Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 40
July 7, 2017
Magical Power in the Bahamas? Yep.
My initial look at Freeport, Bahamas was of a concrete lot filled with overflowing stalls of island crafts as I peered out of my cabin window that first morning. Just minutes later my feet hit the pavement and I am swept up in the excitement of haggling for the goods scattered about. Spotting a woman placidly sitting on a cardboard carton braiding another woman’s hair, mounting fascination propels me towards the pair.
Her nimble fingers entwine hair at a speed I never thought possible. Money then quickly exchanges hands and the next woman in line moves up to the braiding stool. More conversation and the braiding begins again.
I get in line and within minutes I am the one on the stool being transformed into an aging Indian goddess – a woman of the sea and the earth. I feel the emergent power stemming from the three braids dangling from my right temple. If three can wield such energy, how exhilarating would be a whole head full? I shiver at the thought of such sheer indulgence.
My husband grins when he sees me and encourages me to get more.
“Maybe,” I hedge coquettishly.
Hours later, I am sprawled on the beach watching the hordes of tourists go parasailing. A brightly dressed young woman saunters over and says, “Hey, Bahama Mama, how about some more? Twists. Don’t stop at three!”
At first I don’t understand. She explains easily. “For $80, I will braid your entire head.”
I look at her in disbelief. And shake my head no.
“Oh come on, sweet lady,” she implores.
“Eighty dollars is way too much,” I reply with vigor.
“A dollar a braid, missy,” she says boldly. “A dollar a braid.”
“Nope,” I shoot back brazenly. “Way too much.” I’m beginning to enjoy this bartering.
This woman, wise to the ways of the tourist, is not daunted. “Okay,” she asks me softly, “how much DO you want to spend?”
“Twenty-five,” I say daringly.
“You’ve got a deal, Bahama Mama.”
And so the ritual begins.
She points to a rock and instructs me to sit down and make myself comfortable. (On a rock? I laugh to myself. Back home, it’s padded, reclining chairs with arm rests, free coffee, and air conditioning. She must be kidding.)
She’s not. She sets a massive sack of beads and bands on my lap and instructs me to pick my colors as she sets to work separating my hair into sections. I relax as her nimble fingers wield her craft as she begins the ageless process of braiding. The outer left strand passes over the center one. Next, the outer right strand passes over the first one, which is now in the middle. And the process continues until the braid strand is finished. Soft and steady. Gentle and repetitive.
Unfortunately, though the process of braiding remains steady and repetitive, it does not stsay soft nor gentle. First, an isolated jolt of pain. Then a few intermittent tugs and pulls that sting the scalp, forcing my mind from any pleasant musings to full concentration on the source of the discomfort.
Then the hurt becomes constant as her fingers begin weaving in corn rows along the base of my scalp.
“That hurts,” I say reproachfully.
“Ah, that’s what they all say,” she murmurs soothingly as her skilled fingers continue on their murderous route.
Three hours later the braiding is complete. My euphoria has long since evaporated. My back is sore. My neck is impossibly tight. And the braids are pulling ceaselessly and uncomfortably on my scalp. I ease my stiff body up to standing position, pay her and watch her as she walks away, already approaching another unsuspecting tourist on which to exercise her finger power.
My husband loves my head of hair fully braided.
Me? I have endured and will continue to endure the discomfort that I soon learn will go on unabated for another few days until new hair growth eases the tightness of the braids. Nonetheless, I feel empowered. Connected to the multitudes of women who came before me and sat as I sat – by oceans or fire sides – in wagons or perhaps caves – lending their scalp to another’s skillful fingers to weave some magic.
No matter the scalp pulling, I feel both mighty and connected.
June 29, 2017
The Fourth of July Gave Me the Freedom to Try Something New
Photo credit: knitnut.net
I never wanted to be mainstream, ordinary and normal. Unfortunately, my cooking skills don’t reflect this desire to stand-out. Cooking. Grilling. Baking. All are feats that I have marginal ability in performing.
Nevertheless, on a 4th of July many years ago, I decided to do what every all-American mother does for her son’s birthday: bake him a cake from scratch.
When I told Max, whose birthday was the following day, that I was baking him a cake without help from Betty, he looked at me with a stunned expression. “Gee, Mom, I thought you only did mixes.”
