments.
- Never apologize for being who or how you are; apologize less in general.
- The best defense is a good offense; if someone challenges you on something you believe, stand firm and say "Bite me!"
Half the Battle...
Not to brag, but I have a lot going for me. I have a good job, a decent sense of humor, I'm intelligent and compassionate and talented and decent-looking and healthy and good. These things I know. I'm still a work in progress—I'm not done becoming, yet—but I know these good things about myself.
In the past I didn't know this; I didn't even think it. And as the old G.I. Joe public service announcements used to say, "Knowing is half the battle."
Half the battle.
I have to thank my friends and family for patiently striving with me on this. It was the work of years to persuade me of the truth that was so obvious to them, but so elusive to me. The credit for winning that skirmish goes to them; it wasn't easy to convince me. I'm stubborn.
But it's still only half the battle. I can't claim a win for my side until the other half is won, and I think that's up to me. I know in my head that I am all these wonderful things, but I don't feel it in my gut, and when it comes to self-confidence, feelings count.
I know I am intelligent and compassionate and talented and decent-looking and healthy and good. I just don't feel it. Instead I feel stupid and selfish and ugly. That's the other half of the battle: the half I'm fighting now, the half I don't have a strategy to win.
I know it's frustrating that I can't own, right down to my bones, the wonderful qualities I have. It frustrates me. I want to be as confident as I have a right to be. And I believe that self-confidence is justified.
My friends and family have given me great advice—"just be yourself," or "stop worrying about what others think," or even "man up!"—and I'm trying. I have not given up. I will win this battle eventually. So far success has eluded me, but as Thomas Edison said, "I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work." Someday I will be as confident as I ought to be.
In the meantime, please be patient with me. I get it, really; if you find me frustrating sometimes, imagine what it's like for me to live in this skin, knowing one thing and feeling another. I'm worth the frustration, as I think you know; you've stuck with me this long.
The battle is half won. One day, maybe soon, it'll be all won. That will be a day worth celebrating—call it V.E. (Victory of the Ego) Day.
I know it's frustrating that I can't own, right down to my bones, the wonderful qualities I have. It frustrates me. I want to be as confident as I have a right to be. And I believe that self-confidence is justified.
My friends and family have given me great advice—"just be yourself," or "stop worrying about what others think," or even "man up!"—and I'm trying. I have not given up. I will win this battle eventually. So far success has eluded me, but as Thomas Edison said, "I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work." Someday I will be as confident as I ought to be.
In the meantime, please be patient with me. I get it, really; if you find me frustrating sometimes, imagine what it's like for me to live in this skin, knowing one thing and feeling another. I'm worth the frustration, as I think you know; you've stuck with me this long.
The battle is half won. One day, maybe soon, it'll be all won. That will be a day worth celebrating—call it V.E. (Victory of the Ego) Day.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Mahalo
Mahalo is a Hawaiian word that according to Wikipedia means "thanks, gratitude, admiration, praise, esteem, regards, respects." It is often used as a simple substitute for the English "Thank you," but as with "Aloha," that simple substitution isn't the whole story.
In fact, some sources suggest that the meanings "thanks" and "gratitude" were appended after contact; early visitors noted that while the Hawaiian people were generous and grateful, they had no word to express gratitude or say 'thank you.'
When you think about it, this is very cool. I remember reading somewhere (probably in a science fiction novel) that gratitude is a species of resentment, and that makes sense. In our culture it's good that we feel and express gratitude; our culture has a transactional basis, and when we give anything (even a gift), we expect a return (if only a "thank you"). We even exchange favors, and don't see that as particularly strange. But in Hawaiian culture (as I understand it), it's less about commerce and more about community.
The Hawaiian culture had a subsistence economy; there were enough resources to go around, but not so much that the accumulation of wealth was particularly practical or desirable. In order for the community to prosper, everyone had to contribute and everyone got to benefit. It was less about "Mine mine mine," and more about "Ours."
