Me, Rigid?

A thin line separates self-care from selfishness, and I wonder if sometimes I have unwittingly crossed it by digging in my heals over things that no longer serve me.

Such as where to sit on an airplane.

I don't remember when I concluded, “I must sit in an aisle seat”. Maybe it was when I started drinking two liters of water everyday. Or when I decided I wanted to be able to exit an airplane as quickly as possible when we landed--or if we crashed. That's the optimist in me. Or pessimist. I'm not sure which.

I hadn't thought about it until a friend told me about something that happened on her honeymoon. It got her wondering if her own heel digging might be self-care gone petrified.

Or, as she calls it, rigidity.

“I thought it might be a good topic for your column,” she said. But I had a feeling it was her way of saying we might have this affliction in common.

My friend confessed that her do-not-cross boundary when it comes to air travel happens to be the window seat, and when she and her new husband boarded the airplane on their honeymoon a 12-year-old boy was sitting in her seat—until she told him otherwise.

“Did you just make that little boy move?” her groom said.

Of course my friend, who's really a softie, felt like an ogre. So as soon as the “fasten seat belt” sign went off, she asked the boy if he wanted the window seat, and he said he did, so she gave it to him. Now, she says, she's working on loosening her clinch on her boundaries.

But we have to be aware of our boundaries to know if we are being too rigid with them, and it wasn't so long ago that I was oblivious to many of mine until somebody stumbled over one, at which point I realized, Ouch!

Or Ick. As in the case of my first blind date. I was a freshman in college and he was a famous Big 10 football player. He wasn't typically my type but he was attractive in a big, strong guy sort of way—and he wore a jacket and tie and took me to an expensive restaurant with candlelight and white tablecloths and matching napkins.

But he did something I would have never thought to put on my “do not cross this line” list until I had actually experienced it. A waiter brought a telephone to our table with what must have been a 30-foot cord—it was pre-cell phone 1978. And as the diamond chunk in his left earlobe sparkled like the shining star I thought he was, my date dipped his napkin into his water glass, wiped the sides of his nostrils, and proceeded to make bets with his bookie.

So that's how I learned about boundaries initially—by experiencing someone doing something I found disrespectful and respecting myself enough not to put myself in the situation again. But there were other boundaries I set then erased for fear of disappointing others. Until I began this column, I had difficulty telling people I was unavailable during the times I reserved for writing. Because I wasn't yet published, I thought they wouldn't understand why I chose writing over being with them.

And then someone said, “If you don't take your writing seriously why would anyone else?”

It was a needed reality check: I teach others how to treat me by how I treat myself.

Sometimes I still feel guilty over some boundaries I set, but I'm working on that—on shaking off the untruth that says love requires giving even when I bleed. It's okay to say no if I believe the giving will hurt.

Thanks to my friend, I now know I also need to re-evaluate my boundaries once in a while. Instead of setting them globally or for a lifetime, it's better to be open and flexible. I am growing and changing, so it's only natural that my boundaries should, too.

As for the next time I fly, I plan to request an aisle seat but I won't be as rigid about it, in case someone else needs it more.

Like a 12-year-old boy.

Or somebody who drinks more water than me.

QUESTION: What, if any, boundaries are you holding onto that no longer serve you?

(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment?  See the post above left.)

No Shoes Please

It started innocently enough. I didn't like cleaning black footprints in the bathtub.

"Here," I said, handing my husband rubber flip-flops. "No more going barefoot outside, especially not to 7-Eleven."

He protested at first by "forgetting" to wear them, and I understood why. We live in a beach town. We have barefoot weather practically year round; it's natural not to wear shoes. But when a super-strength mystery goo showed up on his feet I put my foot down.

"Please wear the flip-flops," I said. "The bottoms of your feet are disgusting."
I guess that did it because he started wearing the shoes. Not all the time, but more, and always to 7-Eleven, and the footprints disappeared from the tub.

That's also when we stopped wearing shoes in our home; it seemed the logical next step. But what initially began as a way to keep the house clean eventually changed into something else: Me trying to keep the world at bay.

Because the world wasn't just dirty it was scary dirty, and I had proof.

In August 2009, New York Daily News reporters Leah Chernikoff and Jacob E. Osterhout, wearing flip-flops, trekked through trains, bars, a park, a baseball game, and the public bathroom at the Coney Island Subway Station—and twice rode the Cyclone—then sent the flip-flops to a lab.

About 18,100 bacteria were found on those shoes. And yes, there were probably good as well as bad ones, but Aerococcus viridans and Rothia mucilaginosa were among them. And since they tend to live in the mouth, the logical reason for them clinging to those sandals was people refusing to swallow their own saliva.

"It's not a good sign," the lab's manager, Dennis Kinney, told the Daily News. “If someone were sick and spitting on the ground, you could pick something up.”