I hit the book shelves in the living room in search of my seldom used cookbook section (that’s why it’s in the living room and not the kitchen) and quickly found the one I was looking for – a reproduction of Hershey’s 1934 Cookbook. I settled on the “three layer gold cake” illustrated on the cover.
For the next two hours, I measured, sifted, stirred, mixed, folded and beat well. Sighing with relief, I slid the three cake pans into my gas oven and sat down to greedily lick any surface that had any batter left on it – spoons, bowls, beaters and spatulas. I restrained myself from licking the counters in case someone unexpectedly walked in.
The timer buzzed. I carefully removed the cake pans from the oven, cooled them for ten minutes and then “expertly” flipped the cakes to cooling racks. I let them cool for an additional thirty minutes.
I started on the recipe for “creamy rich vanilla butter icing” that I found in the Hershey’s 1934 Cookbook too. I made twice the amount recommended to ice a two-layer cake, figuring if the kids weren’t home by the time I was finished icing, I’d polish off the remains of that too.
When the timer went off, with painstaking precision, I began icing the first layer of my cake. By the time I placed the third layer on top of the other two, I knew I was in serious trouble. The top layer refused to stay put on the second layer – the second layer refused to stay put on the first layer. And the top layers were hopelessly out of line with the bottom layer and with each other.
I looked around frantically. Surely I must have something in the kitchen that I could stick through the middle of the cake to serve as an anchor.
Coffee Stirrers! Ah – but I had none.
Pencils! Ah – but I’d give my family lead poisoning.
A thick holiday candle! Ah – but it would destroy the cake’s insides.
And then I spied my glass canister filled with very thin and very long angel hair pasta. Quickly I counted out six strands, measured them to match the height of the cake, broke off the excess pasta, took a deep breath and plunged the entire bunch right through the middle of my freshly-baked masterpiece.
It seemed to do the trick. It seemed to stop the slipping and sliding. So what if a few strands of angle hair poked through?
My cake was lopsided and flawed, but authentic and original. It was created with loving care and held together with “a lick and a promise.” Kinda like me. and kinda like Max.
June 22, 2017
How To Have A Happy Day
My dad, Pike Levine, has been gone for five years, so he was not around to celebrate Father’s Day. His family was thinking of him nonetheless.
His great grandson, Levi Pike Pastor, was born on June 13 and at his bris eight days later, his family gathered around to welcome him into the tribe. And at this momentous event, we highlighted my dad’s unique character trait and this is what we told him:
You are named for your great grandfather, Pike Levine, who could be described in the following way:
Scrappy– at the age of 14, he sold hot coffee to passengers on trains passing through Utica, NY, keeping the coffee hot by the same steam that powered the trains. The coffee, though hot, tasted awful. But by the time the customrers found that out, he had jumped off the moving train. Months later, he used some of this money to buy a tombstone for his mother, who died of pneumonia at age 42.
Gutsy – he went AWOL to marry his girlfriend. When he returned to base, he was called into the commander’s office. “Sit down, Sargent,” the base commander ordered. “Stand up, Private.” Let it be noted, soon thereafter, Pike was re-awarded his stripes because they were Europe bound.
Practical – when he returned stateside after World War 2, he and his war bride quickly had two kids. He assembled their swing set and grounded the poles not just in dirt like most of the dads did, but he reinforced the holes with concrete. His children could swing as high as they wanted without fear of going airborne. It reflected the way he raised them: put them in a position to succeed and watch them soar.
Resourceful – he knew how to make money – from selling Venetian blinds to carpets to furniture to neighborhood bars to single family homes. And he became, after much night school education, the head of his own real estate appraisal firm, serving as an expert witness in court too.
Irreverent – someone challenged him once, “Pike, now that you have money, you don’t talk to me anymore.” Pike shot back, “I never talked to you when I didn’t have money.”
Unique – he had many favorite phrases:
If you throw enough stuff against the wall, some of it will stick. (but he didn’t use the word stuff.)
Don’t’ get hurt, get even.
Nothing’s deader than yesterday’s romance. (He relished using that one after his daughters broke-up with their boyfriends or the boyfriends broke-up with them.)
You’re run of the mill. (Translation: You’re really special.)
