I hate cross-trainers. Just running shoes, please.

I need some new running shoes. Not cross-trainers. Not cute sneakers. Running shoes specifically designed to support my feet while I torture myself so that I can zip my jeans. My shoes blow out every so often. They look fine on the outside. Hell, sometimes they look brand new which is indicative of my preference only to run only when the weather is perfect and the path is clear. But materials can only be compressed a finite number of times before they loose their resilience, at least in my shoes.

A sales lady, towering over me in three inch heels, suggested a flashy pair of cross-trainers. I could lift in them. Run in them. Flip in them. Break land speed records in them. But I hate cross-trainers. They try to accomplish too much and in the end achieve nothing. They don’t stabilize my foot well enough to lift weights. They aren’t flexible or light to help me run. If I flip, I’m upside down and the shoe is irrelevant. The only land speed record I’ll ever break is the time to bridge the distance between my computer and the refrigerator.

My husband, who probably won’t appreciate being mentioned here, is currently being cross-trained at his place of employment. This doesn’t bother him, but in my head it plants doubt. Some days I hope that more versatility will correlate to job security. But the risk in cross-training is that you lose expertise. You take a person who is efficient and productive, an expert in their area, and stretch them over a wide expanse, allowing no depth of knowledge to accrue while increasing pressure on the individual. In an ideal world, this person would become an expert in everything. But like a cross-trainer shoe, the functionality will be superficial because the truth is that time and experience are required to become an expert in anything. If you know a little about everything, then probability is you know a lot about nothing.

Instead of treating employees like poorly designed shoes, what is wrong with recognizing that people are, in fact, not interchangeable? Management systems are in some contexts effective for setting standards and measurable goals, but many times reduce an employee to a procedure. Weren’t most of these systems based on Japanese business models of the 80s? Japan has an astronomical suicide rate and, if I read the papers correctly, has been essentially displaced by China. Are we now going to institute martial law and imitate environmental catastrophe to follow suit?

Just because some random guy could take out the garbage and watch basketball on our TV doesn’t indicate that if you sat him on my sofa he could replace my husband in my life. Employees are not interchangeable. Competent people are irreplaceable. The best employees in any business, be it hospitals or shoe salesmen, are those who can think for themselves. You know who that person is – the one that everyone in the office calls to solve a problem.  It is the person you search for when you call a business with a complaint, the one thinker in the bunch of drones who can assist with your issue. Why can he solve your problem? Because he is an expert. He knows the system. 

Now take that same guy and force him to learn three other jobs simultaneously for the same salary while increasing his hours. He may be smiling on the outside, but how many times can you compress the employee before he loses his resilience? 

Enough thinking. Time to go shoe shopping.

I'm stressed. What's for dinner?

Today I can’t write anything insightful or funny. I try and fail because I’m stressed. We hear that phrase all the time, overused and under thought. We’re stressed over our marriages, jobs, families, and perhaps even what to prepare for dinner. Damn. Add that one to my list for today also.

Stress is defined as a specific response by the body to a stimulus, as fear or pain, that disturbs or interferes with the normal physiological equilibrium of an organism. I’m not sure that I qualify as having a “normal physiological equilibrium”.  In fact, I’m relatively certain that normal and equilibrated are two adjectives that shouldn’t be used to describe me.

My loss-aversion drives me to react impulsively. But when I rationally consider my stressors, it becomes apparent that my fear is simply of people. I do not trust people. I try to. I want to cover my eyes and disillusion myself in optimism, but I can’t. 

I fundamentally believe that most people are not interested enough to understand or evaluate the information available to them. They also do not appreciate it when I bring contradicting information to their attention. I am required to advocate for myself and my family on a daily basis, swimming upstream against a current of ineptitude. 

In the past two hours, I have (you can skip this paragraph if you don’t care):

(1)    Mailed a letter citing sections of the Ohio Revised Code governing speech therapy for preschool aged children to explain the intricacies to my school district. It does not comfort me that they can not read or understand the laws, but are in theory capable of educating my children.

(2)    Researched the specific chemical properties of flexible PVC piping and its appropriate underground use around pools. It turns out that it can be eaten by termites. Who knew? Not my contractor, obviously.

(3)    Filed a complaint with PUCO over the distribution portion of my electric bill, which has more than doubled over the past year. Nothing funny about that. 