The sandals that traveled to Coney Island's public bathroom had even more bacteria, including Staph aureus. This is a generally harmless bacterium unless it enters the body through a cut, gets into your bloodstream, is left untreated, at which point you can die.

It was enough to convince me that everyone should remove their shoes in my home, not just my husband and I. But no, I haven't yet made this ultimatum. I don't want people to think I respect my floors more than I do their desire to be fully dressed. Or that I think they are bug-infested petri dishes, which I don't, but I do think their shoes are.

I have to admit I was uneasy the first time I was asked to remove my shoes at someone's home, because I always wear socks or slippers. I'd forgotten that ten or so years ago I often went barefoot and never died.

Not many die from shaking hands either, but I'd also prefer not to do that, since I don't know where people's hands have been.

It's exhausting, this bacteria angst, and I really don't want to go through my life plastic wrapped and hermetically sealed. My best guess is, all of it is a symptom of my knowing I'm turning 50 soon.

Twenty-five years ago time stretched in front of me endlessly, but it doesn't feel endless now. I feel like a snowball rolling down a hill. The longer I live, the more I know, so the faster my life seems to go. I'm aware of things like catastrophic germs in a way I wasn't before, of anything that might possibly shorten what living I have left.

But obviously fretting over it isn't a wise preoccupation. Especially since chronic stress weakens the immune system, thus lessening my chances of living to a healthy ripe old age.

So I suppose the only solution is to do what someone once advised me but I didn't pay enough attention to: Wear life like a loose robe.

I wonder if really loose flip flops might be just as good?

QUESTION: How are you or are you not wearing your life loosely?

(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See the post above left.)

For the New York Daily News Article: http://www.nydailynews.com/lifestyle/health/2009/08/11/2009-08-11_flipflops_are_a_magnet_for_dangerous_deadly_bac.html#ixzz0Z0vdTjJI

Newspaper Picks Up My Blog

Just two and a half weeks after launching What It's Like For Me: Coming To Terms With Humanness, I received word that the Naples Daily News has picked it up for publication in both the on-line and in-print versions of the newspaper.

My first post, "Mindful of Things," appeared on-line at the Naples Daily News last Thursday, November 19, 2009, then again today, in print, Monday, November 23. That same Thursday-on-line/Monday-in-print schedule will repeat every other week from now on at the newspaper.

So that my postings here at www.JanisLynJohnson.com are in sync with the Naples Daily News publishing schedule of every other week, I am putting this site on pause until Monday, January 4, 2010, at which time I will post a new essay--the same day it appears in print in the Naples Daily News.

That means my essays here at www.JanisLynJohnson.com will then post every other week--for at least the time being.

To check out my work at the Naples Daily News, go to http://www.naplesnews.com/, and type in Janis Lyn Johnson on their site's search bar.

Thank you for your support and patience--and see you in the New Year!

Lovableness, Not So Easy for Some of Us

I admit it. I search the Internet for peculiar things, like the answer to an exasperating issue of mine: How to stop feeling uptight around people I think may think I don't measure up.

I know: It's none of my business what people think of me, if they believe I'm not smart, funny, or good enough. If I am doing all I can to be the best person I can be, all that matters is what I think.

As I said, I know all that. Intellectually. But it must be true that the longest journey is from the head to the heart, because just when I think I have beaten this thing it sneaks back in like crabgrass.

I am sure of something, though: When I carry a question inside me, a power greater than I am knows it. It's like a secret prayer, and the universe has a way of answering in the most unlikely places. Of course, it may not be in the form I expect. It could be a 15 year old named Pumpkin Soup.

I don't know Pumpkin's real name, only that she tossed her message, "How To Be More Lovable", into the Internet sometime during December 2008. I discovered her when I typed "uptight and uncomfortable in the world" into my Yahoo search bar. Maybe that sounds sort of desperate, but I probably was at the time—and Pumpkin seemed like she was, too.

Pumpkin described her friends as "huggy, touchy-feely people," who had given up on hugging her--to say goodbye, hello, and congratulations--because, she thought, she was stiff and awkward.

"My failure to be lovable and huggy and la di da about the world," she wrote, "also is probably the reason I have never had a boyfriend…since I am not hideous looking or anything."

I, too, am not hideous looking or anything, at least not on the outside. Inside can feel like a whole different story. I'm also not as rigid as I was a decade ago--"as tightly strung as piano wire," somebody said—but I can still feel uncomfortable when it comes to hugging people. The first time a stranger attempted to wrap her arms around me I was as receptive as a two-by-four.

Intellectually of course, I understand the root of my up-tightness: It's about not feeling safe. To be with someone, holding hands, hugging or even talking, I need to know that person won't hurt me, physically or emotionally. It's natural to feel uptight around someone who's verbally abusive or has the flu. It's my insecurity mechanism kicking in, warning me of unhealthy situations.