The most famous one was “Them all.” He told his daughters it meant “Bless them all.” He told his son something different. If you knew Pike, you could figure it out.
Strong finisher – he closed every occasion with the now famous toast “Here’s to those who wish us well and all the rest can go to hell.”
And perhaps most importantly: he was a member of the Lucky Bastard Club. The Lucky Bastard Club was an informal grouping of crew members from the Eighth Air Force who completed a tour of duty in World War 2. Luckily, your great Grandfather Pike got into flying missions over Germany toward the end of WW 2, not at the beginning. By the time he was installed on a B-17 as a ball turret gunner, the Army Air Corp were sending out B-17s with escorts – all flying in formation, which greatly cut down on the casualties. So he lived to tell the tale. Some 40,000 airmen didn’t. Hence, the Lucky Bastard Club membership.
So Levi Pike Pastor, may you follow in your great grandfather’s footsteps. May you be as unique, revered and loved as your great Grandpa Pike and may you always be “A LUCKY BASTARD.”
Levi Pike’s Bris Speech
My dad, Pike Levine, has been gone for five years, so he was not around to celebrate Father’s Day. His family was thinking of him nonetheless.
His great grandson, Levi Pike pastor, was born on ______ and at his bris eight days later, his family gathered around to welcome him into the tribe. And this is what we told him.’
You are named for your great grandfather, Pike Levine, who could be described in the following way:
Scrappy– at the age of 14, he sold hot coffee to passengers on trains passing through Utica, NY, keeping the coffee hot by the same steam that powered the trains. The coffee, though hot, tasted awful. But by the time the customrers found that out, he had jumped off the moving train. Months later, he used some of this money to buy a tombstone for his mother, who died of pneumonia at age 42.
Gutsy – he went AWOL to marry his girlfriend. When he returned to base, he was called into the commander’s office. “Sit down, Sargent,” the base commander ordered. “Stand up, Private.” Let it be noted, soon thereafter, Pike was re-awarded his stripes because they were euripi bound.greeted
Practical –when he returned stateside after World War 2, he and his war ride quickly had two kids. He assembled their swing set and grounded the poles not just in dirt like most of the dads did, but he reinforced the holes with concrete. His children could swing as high as they wanted without fear of going airborne. It reflected the way he raised them: put them in a position to succeed and watch them soar.
Resilient – he became one of the chief appraisers for the State of Ohio after being turned down for years by the highway department because he was not part of the “good ole boys network.”
Resourceful – he knew how to make money – from selling Venetian blinds to carpets to furniture to neighborhood bars to single family homes. And he became, after much night school education, the head of his own real estate appraisal firm, serving as an expert witness in court too.
Irreverent – someone challenged him once, “Pike, now that you have money, you don’t talk to me anymore.” Pike shot back, “I never talked to you when I didn’t have money.”
Unique – he had many favorite phrases:
If you throw enough stuff against the wall, some of it will stick. (but he didn’t use the word stuff.)
Don’t’ get hurt, get even.
Nothing’s deader than yesterday’s romance. (He relished using that one after his daughters broke-up with their boyfriends or the boyfriends broke up with them.)
You’re run of the mill. (Translation: You’re really special.)
The most famous one was “Them all.” He told his daughters it meant “Bless them all.” He told his son something different. If you knew Pike, you could figure it out.
Strong starter – he was always the first one in line for food.
Own rulemaker – He took his grandsons out to breakfast before Sunday school every Sunday morning. And feed them mounds of bacon – which their parents preferred they not eat in accordance with Jewish dietary law. And he rarely ever got them to Sunday School on time. He was too busy showing them his appraisal projects.
Strong finisher – he closed every occasion with the now famous toast “Here’s to those who wish us well and all the rest can go to hell.”
And perhaps most importantly: a member of the Lucky Bastard Club –the Lucky Bastard Club was an informal grouping of crew members from the Eighth Air Force who completed a tour of duty in World War Two. Luckily, Pike got into flying missions over Germany toward the end of WW Two, not at the beginning. By the time he was installed on a B17 as a ball turret gunner, the Army Air Corp were sending out B17s with escorts – all flying in formation, which greatly cut down on the casualties. So he lived to tell the tale. Some forty thousand airmen didn’t. Hence, the Lucky Bastard Club membership
May you follow in your great grandfather’s footsteps, Levi Pike. May you be as unique, revered and loved as your great Grandpa Pike and may you always be “A LUCKY BASTARD.”
