40

The day I have most been dreading has arrived.  As a teenager, I assumed I'd be dead by now.  All the fascinating and beautiful women I admired as a child -- Marilyn Monroe, Carole Lombard, Ann Boleyn -- never made it to the age of 40.  Yet here I am.

As a child, 40 seemed not only very old, but a cut off point of sorts.  And the last six months have been particularly difficult as I have refused to accept the inevitable, mainly because my focus has been on what I have lost -- my youth, my marriage, perhaps some career aspirations, and perhaps (and this one sucks the most) my chance to conceive and birth a child.  But a friend pointed out a fundamental truth yesterday: life does not unfold as any of us imagined at the age of 8 or 18.  We all experience shifts and set-backs; diverted paths and opportunities or relationships that were not what we anticipated in our youth.

I've heard that the definition of stress is when we refuse to accept the reality of a situation at hand.  A far more loving task would be to reflect on the gifts that I have received in my 40 years of life, and the delightful surprises that the diverted paths have brought.  I certainly never thought I'd be a lawyer.  Some people may see a career as an attorney as a fall from grace, and while I don't necessarily disagree, I know for myself that this degree is a triumph.  In my youth, I never thought I was smart enough to go to law school.  I was creative.  I had wanted to be an actress -- and while I was talented and able to express emotions, I never considered the possibility that I could be both intelligent and emotionally intelligent.  

I never saw myself going into politics and crafting legislation -- again, because I didn't think I was smart enough.  And I certainly failed to anticipate the most wonderful, loving, intelligent, and funny people that I would have the privilege of meeting on Capitol Hill and in my present job.  I'm lucky to have a lot of friends, but I think that I'm luckier in the fact that I have more than one "hide the body" friend.  I literally have several people that I could call and say, "I'm in Yuma and I just killed a man," and the response from the other end of the phone would be, "Stay put.  I'll be there in two days."  No judgement.  No lectures.  Don't get me wrong...the questions will come later.  But not in my moment of need.   

Even today -- I certainly never thought I would live in San Diego with perfect weather.  Nor did I think I would have such incredibly close friends that I consider my family in such a short window of time.  When I reflect on giving up everything I knew and loved for approximately 20 years to start over 3,000 miles away...only knowing two people...I realize that the universe really is conspiring in my favor.

And the other things that I have so desperately wanted -- to be a published author, a wife again, and someone's mother.  Well, I realize that this one day is not an expiration date.  It's likely not even the second half of my life.  So as I enter what may or may not be my middle age, I've decided to conform to the stereotypical American white woman who belligerently drinks wine and stalks Oprah.  Therefore, if you need me I will be in Santa Barbara this weekend with a few of the people I love most in this world -- the people who have helped me transition from East to West; from married to single; from attorney to writer; and now from youth to what lays beyond.

An Attitude of Gratitude

Being a native of Chicago and a fan of all things Windy City, I am probably not the most welcome of messengers.  But I still thought this worth mentioning:

When things suck for me -- like last winter when my bank account was drained from a car accident and an unforeseen health issue -- I find it especially important to write in my gratitude journal.  I wanted to channel all my energy into what I had, not what I had lost.  And if I were from Boston, tonight I would start with, "I am so grateful that Bobby Valentine is no longer in my life."

Addicted to Love

I met Michael on Black Friday.  My best friend and I had an epic, break-up fight earlier that day, and Michael came into my life like a window after the proverbial door had shut.  Nothing concrete evolved from our relationship at first.  After being in touch and out of touch, and in touch again, we met up for brunch and this time, I fell hard and fast.  We had that rare chemistry and I was intoxicated by him.  I remember one evening after too much wine, laughing as I whispered between kisses, “I think I’m addicted to you.”

I had no idea the truth behind my flippant statement that night.  Like every kid, I was taught about addiction in school.  I was familiar with the usual suspects: drugs, alcohol, cigarettes.  But I was unaware of the definition: the state of being enslaved to something that is habit forming to an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma.  Ironically, the origin of the word is from addictio, which means, surrender.  