You can not unsee things which have already been seen, and attempting to squelch my uneasiness when I notice an inconsistency only propagates my anxiety. I can not ignore my problems or they consume me, tapeworms destroying me from the inside. Every fact that contradicts the information I have been given by authorities (contractors, educators, you name it) undermines my trust. The less I trust these people, the more pressure it places on me to discern the difference between those who are knowledgeable and those who simply like to hear themselves talk, which is sometimes an extremely difficult distinction.

So after careful evaluation, I can happily conclude that my stress is due not to my own failures, but to those of others. Thank God… For a moment there, I was starting to doubt myself.

As an aside, on a happy note, my cat has been miraculously rehabilitated. I scrubbed the litter boxes, separated them, removed the lids, and insisted that the kids clean them daily. She has faithfully pooped in the box every day since my last post. So much for fluffy kitty pandering.

Hopefully my letter to PUCO won’t tick them off enough that they shut off our electricity.

Lower your expectations accordingly...

I need a cause. Apparently, supporting a cause will make you like me. Eighty percent of my content should add value to your life. The notion that I can add value to your life just because you click on my musings leads me to believe that your expectation of me might be a bit too high. Lower them accordingly.

Social currency is not my strong point. Like Howard Roark, I lack a basic understanding of the give and take in social situations, so this past week, I’ve researched social media and read blogs to discover methods to connect with readers. Everyone has a cause, even the Purple Spotted Hairless Platypus. I actually searched for purple platypus just to see if it returned any hits and I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that it did.

So what is my cause? It is supposed to be something that relates to my book or to me personally. Since I use my writing to vent about my husband and children, perhaps I could choose domestic abuse. No one actually supports domestic abuse, right? Even when we occasionally consider stringing our spouse up by his toenails and plucking each hair on his feet individually. But I digress… (Sorry if you’re reading this, sweetie – I didn’t mean you. Really.)

I could champion the environment. Everyone loves to be green. And it would expose a personal tidbit about myself – that I love interpreting regulations in an attempt to keep companies profitable while complying with environmental laws. But I also love my big screen TV and the chemicals that keep my pool crystal clear. Yes, I recycle. I also love Ziploc bags. They’re handy.

Down with the medical establishment! Wait, no. I endorse better living through medication. Why take something holistic if your insurance will reimburse you for something quality controlled and clinically trialed? Do you really think that bottle of ma huang had any trials other than something quantified as “Oops, screwed up that batch”? Not to mention, if I need surgery, I prefer anesthesia.

The list goes on and on. Emotional abuse. Emotional eaters. Codependency. Sexual addiction. There is nothing I can do to help these people. I refuse to increase your “awareness” for anything. Except perhaps for fungi. You should be aware of them. You’re surrounded by them and those suckers are dangerous. Everyone else has irrational fears about global war or an electromagnetic pulse. Not me. The book Spiral by Paul McEuen made me tremble for days.

My search for over-exercising didn’t turn up much. It only appears when linked to anorexia and bulimia, but I really love to eat so I don’t qualify. Maybe I need to start a support group for those of us who over-exercise just so we can eat three Drumsticks after dinner and still fit in our jeans? It did unearth an article to “Help Yourself Over Exercise Hurdles”. Over Exercise – get it? 

Is there a support group for people who exist inside their own head instead of reality?

So what do I like? I like eclectic furniture that doesn’t match. I love Lever 2000 soap (and no, for the three of you still reading this, they don’t pay me to plug it). I love margaritas. I hate protein powder, but I make myself drink it every morning anyway and I force down concentrated liquid fish oil. That has to be its own type of disorder that requires some therapy and support. And I like fluffy animals. Everyone likes a fluffy animal, right?

My cause. I found it. Fluffy animals. I like them, at least in theory. Except for one exceptionally pissy (and I mean that both literally and as a personality trait) Persian cat. She pees on my daughter’s carpet the minute we let her out of the basement without fail. My cause is to re-litterbox-train my cat. I can even pander to you with annoying fluffy kitty pictures.

So to add value to your life, dear reader, I will attempt to entertain you as I attempt to retrain my cat. Cat #1 on the left, Sylvia, is happy, easy to get along with, and litter box trained. Cat #2 on the right, Lillian, is Satan reincarnated. You suggest the method, I’ll try it out and report back.