June 8, 2017
Today is special. Why? It’s National Best Friend’s Day.
My first best friend lived next door and was eight months older than me. In our first grade class, she overpowered me to the point that a very wise teacher recommended that we be split-up in second grade so I could develop my own personality. (As pictured above, she was in front and I was in back of her.) Even so, she remained my best friend until she moved away in fifth grade.
There were other besties after that. I was drawn to two of them in particular because they challenged me to be more than just a boy crazy middle schooler and a love-sick teenager. One died nine years ago – the morning after she left a voice mail for me recounting her successful bout with heart surgery. The other – after a hiatus of many years – I reconnected with. She understands how poorly I communicate by phone and so tirelessly initiates the calls.
Newly married in my early twenties, I met a friend and instantly we became inseparable. Until the morning I missed our weekly bowling league outing due to minor cosmetic surgery. She was killed by an oncoming train on her way home from the alley. I had kept the surgery a secret. Had I told her, she would have been with me that fateful day. Not crossing the railroad tracks in her Datsun 240Z with the music blaring and a train ramming her to bits.
After that, there were more “best friends” equally as important. Like the one I refer to as “my rock” the keeper of my secrets – the institutional memory of my soul.
One I haven’t seen in decades – she lives across the country – she is like my muse – at odd intervals she writes me the most beautiful and encouraging notes that hoist my flagging spirits.
One is my comrade in arms – we buoy each other up when our warrior like behavior needs some reinforcement.
One can withstand my erratic moods – ranging from blatantly weird to weirdly sarcastic.
One who listens to whatever I want to talk about.
One who can make me laugh even when I do not think I can ever again even smile.
And this is what I have found: best friends are like lovers – you either click or you don’t. If you do, you tentatively begin to shed your carefully constructed facade in the hopes that they can withstand the gale forces that rage within you. You see that they are persistent, loyal and wise enough to peel back your layers of protective disguise and poke around in your muck to extract the good within.
I don’t need a best friend to shop with. I don’t need a best friend to share recipes with or knitting tips. I don’t need a best friend to even complain to. What I do need is a best friend who can genuinely celebrate with me my hard-won successes and, most importantly, my truly lucky breaks – without resentment and envy.
I need a best friend who will have the courage to tell me when I’m off track, irrational or stuck. And will have the patience to listen while I sort out my emotions and gain clarity.
I’m thankful for the coterie of woman I have in my life who I know in my darkest hours will stand by me and in my greatest shining moments will cheer me on too. Who look out for me. Check up on me. Believe in me. Defend me. Reflect the best in me. Never purposefully leave me.
Because that’s what best friends do.
June 5, 2017
Bonding Over Oatmeal
I never knew why she picked me as a friend in junior high school in the early 1960’s. All I cared about was make-up, clothes, boys, dates, weight and hairstyles. She cared nothing for these concerns. While I read Seventeenth Summer and Marjorie Morningstar about young love, she was reading Miracle at Carville about leprosy.
For years, we remained close friends and met regularly for breakfast. We discussed not only our kids and our jobs and our spouses, but our strange high school friendship. I was attracted to Libby because she was different, had good ideas and was smart. She was drawn to me, because she said, underneath all the clutter and frivolity, she saw honesty, individuality and a free spirit.
And we always ordered and ate the same thing: oatmeal with salt.
Years ago, when I was regularly writing for a local weekly publication, I met a fellow writer named Rose at a party in honor of the newspaper’s first twelve months of existence. We immediately clicked and found we had many things in common – a strange sense of humor, a shared graduation year of 1965, sons, sons and more sons (together we had nine) and a love and reverence for the written word.
We had some great heart-to-heart talks, gave each other morale-booster shots and highly opinionated slants, and shared lots of laughs. We called ourselves not just Rose and Iris, but the never-fading blooms of the Midwest. And one day we agreed to meet for an early lunch.
Rose ordered grilled chicken salad and I ordered oatmeal. When our food arrived, I was hungry, as usual, and immediately began readying my oatmeal for consumption. I stirred the oatmeal thoroughly, ignored the butter, sugar and raisins that the waitress thoughtfully set beside me and methodically went for the salt shaker, which I promptly used with abandon.