Wouldn't it be wonderful if we weren't so caught up in keeping score; in an economic model of human interaction? Do we truly "give" if we expect or require a return, even so intangible a one as thanks or gratitude?
What would it be like if the cultural expectation--the "norm," if you will--was thoughtless, automatic generosity and admiration for one another? What if we didn't need to say "Thank you," because our admiration, praise, esteem, and regard were part of the fabric of society: evident without any need to say it? What if the spirit of Mahalo infused our daily relationships? What would that look like?
I hope you've found reading what I've written here worthwhile.
Mahalo.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad 2
In fact, some sources suggest that the meanings "thanks" and "gratitude" were appended after contact; early visitors noted that while the Hawaiian people were generous and grateful, they had no word to express gratitude or say 'thank you.'
When you think about it, this is very cool. I remember reading somewhere (probably in a science fiction novel) that gratitude is a species of resentment, and that makes sense. In our culture it's good that we feel and express gratitude; our culture has a transactional basis, and when we give anything (even a gift), we expect a return (if only a "thank you"). We even exchange favors, and don't see that as particularly strange. But in Hawaiian culture (as I understand it), it's less about commerce and more about community.
The Hawaiian culture had a subsistence economy; there were enough resources to go around, but not so much that the accumulation of wealth was particularly practical or desirable. In order for the community to prosper, everyone had to contribute and everyone got to benefit. It was less about "Mine mine mine," and more about "Ours."
Wouldn't it be wonderful if we weren't so caught up in keeping score; in an economic model of human interaction? Do we truly "give" if we expect or require a return, even so intangible a one as thanks or gratitude?
What would it be like if the cultural expectation--the "norm," if you will--was thoughtless, automatic generosity and admiration for one another? What if we didn't need to say "Thank you," because our admiration, praise, esteem, and regard were part of the fabric of society: evident without any need to say it? What if the spirit of Mahalo infused our daily relationships? What would that look like?
I hope you've found reading what I've written here worthwhile.
Mahalo.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad 2
Friday, June 3, 2011
Aloha
Aloha.
Most Americans have heard the word; many understand it to be a Hawaiian greeting, meaning roughly "Hello" or "Goodbye." "Aloha" is commonly used in just that way, so those people aren't wrong...
Their understanding is incomplete.
"Aloha" is much richer than "Hello" or "Goodbye." Wikipedia got it right: "Aloha in the Hawaiian language means affection, love, peace, compassion and mercy."
Aren't those wonderful sentiments to include when saying "Hello" or "Goodby?"
From the first moment of the first time I set foot on the island of Kauai, I could feel the aloha. That's how locals often talk about it; as if "Aloha" were something tangible you could breathe in. It's a spiritual thing, but oh, so real. When the people (and maybe even the land itself) feels affection, love, peace, compassion, and mercy, you can feel it.
Aloha has a powerful effect on people. It doesn't leave us alone. It changes us.
Of course it does; one of the things Aloha is is love.
I started this post because every time I come to the Islands I notice how many more beautiful women there are. It isn't that they are more physically beautiful than their counterparts elsewhere--they run the usual gamut of tiny to big, shapely to shapeless, in all the colors of humanity--but there's Aloha. And Aloha makes people beautiful.
It makes sense, if you think about it. We've all known someone whose features were perhaps rather ordinary, but whose animation, liveliness, happiness, joy, whatever, make them amazing and beautiful. They're unselfconscious and satisfied with who they are, they are content with their lot in life, they are fulfilled... and that makes them maybe not pretty, but beautiful.
I think that's why so many Hawaiians (whether Native or transplant) are beautiful. It's the Aloha. When Aloha infuses you and your environment--when you are bathed in affection, love, peace, compassion, and mercy--you are far more likely to be unselfconscious and satisfied with who you are, content with your lot in life, fulfilled...
And if you're all those things, how could you help being beautiful?