Surrender was not my word.  My word was struggle.  To fight, force, push, pull, kick, and scream until my point of view was understood.  That’s how I approached my relationships – through not merely struggle, but also through contortion.  I contorted my emotions and tried to be quiet when what I wanted was attention.  I remained detached, when truly, I longed for a connection.  I gave into requests rather than establishing boundaries because I was afraid to be alone.  I failed to consider my own needs, ask questions or be my own advocate.  And when I failed me, I failed Michael too.  Because by contorting myself, I hid my authentic pieces –not merely my quirks, humor, and strengths.  I wore a mask , making assumptions about his needs.  And by doing so I deprived him of the chance to know me and maybe, ultimately, to love me.   

The fact that I was loveable eluded me at that time.  I was unaware of my intrinsic worth.  I was looking somewhere else – and in my case, to someone else – to provide it.  Specifically, my romantic partner.  I made Michael – and every other man before him – my higher power.  Subconsciously, I knew this.  I knew because I attracted the same man over and over.  Michael was “a runner.”  A relationship avoider.  He was busy filling his life up with work.  His sister’s children.  And in hindsight, other women.  I’d dated him a thousand times before: the boy that was so present only to disappear when I yielded to his chase.  

After several months of acquiescing to Michael’s needs, I became exhausted and broke it off.  Not in a swift, dramatic way, but in shaky way – like when George from Back to the Future whispers, “No Biff…you leave her alone.”  I said, “I think we want different things…if I’m wrong, let me know.”  Rather than a confirmation - or what I was hoping for - a resounding, no, you’re wrong, I want to be with you, I was met with silence.  

I set off attempting to mend my broken heart.  Months passed and some days I was fine.  Other days, I thought about Michael constantly.  I missed him the way I would miss my right arm.  Six months later, I found myself back in LA attending a lecture.  The lecture was in Hollywood, and to my chagrin, I was suddenly in Michael’s old neighborhood, driving past memory upon memory.  The street he lived on.  …we’d had brunch there once.  I remembered our second date at that wine bar.  Each street elicited another memory and another longing to have him back.  I was face to face with my loneliness.  How could I be in LA and not be with him?  I physically, tangibly missed him.  It was as though I was possessed, and a physical form of crazy had engulfed my being.  A disease had grabbed hold of my nervous system.  He was Cesar Milan and I, an angry pit bull, calmed only by his presence.  

I didn’t call Michael, but the palpable nervousness still plagued me.  I relayed the experience to my girlfriend once I created a safe distance between me and Hollywood.  I explained the angst that would not let go.  And in her infinite wisdom, she said the words that forever changed my life:

You are addicted to him the way I am addicted to brownies.

BOOM!  Fireworks, light- bulbs, angels!  Could that be?  Could I be addicted to a person rather than just alcohol or drugs?  

Yes.  I found Facing Love Addiction by Pia Mellody, which explains how those afflicted with the disease fall into one of two categories: love addicts or love avoidants.  And because God is hilarious, we’re attracted to each other like a magnet.  It’s part of a perverse and painful courting ritual in which one person pursues the other, and once the prey (the addict) is enraptured by the spell, the pursuer (the avoidant) promptly withdraws.  This, in turn, causes the prey to grab hold of the pursuer, which further causes the pursuer to withdraw, until the whole scene collapses.  After much back and forth, the pursuer either returns out of guilt and they resume the dance, or the process is repeated with new prey, or another endeavor that allows the pursuer to emotionally withdraw from the relationship: career, mountain biking, an affair....

I studied my own shortcomings: what I had done to play my dysfunctional role in each liaison.  As a love addict, I learned that I cling to love like a life-raft.  From the avoider’s point of view, love means being needed and “saving” someone; but at the same time, love feels suffocating.  The pattern explained the confusion I had experienced in being so aggressively pursued, only to give in, and be vehemently rejected.  But more than recognizing the dynamics of my past relationships, I realized why the end of each felt so incredibly fatal.  I was extracting my self-worth from my partner.  Which was why when I was rejected, the bottom fell out of my self esteem.  I was looking for my worthiness in another person -- a fallible human, warts and all.    And that is an extremely volatile and dangerous place to be.