My friend Rose stared at my concoction.
I stirred some more, shook some more, and expectantly lifted the first heaping spoonful eagerly to my mouth.
My friend Rose continuing staring.
“What’s wrong, Rosie?” I innocently asked.
“Is that the way you eat oatmeal?” she sputtered. “Without sugar, without sweetener, WITH salt?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ve been eating it that way for years. Cream of wheat too,” I added proudly. “And Ralston.”
She swallowed hard, took a deep breath and proceeded to lean forward conspiratorially. “I do too,” she said. “I only eat oatmeal with salt,” she whispered. “Never sugar. All these years, I thought I was the only one. Everywhere I would go, people would stare, gawk and comment on my odd little habit.”
“I don’t look at it as an odd thing at all, Rose,” I commented pretty matter-of-factly. “Nor as unexplainable. My grandmother ate it that way for years – and another really good friend, Libby, also from the Class of ’65, does too.
“And I have come to realize that doing things a little differently is a welcome sign of individuality, originality and divergent thinking.” Pontificating pretty heartily by now, I continued. “Anybody can eat oatmeal with sugar, but it takes someone with strength of character and confidence in their own integrity to light out on such an adventuresome path!”
Rose smiled. And settled back comfortably to eat her salad – images of salt-laden oatmeal dancing in her head.
We started a club that day – The OWS Club – The Oatmeal With Salt Club – for those hearty souls who dare to buck the established mode of conduct and blaze their own trails – in any realm.
Libby, Rose and I were the charter members but we welcomed others to join our quest, which was a dedication to self-exploration and to individual expression. And also to friendship – the joy of coming together with kindred souls who share a zest for life, a willingness to be their own person and sing their own song.
Libby passed away suddenly in 2008 and Rosie and I have long since lost touch. But I hold the memory of both of them close. They taught me to never let your own bloom fade and your own dreams wilt. And to make time for friends – to share a bowl of oatmeal with and a little bit of salt.
The Secret to Living Happily Ever After
By the time I was 16, I had started to figure it out. My Saturdays were filled with washing and rolling my hair in jumbo rollers and plastering down my bangs with Dippity Doo. Then off to the local dime store in the new shopping center I went to buy bobby pins, eyebrow pencil and lip frost to add to my stash of cheap cosmetic wonders. Wearing those big plastic rollers to the shopping center was a status symbol in those days announcing to the world that you had a “real” date that night.
Nothing was more invigorating than my boyfriend pulling up to my house in his GTO convertible, with a full tank of gas in his car, his entire allowance in his wallet and a whole evening to ourselves – no parents, no pesky little brothers, no teachers, no homework or practices – just us. The feeling of freedom, abandonment, contentment and the sheer pleasure of being alive and with someone you adored was a feeling that was indelibly stamped in the memory of my 16th and 17th year. Saturday night became an unspoken dance between my boyfrien and I, representing a celebration of life’s promises.
When my freshman year at college proved to be a disappointment and my boyfriend from high school started dating a girl from Cleveland, my Saturday nights in the dorm were spent in the Study Lounge watching the headlights of cars carrying other couples out on their dates. I missed the glorious feeling of having someone special to go out with and someone special to be with on Saturday nights.
I transferred universities and my sophomore and junior years at the University of Florida were filled with Saturday night parties in smoke-filled frat houses dancing to music that was too loud and with boys that were too drunk. And although there was no one special in my life for many months, the promise of a Saturday night with someone I would adore continued to fill me with yearning and anticipation.
When I later married and had two children and found that my husband and I didn’t have the magic of a dynamic relationship, my feelings about Saturday night became shrouded in sadness. We had the economic means, the sitter, the time and the opportunity, but the chemistry between the two of us only emphasized for me that he was not the one I wanted to spend that magic night with because Saturday nights have always been special.
I met my second husband on a Saturday night. I fell in love with him on a Saturday night and I married him on a Saturday night.
Over the years of our marriage, he and I have partied on Saturday nights, gone to movies and plays on Saturday nights, and went out to countless dinners on Saturday nights. We’ve spent Saturday nights with friends, family, children and parents, strangers and acquaintances. But, by far, the best Saturday nights we have ever spent have been the Saturday nights we have spent with just each other.