In the culture of my daily existence, people too seldom experience affection, love, peace, compassion, and mercy. Without Aloha, people tend to be self-conscious, dissatisfied with who they are, discontented, unfulfilled... and that leaves them completely dependent on their physical charms. And if that's all you've got and you aren't perfect, you're going to be unhappy and friends, being unhappy doesn't make you more beautiful.
One of the great gifts Hawaii has to offer the world is Aloha. The world needs it--we all need it--and Hawaii's got it. But it isn't something that can be taken from Hawaii; rather, Hawaii must give it as a gift. But Aloha is one of those wonderful gifts that, no matter how much you give away, your own supply will never be diminished; the act of sharing Aloha multiplies it.
And you don't have to be Hawaiian to give and live Aloha. Anyone can share affection, love, peace, compassion, and mercy. Anyone can make the world a better, more beautiful place.
Live the Aloha.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad 2
Most Americans have heard the word; many understand it to be a Hawaiian greeting, meaning roughly "Hello" or "Goodbye." "Aloha" is commonly used in just that way, so those people aren't wrong...
Their understanding is incomplete.
"Aloha" is much richer than "Hello" or "Goodbye." Wikipedia got it right: "Aloha in the Hawaiian language means affection, love, peace, compassion and mercy."
Aren't those wonderful sentiments to include when saying "Hello" or "Goodby?"
From the first moment of the first time I set foot on the island of Kauai, I could feel the aloha. That's how locals often talk about it; as if "Aloha" were something tangible you could breathe in. It's a spiritual thing, but oh, so real. When the people (and maybe even the land itself) feels affection, love, peace, compassion, and mercy, you can feel it.
Aloha has a powerful effect on people. It doesn't leave us alone. It changes us.
Of course it does; one of the things Aloha is is love.
I started this post because every time I come to the Islands I notice how many more beautiful women there are. It isn't that they are more physically beautiful than their counterparts elsewhere--they run the usual gamut of tiny to big, shapely to shapeless, in all the colors of humanity--but there's Aloha. And Aloha makes people beautiful.
It makes sense, if you think about it. We've all known someone whose features were perhaps rather ordinary, but whose animation, liveliness, happiness, joy, whatever, make them amazing and beautiful. They're unselfconscious and satisfied with who they are, they are content with their lot in life, they are fulfilled... and that makes them maybe not pretty, but beautiful.
I think that's why so many Hawaiians (whether Native or transplant) are beautiful. It's the Aloha. When Aloha infuses you and your environment--when you are bathed in affection, love, peace, compassion, and mercy--you are far more likely to be unselfconscious and satisfied with who you are, content with your lot in life, fulfilled...
And if you're all those things, how could you help being beautiful?
In the culture of my daily existence, people too seldom experience affection, love, peace, compassion, and mercy. Without Aloha, people tend to be self-conscious, dissatisfied with who they are, discontented, unfulfilled... and that leaves them completely dependent on their physical charms. And if that's all you've got and you aren't perfect, you're going to be unhappy and friends, being unhappy doesn't make you more beautiful.
One of the great gifts Hawaii has to offer the world is Aloha. The world needs it--we all need it--and Hawaii's got it. But it isn't something that can be taken from Hawaii; rather, Hawaii must give it as a gift. But Aloha is one of those wonderful gifts that, no matter how much you give away, your own supply will never be diminished; the act of sharing Aloha multiplies it.
And you don't have to be Hawaiian to give and live Aloha. Anyone can share affection, love, peace, compassion, and mercy. Anyone can make the world a better, more beautiful place.
Live the Aloha.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad 2
Location:Hoohu Rd,Koloa,United States
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Kryptonite
We all know that a character (whether heroic or villainous) can't be truly invulnerable; an invulnerable character is one we have difficulty sympathizing with. Superman has his kryptonite, and without it we wouldn't care much about what happened to him.