Of course, there is a big stop-gap between recognizing and changing behavior.  The diagnosis of an illness is not the same as a cure.  My next test came with a conference in LA.  I’d successfully made it two days without contacting Michael, but as I started South, the traffic was appallingly slow, even by LA standards.  I looked to my left at the Northbound lane moving swiftly.  It would be so easy, I reasoned, to phone Michael and drive the few miles to his exit.  I found my willpower quickly dissolving.  As the traffic stood still, it was as though my drug dealer was handing me the needle and saying, just this one time won’t hurt.  I grabbed my phone and scrolled to Michael’s number.  I caught myself.  The traffic would move…and then not move, and I would grab my phone again…scroll to his number…toss the phone back down…repeat the process.  And again.  I was so tempted.  I had the needle in my hand and it was all I could do to not inject it hard and fast.  Panicked, I chucked the phone into the backseat, out of reach.  

As I sat, I rolled up my sleeve and began tapping the inside crease of my elbow, much like a heroin addict would to shoot up.  You are fixin’ to get high, I reminded myself over and over, attempting to find some perspective.  I was no different from any other junkie.  And I knew I could not give in, because the regret that awaited me the next morning would outweigh any high from the night before.  I would only be left with a behavior hangover.  I had a choice: I could fight through this – cold sweats, panicked anxiety, and all – or I could give in to a quick fix that would leave me empty and ashamed.

I continued to tap.  The traffic finally began to move.  Finally I was home.  It was a turbulent, frightful test.  Upon further reflection, I realized that I was still looking for validation.  I thought the silence after our break-up was personal to me.  And what did that say if I wasn’t even worthy of a response?

But what I came to realize is we all do our best in the moment.  In the moments when we’re not our best, we’re merely focused on stopping our own pain.  Michael’s silence probably wasn’t personal to me.  Most of us created our habits long ago, and it never occurred to us to stop, re-exam our behavior, and make another choice.  Hell, we may never have realized that we had a choice.  

But recognizing that choice is incredibly freeing …something like…a surrender.  

OUTRAGEOUS

And now the collision center has lost the key to my vehicle.  Like this wasn't traumatic enough... but to add another dash of stupid.

...you win, universe.  I fucking quit.

Don't Tread on Me...Bitch

Tonight I understand why people become Republicans.  Tonight... just a little bit...I believe the worst in humanity.

It's ironic, because earlier this month my friend Angie relayed what - at the time -- was a story about the worst human on the planet.  Angie was at the drug store, started to back out of her parking spot, and accidentally tapped someone.  This happens.  We're human.  We fuck up.

She exited her car, saw it was a minor dent, exchanged information, and mentioned to the "hittee" that she had a $500 deductible -- so if the damage was under that, please let her know because she rather pay cash than report the fender-scuff to her insurance company.  Does this sound reasonable?  Because it sounded reasonable to me.

And then -- if you're a pessimist, you may be able to guess what happened, but I personally (and perhaps naively) had a hard time with it -- the hittee not only reported the accident, but claimed that Angie hit her so hard that she had medical injuries and was forced to go to the hospital.  The hittee claimed that Angie hit her so hard that not only was there rear damage to the car, but front end damage because the car collided with a pole due to the severe impact.  And (AND!) the four handicapped children in the car also suffered physical injuries and were forced to go to the emergency room.

Luckily there was a camera in the CVS parking lot that caught the whole thing -- including the empty car sans handicap children (but I'm sure you'll agree that was a nice touch).

I was somewhat horrified at this story and the fact that a person would so blatantly take advantage of another.   And I assumed that it was rare -- the 1% of the moral society in which people are motivated by fear and not love.  Until today.

On Monday, the dumbest person in the Golden State decided to make a right turn from the center lane, (a move which my friend Melissa has affectionately dubbed, "the San Diego right."  As compared to "the Station Island left" -- the infamous move in which the left turner preemptively takes off to the squeal of tires when the light turns immediately green) and promptly caused over $3,500 in damages to my car.