Experts say there is no substitute for shared quality couple time – simply making uninterrupted time to be together – without kids, pets, in-laws, and bosses. And that the bond you form during those sacred times will help you over the challenging hurdles life inevitably presents. The experts are right.
For my husband and I, Saturday nights became fence-mending nights -nights to touch, reconnect, revitalize and re-establish our personal bond with each other. We left behind thoughts of our babies, our toddlers, our youngsters and our teen-agers. We forgot that we had car seats in the rear and cookie crumbs all over the back seat floor.
I became domestically unwired. I forgave my husband for not cleaning up after himself, not using the shoe trees I bought him and the belt rack I hung up for him.
He unhinged his entrepreneurial harness. He forgave me for being snippy, distracted, and disinterested in his newest real estate endeavor. And too focused on the mounds of dirty laundry and the cluttered pantry shelves.
Somehow my husband always looked a little more handsome, moved a little more gracefully and spoke a little more forcefully – on Saturday night. And somehow, I always dressed a little more demurely, spoke a little more softly and moved a little more slowly – on Saturday night. The wine was sweeter, the coffee richer and the food tastier on Saturday night.
And on those rare Saturday nights that the tension didn’t melt away and we carried the rigors of the work week to the enclave of Saturday night, we woke up Sunday morning feeling deprived and out-of-sorts. I cried while he fumed, because we had spoiled a potentially wonderful and soul-satisfying Saturday night.
So we learned to breathe deeply and let go. We left the sorrows of the week on the back yard swing. We left the pressures of the future on the front porch steps. Knowingly, and with great effort, we kept Saturday nights special. I guess that’s why they still are.
What Happens When You Take a Chance and What Happens When You Don’t?
It wasn’t a good week. I was stuck inside with a killer sinus infection, dragging myself through the must-do items on my overcrowded to-do list and canceling all the optional things I could relegate to the future. In other words, postponing all the fun stuff and slogging through the rest. Ugh.
Maybe it was the cough syrup I was spooning down my throat on a regular basis that was prompting dreams of unparalleled glory? Maybe it was the week of relative isolation that fueled my grandiose ideas? No matter.
Out of the box thinking for the moment was overtaking my normally conservative approach to life’s opportunities. It was over running my fever, my lightheadedness and my deep and constant raspy cough. Maybe I was hallucinating, but I seemed to have serendipity and synchronicity resting on my doorstep.
And, after having just gone public and shared my secret of being a closet bulimic for almost 46 years (that is not a typo), some of my thoughts turned to my recovery and what helped sustain it. The Weight Watchers program had played a critical role in keeping me from bingeing and purging. I wanted to share that golden tidbit with my friend Oprah – since she now had ownership in Weight Watchers and was featured prominently in their commercials.
One little thing stood in my way: I couldn’t find her e mail address. So, I did what I thought was a reasonable action. I googled Weight Watchers, pulled up the name and address of both the CEO and the marketing person, and sent them each a letter – hoping that they both had the coveted, direct line to Oprah. Here’s part of my letter:
Dear Mr. Chambers and Mr. Herrera,
Without Weight Watchers, my husband would be a widower, my children without a mother. Your product saved my life.
I am not being overly dramatic. Well maybe just a little!
ED (Eating Disorder) and I started “dating” in 1966. On Valentine’s Day, 2012, I hit a new low and simply knew I could no longer go on the way I was going. The destructive relationship with ED had to be terminated before ED terminated me.
My journey back to normalcy could not have been successful without the help of Weight Watchers. After finishing my three month period of intensive outpatient care at an eating disorder treatment facility, I spent the next six months binge- free, but with no structure to my eating. At the end of those six months, to my horror, I had gained over 25 pounds. I knew that if I could not lose that weight, ED would come calling with a vengeance. And the outcome would not be in my favor.
Weight Watchers provided me with structure, support and encouragement. I lost the 25 pounds and have utilized Weight Watcher products and the points system to keep my weight at a satisfactory level ever since.
I would love for us to put our heads together to see how we can utilize Weight Watcher programs in the eating disordered world.
Three days later, I woke up, reached for my I phone by my bedside and started checking my messages. Lo and behold, there was one from Oprah.