Are we there yet?

“Are we there yet?” My son asked the question before we turned off our street. “Can we start the movie?”

  

“A good rule of thumb,” I told him, “is that if you can still see our house, you can probably safely assume we have not arrived at our destination.”

Our destination, a state park we planned to spend the day hiking through, was not all that I imagined. Visions of skipping children and flowing waterfalls disintegrated into a stark reality of skinned knees, dry creek beds, and perilous trails.

Our youngest daughter perched on a rock with tears in her eyes since she could not keep up with our older kids and wailed, “I want to be bigger.”

We are all longing to arrive somewhere other than here. “Are we there yet?” “I want to be bigger.” The words of children mirror those of my adult friends. A college graduate trapped in the purgatory between school and adulthood waits for her life to start. A young man eagerly anticipates a future with a career that is more rewarding than his current job and provides more appreciation and fulfillment. A young couple yearn for a stable family and home. And those are just conversations I’ve had this week.

Once we achieve those things, we pile on more expectations, expanding our conditions for contentment. We will be happy when… When my boyfriend commits to me. When I buy a house. When we have kids. When we save enough money. When the bills are paid. When my new job comes through. When our children are out of diapers. When this project is finished. When the children are out of school.

Is contentment possible to reach? Is it found in the attainment of our goals or in the process of achievement in itself? Is it possible to actually appreciate something in the moment it happens or can it only be appreciated through the distance and filter of time? Is this the direction my life was meant to travel? Am I there yet? Or do I simply entertain myself, turn on the movie like my son in the car, and assume that someone will transport me to my destination?

I’ve spent the past year exploring myself outside of my family. I’ve been defined by my children and husband for so long that at times I’ve lost myself altogether. This year has validated me; it reminded me that I do have talent and worth outside of laundry and grocery shopping. Now I strive for balance, to maintain my sense of self, to support my children without living through them, and to love my husband without leaning on him.

Every day I struggle to appreciate what I have – my complaining children, my pile of bills, my overworked husband – while reinforcing and prioritizing myself. But today, for right now, I’m appreciative. I may not be there yet, but I’m within sight of my home. No one transported me to this location; I traveled a dark, solitary road to arrive here. But, I no longer yearn to visit elsewhere. I finally know where I belong.

Patience is not my virtue.

How many times have I been told patience is a virtue? It is obviously one I don’t possess. Persistence, yes. Persistence I can do. But not patience. Perhaps I’ve spent too much time organizing my kitchen supplies to just-in-time production standards or optimizing the process to transport my children to their various activities while simultaneously ensuring that their homework is correct and they consume a healthy dinner. I am obnoxiously over analytical.

This fault can be skewed as beneficial, especially in a job interview when asked for your greatest weakness. Many people value money, kindness, or empathy. I value efficiency. I want everything done correctly in the least possible time. Why? Because it is only then that the tiny voice in my head quiets down. I am not externally driven – it is completely internal.

Many of my friends have asked how I managed to write a book and I can’t answer the question. When the words congeal in my mind, I can not shut them down and vice versa, if they are not present there is no forcing them. My husband can attest to this because there are random note pads and pens everywhere from my gym bag to the shower. Sometimes ideas arrive at inconvenient moments.

But this process is not contained to my writing. Every large decision in my life is made this way. Sometimes I wonder if I’m a control freak, but the truth is I’m not in control at all. I prepare the path, throw in all of my effort to the best of my ability, and wait for my answer, generally impatiently. And when I know my answer, I know it. I grab my decision with both hands. 

This past week I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time at my computer, assembling a video trailer to accompany my manuscript. Since I know nothing about creating videos, it was a daunting task. But once I started working, there was no turning off my mind, not even to sleep or eat. It fell together of its own accord; I am simply the overexcited facilitator. Honestly, like the manuscript itself, I can’t believe that I produced it. After using a few of my friends as a focus group, I’m confident that anyone who chooses to watch it will not consider their two minutes wasted. But now I am forced to be patient. I anxiously await an email which I hope will bring permission to use the background music that I chose. 

Patience with other people is difficult for me. The voice in my head will not shut up because this decision is not internal. It prods me to be persistent, to fire off an email every hour, to push for closure, but my rational mind knows that doing so will only reduce my probability for success. So I will spend my Labor Day anxiously not laboring and attempt to relax.