Similarly, real human beings have their vulnerabilities, whether physical or emotional. Those who pretend to be faultless and invulnerable don't engage our sympathies even though we know they have faults and vulnerabilities because the act they put on strikes us as unrealistic and disingenuous. If they won't admit that they even have human vulnerabilities, they seem less "real."
My kryptonite is my poor self-image. I have other vulnerabilities, some of them quite significant, but that's the one that (metaphorically) "kills" me.
I cannot remember a time when I felt that I was attractive to women. Recently I've come to an intellectual understanding that I probably am more attractive than I imagine; I can say to myself, "You've got even features, you're not too overweight, your skin is good, you've got nice hair, you're intelligent and 'nice' and somewhat successful..." but my heart is not convinced by intellectual arguments. I think I'm attractive(ish), but I feel unattractive.
I have spent a lifetime trying to "fix" this. I am (deservedly?) proud of how well I know myself (after years of mostly-fearless self reflection and discovery) and how well I've been able to redefine myself so that I am more the man I want to be. Yet this particular trait has stubbornly resisted all positive self-talk and all rationality; emotionally, I remain as doubtful of my attractiveness as I was in high school.
Because of this persistent visceral doubt, I have never trusted my perceptions when it came to women. I would find myself thinking She likes me," or "She's flirting with me!" but my heart would squelch such thoughts as 'wishful thinking' or self-deception. I might think a woman was interested in me, but I felt that it just wasn't possible. And in me, those feelings always trumped thought.
I do not believe that I am the only man who struggles with this. Surely many have overcome it. I often wonder how; wonder if it's even something I can fix on my own initiative, or if it's going to require in addition some external influence.
How can a guy learn to trust those intuitions, at least enough to act on them?
Maybe it takes a specific kind of experience. Maybe it requires first the intuition that "She likes me," or "She's flirting with me," followed by clear evidence that the intuition is right. Maybe it takes just one experience, or maybe it takes several, but maybe that's what it takes.
Maybe...
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad 2
Similarly, real human beings have their vulnerabilities, whether physical or emotional. Those who pretend to be faultless and invulnerable don't engage our sympathies even though we know they have faults and vulnerabilities because the act they put on strikes us as unrealistic and disingenuous. If they won't admit that they even have human vulnerabilities, they seem less "real."
My kryptonite is my poor self-image. I have other vulnerabilities, some of them quite significant, but that's the one that (metaphorically) "kills" me.
I cannot remember a time when I felt that I was attractive to women. Recently I've come to an intellectual understanding that I probably am more attractive than I imagine; I can say to myself, "You've got even features, you're not too overweight, your skin is good, you've got nice hair, you're intelligent and 'nice' and somewhat successful..." but my heart is not convinced by intellectual arguments. I think I'm attractive(ish), but I feel unattractive.
I have spent a lifetime trying to "fix" this. I am (deservedly?) proud of how well I know myself (after years of mostly-fearless self reflection and discovery) and how well I've been able to redefine myself so that I am more the man I want to be. Yet this particular trait has stubbornly resisted all positive self-talk and all rationality; emotionally, I remain as doubtful of my attractiveness as I was in high school.
Because of this persistent visceral doubt, I have never trusted my perceptions when it came to women. I would find myself thinking She likes me," or "She's flirting with me!" but my heart would squelch such thoughts as 'wishful thinking' or self-deception. I might think a woman was interested in me, but I felt that it just wasn't possible. And in me, those feelings always trumped thought.
I do not believe that I am the only man who struggles with this. Surely many have overcome it. I often wonder how; wonder if it's even something I can fix on my own initiative, or if it's going to require in addition some external influence.
How can a guy learn to trust those intuitions, at least enough to act on them?
Maybe it takes a specific kind of experience. Maybe it requires first the intuition that "She likes me," or "She's flirting with me," followed by clear evidence that the intuition is right. Maybe it takes just one experience, or maybe it takes several, but maybe that's what it takes.
Maybe...
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad 2
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