“Thank the Lord,” I thought euphorically. “Boy, they work quickly at Weight Watchers!”
My soaring good spirits plummeted as soon as I realized – upon actually opening the message – that it was a mass produced ditty. But tucked away in the third paragraph was a gem of high value: Oprah’s e mail address.
Okay. Okay. I am not a moron. I realized it wasn’t Oprah’s PRIVATE and PERSONAL email address. But, hey, it was a point of demarcation. I seized the moment, cut and pasted my letter to the two Weight Watcher executives into my e mail message to Oprah. I added a little further elaboration on why I felt Weight Watchers could play a key role in helping people recover from disordered eating patterns. And I crossed my fingers and hit Send.
Did I get a reply? I did!! An hour later. My soaring good spirits plummeted once again as soon as I realized – upon actually opening the message – that it was another stock reply simply confirming receipt of my message.
What does that show me? What does that say for the merits of my inspiration? What does that say to my chances of ever garnering Oprah’s ear to help the anorexic, the bulimic and the binge eater?
I don’t know.
Maybe I’ll hear nothing, because a clueless Oprah assistant fails to see the merits of my quest. Or maybe, just maybe, the first set of eyes to see my e mail will be someone who was bulimic or had a friend in college who was bulimic. And maybe, just maybe, that assistant will run it past a supervisor in the Oprah chain, who’s worried about her own daughter’s sudden weight loss. And maybe, just maybe, my e mail will keep bouncing upward until it reaches Oprah herself – someone who recognizes demons centered around food intake and restriction.
I don’t know.
Two things are for sure:
I’ll be checking my inbox carefully.
And I will keep congratulating myself on taking a chance and reaching out to Oprah in the first place.
Why? Because we all know what happens when you don’t take a chance. Absolutely nothing.
Three Ways to Banish Stress Forever
Ok, just so you know: I don’t do New Year’s resolutions. It’s always the same every year anyway:
Eliminate carbs
Jog three miles a day
Learn French
Streamline my personal belongings
Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah.
So now I have a new approach to self-improvement – finding the most perfect stress busters. And here they are:
Be a divergent thinker – look at things in new ways.
Once there was a little bird who decided to stay in the North for the winter. However, it soon turned so cold that he reluctantly started to fly south. Ice began to form on his wings. Almost frozen, he fell to earth in a pasture. A cow wandered over and – excuse the verb – pooped on the little bird. Our feathered friend thought it was the end.
But the manure was warm and defrosted his wings. Comfortable, happy and able to breathe, he started to sing. Just then, a cat came by and hearing the chirping, investigated. The cat cleared away the manure, found the singing bird, and promptly ate him.
The moral of the story is: Anyone who dumps a little brown present on you is not necessarily your enemy. Anyone who pulls you out a pile of manure is not necessarily your friend. And – if you’re warm and happy in that pile – keep your mouth shut!
Find every opportunity to laugh. Humor has been found to consistently help us deal with obstacles, road blocks and bumps in the road. Humor reduces stress, helps keep things in proper perspective and takes the edge off. Employing humor helps us concentrate less on our disappointments, frustrations and woes and more on what’s fine in our lives. I keep a feel-good basket near my computer. Every time I come across a good joke, I print it out, fold it up and toss it in the basket. When darkness descends and despair come calling, I pluck one out and read it. And feel better.
Here’s one of my favorites:
One day in the Garden of Eden, Eve calls out to G-d. “Lord, I have a Problem!”
“What’s the problem, Eve?”
“Lord, I know you created me and provided this beautiful garden and all of these wonderful animals and that hilarious snake, but I’m just not happy.”
“Why is that, Eve?” came the reply from above.
“Lord, I am lonely, and I’m sick to death of apples.”
”Well, Eve, in that case, I have a solution. I shall create a man for you.”
“What’s a man, Lord?”
“A man is a flawed creature, with many flawed character traits. He’ll be stubborn, vainglorious, and self-absorbed. All in all, he’ll probably give you a hard time. But…he’ll be bigger, faster and will revel in childish things like fighting and kicking a ball about. He won’t be too smart, so he’ll also need your advice to think properly.”
“Sounds great,” says Eve, with an ironically raised eyebrow. “But what’s the catch, Lord?”