Obvious to most, turning right from a non-turn lane is illegal.  So the hitter in my case lied to her insurance company -- saying, among other things, that the accident did not even take place at the original intersection.  ...I mean, to give her credit, it's a very creative story.  Untrue, but creative.  The end result was that I was liable.  And, while the merits are in dispute....and who knows how long this could take...I am out a deductible in which I cannot afford for an accident for which I am not at fault.  Not to mention, I'm now driving around with PTSD sensitivities in a rental vehicle the size of a UPS truck.  The whole thing sucks.  I mean, yeah, in perspective...it's not religious persecution or heart disease...but the fact that I did everything right and now I'm getting fucked...it's a bitter pill to swallow.

So I suppose my point is this: 1) while karma is a lovely concept, it won't cut me a check to meet my deductible; 2) my faith in humanity...the West Coast hippie-dippie, silver-lining, "I'm sure she's just acting out of fear," scarcity v. abundance mentality...yeah, that was just shot in the face at point blank range; and 3) I'm gonna need the number for that Republican accountant I dated over the winter...because the "I want mine" mantra  is beginning to sound a little wiser this evening.

Sexy

I wish someone would bring sexy back.  Sometimes I miss sexy so much that I can't sleep at night.  ...it's so sad.

A Resounding Yes

It’s ironic this situation landed in my lap as I was watching the The Makers on PBS.

So I am sitting here, watching the history of the feminist movement (which was going pretty well by all accounts until Phyllis Schlafly showed up…in my experience, nothing good has ever come out of Missouri), when my girlfriend texts me because the current guy she’s dating stood her up. He asked for a raincheck.  She’s pissed.  Feeling empowered by my current viewing, I am bold enough to suggest that maybe she should not grant his raincheck request.  “Tell him no,” I bravely suggest. 

She didn’t.  And in all honestly, until about a week ago, I would not have either.  But a shift has occurred.  …I’m not saying it won’t shift back at any moment…but as I sit here on the cusp of forty, I am empowered enough to say, “No thanks.”  Finally. 

I’ve read He’s Just Not That Into You.  And I get it.  I realize that inaction, whether something as asinine as forgetting a date or as mundane as not opening a door, screams volumes.  If he doesn’t call when he says he’s going to, it’s not an oversight.  We all know this – I personally know this because I accidentally call people from my purse all the time (please refer to the post Moneyball from March 2012).  Yet despite books, movies, what-not, we as women – and if I had to venture to guess, as people – refuse to see this simple truth.  Actions speak louder than words.  And whether or not words are actually involved… we know.  We know.  We know if a friend is upset, whether or not she says it.  We know when we didn’t get the job, even when they say, "we'll be in touch."  We know he’s not (ever, ever, ever) going to change despite his protests to the contrary.  Yet we suppress that “huh?” – that little voice at the base of our skull when someone’s actions do not match his words.  It’s as though we’ve fallen into the deep end of the pool and we have no perspective to judge what is happening above ground.  We suppress our intuition – which is unfortunate.  Because I’m discovering that following it could save us a lot of time.

We not only ignore that prickly instinct in our brain, but we refuse to advocate for ourselves.  We will stand up for a friend, a pet, the homeless man on the street…but why not ourselves?  What do we think we are going to lose?  An opportunity at a relationship?  Love?  A dream realized?  Intuitively – if we really listen – I think we know that opportunity is already dead.  …and if it’s not, would pulling over and asking, “what’s really going on here?” be the catalyst that killed it? 

Why don’t I advocate for me?  I didn’t until this simple realization came to me:  he can reject me whether or not I am silent.  I can advocate for myself or I can stand quietly in the corner and wait oh-so-patiently for his next move…but I can’t change the outcome.  If I’m about to be rejected, silence will only prolong the inevitable.  And if he does stay around…well…isn’t it kind of half-ass at best by this point? 

I’ll tell you one thing for damn sure – in love and in life, I deserve a resounding yes.   And listen up people – we all do. You, me – and yes, even Phyllis the hypocritical bitch -- deserve a resounding yes (if you don’t know feminist history, that won’t even be remotely funny, BTW).   If the king is naked, I deserve the opportunity to inquire as to why.   And to say it's unacceptable.

I'll still get dumped – but at least now it’s on my terms and my time.  And painful though that might be in the moment, it allows me to free up space for someone new and inevitably better to walk into the room.  

How do I know he’s coming?  Because I’m no longer willing to settle for less.