“Well… you can have him on one condition.”
“What’s that, Lord?” Eve asks.
“As I said, he’ll be proud, arrogant and self admiring…so you’ll have to let him believe that I made him first. Just remember, it’s our little secret…you know, woman to woman.
Molt.
Ever eat lobster? Ever heard the term molt – an interesting activity the lobster engages in? Molt is to cast or shed a shell.
Here’s some interesting facts:
In the first 5 years of life, a lobster molts or sheds its shell up to 25 times. As an adult, it molts about once a year. As the shell weakens, the lobster seeks out safe areas in the water to molt and protect himself as he readies to shed the old shell. Why? Because he is very vulnerable and in danger at this point – the new shell is not as strong nor as durable as the old one. The new shell is soft and more prone to invasions, so the lobster eats part of its old shell to help harden the new one more quickly.
Just like the lobster, we need to shed our old skins, and grow into bigger, more expansive and more inclusive shells, while retaining that which makes us strong and healthy and unique. And we need a safety net within to do it, such as in the protection and support of our own home, neighborhood and community.
Remember when your mom bought you a winter coat one size larger than you needed? What did she say?
“You’ll grow into it.”
Happy Growing.
Preserving Your Bloom
It’s not about gardening – planting, pruning, fertilizing and watering – at least not in the botanical sense. And it’s not an optional activity. Preserving Your Bloom is about being luminous, not lackluster.
Preserving Your Bloom is about trying risky new things – where the process is unfamiliar and the outcome uncertain. Like I am doing with podcasting. You recognize and honor the risk. You determine to be the best you can be in an unfamiliar situation. Not perfect. But good enough.
Preserving Your Bloom is all about doing what you do with flash and dazzle. And finding others to do the things that demoralize and drain you. I write. I get others to help me with the techy stuff. (If you based your opinion of my mental prowess on my tech ability, you would be surprised that I could put a simple sentence together. I do write a lot of run-on sentences, come to think of it. Hmm.)
Preserving Your Bloom is about making time for a hobby you enjoy. Doesn’t have to be a hobby you excel at. Mine is knitting – a great outlet for creativity. Its execution fits my needs too. It’s portable. Self-taught through You Tube. Easy to do while doing other things. Diet friendly – snacking’s hard when your hands are otherwise occupied. Soul soothing due to its rhythmic repetition.
Preserving Your Bloom is all about doing what scares you. Like speaking in front of an audience. As Jerry Seinfeld noted on his HBO special, in August, 1998: “It’s a well known fact that the number one fear people have is public speaking, followed by the fear of death – that means that people attending a funeral would rather be the person in the casket than be the person delivering the eulogy.” Thankfully, like most things, the more speeches you give, the more comfortable you feel. To a point.
Preserving Your Bloom is being aware, at any age, what you can still pull off with flair – like a short skirt. The only difference is, as we age, we learn to cover up our bare legs underneath that undersized skirt. To camouflage the jiggly knee caps. To hide the broken capillaries.
Preserving Your Bloom is about hiring the right people to make you look as good as you can look, but still be recognizable to the people who see you daily. The people who see you without make-up. Without professionally coiffed hair. Without the right lighting. Without a little Photoshop. (Thanks Buni, the photographer.)
Preserving Your Bloom is about knowing when to work and when to back off. Friends and family get very irritated at me because I answer and return phone calls at MY convenience. When I am writing, I am in “the zone” and refuse to let an incoming call de-rail me.
Preserving Your Bloom – do it for those you love and for those who love you. Do it for yourself, specifically. Do it for the universe, in general. Think about what the world would be like if we all took care of ourselves. And then, took care of each other.
In 2016, let’s make a concerted effort to draw on our own resources and talents, to live life fully, joyfully and productively. To chart our own course. Develop our own mandate. Write our own script.
Aging expert, Judi Bonilla, sees Preserving Your Bloom as lifelong learning. It’s the mechanism, she says, “to explore, awaken, and nurture our personal magic…the unique way each of us looks at a challenge, experience or topic.”
I will help you Preserve Your Bloom by blogging on hot topics of interest that pique your curiosity and engage your attention. Help me Preserve My Bloom by providing me feedback on the blogs I pen. Comment. Like. Share. Tweet. We can all learn from each other.