The trouble is, that same mechanism kicks in when I'm with someone I think thinks I don't measure up. I know it's my instinct trying to remind me the fittest of a species survives—which a thousand years ago was a useful tool but obviously isn't necessary today. I'm not going to lose my food and shelter because somebody thinks I'm not “enough”. But what I could lose—and this is what keeps me in the prehistoric ages with gut-clutching discomfort—is a friendship I really want.

So this lingering, low-grade up-tightness—this feeling, as Pumpkin says, of being unlovable—must be fear. Fear that others can't accept my imperfectness—which in my twisted little brain translates into total solitude (if, that is, I am unlucky enough to outlive my husband). And since I happen to be allergic to cats, dogs and basically anything furry with two or four legs I mean really alone.

But all humans are imperfect; even Mother Theresa and Gandhi were imperfect. So if people will not, cannot, do not accept me the way I am—especially when I continue to devour self-improvement meetings and books like M&Ms to try to be “better”--then I have to let them go. Because if they can't accept me, they can't accept humanness; they can't even accept themselves.

And this I do know deep where it counts (I just forgot for awhile): Everyone is worthy of being loved because the Great Spirit of all Things doesn't make mistakes.

How to be more Lovable?

Pumpkin, bless your sweet little uptight heart, we're already lovable enough.

QUESTION: The last time you felt uptight around someone, were you consciously aware of why?

(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment?  See the post above left.)

Grateful for the Cobwebs

Doing something you don't want to do can sometimes be a good thing--even if you are pushed into doing it. It can help you grow beyond your comfort level and, if you're fortunate, it can put more in perspective than you might have imagined.

Take, for example, entertaining friends at home. For most people, it probably isn't an issue, but it is for me. As soon as you step into the foyer of my townhouse, I worry you'll notice the woodwork surrounding the front and garage doors has been dog chewed up to the doorknobs. Have I done anything about that? No. Not yet. And if you look across the foyer into the living room, you'll see the parquet floor is as scratched and stained as a butcher block. Have I done anything about that? No. Not yet.

Then, please don't look up at the two-story ceiling, because the cobwebs are probably two decades old. And yes, I did at least try to do something about that. I repeatedly slung a wet washcloth up there to knock them down. That smeared them all over the place. Have I done anything about that? No. Not yet.

I tell myself the reason these things are unchanged is because my husband and I eventually plan to move. But I know it's also because I'm frugal and a procrastinator--which is why the fabric on the ceiling of our 13-year-old Jeep hangs nearer and nearer to our heads.

In my dreams, our Someday House will already have perfect door surrounds, ceilings, and floors. Our Someday Car will be perfect, too. But as for my dreams of our Someday House, I know that's all it is, a dream. Because the house my husband and I will ultimately choose will probably be a fixer upper, considering he's as frugal as me.

Despite the blemished townhouse, I did invite three girlfriends over recently. Well, sort of. My initial idea was for one girlfriend to come over for frozen organic pizza. She suggested I cook pasta instead. She even gave me the recipe and asked if I wanted to invite so and so, too. "Sure," I heard myself say.

Then, two weeks before the dinner--or was it one week--she sent me an email explaining she'd also invited another friend. Could I send her directions? "Sure," I emailed back.

The problem was, I'm not and never have been comfortable cooking things from scratch--thus the initial frozen organic pizza concept. The last time I cooked for friends was probably four or more years ago, and that was just a breakfast. This time, I knew I could order take out, even cater the darn thing, but for some reason I eventually came around to the decision that I wanted to cook.

Maybe cooking is like putting on makeup. I enjoy doing it sometimes, for certain occasions. It's the creative part of me trying to be expressed by doing something special. And what could be more special to give someone than a delicious home-cooked meal?

The emphasis, of course, is on delicious. I have a friend named Alice who loves to cook, and everything she makes is delicious, so going to her house is always fun. And herein lies another problem. A lot of what I cook is not so great or, at best, bland. I remember the time I made Gazpacho. Cold soup. How difficult could that be? The dish was so oily it made me nauseous.

Nevertheless, in the middle of my recent dinner party I found myself having a good time. Even my linguini and broccoli tossed in garlic and oil was good--that is, after we all added grated cheese and more salt and pepper. And then, one of my girlfriends mentioned that a homeless family--friends of hers, a couple who had recently lost their jobs and their house, and had a teenage son--was now living with her family in her home.

Whether or not there were cobwebs on my ceiling didn't seem to matter as much anymore. At least I had a ceiling for the cobwebs to cling to.

QUESTION: What event or events in your life surprised you with a shift in your perspective?

(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment?  See the post above left.)

Mindful of Things

It's amazing how shame rears its head unexpectedly, over something as simple as shoes.

One morning when it was raining, I wore rubber flip-flops out of the house, then once at my destination replaced them with the new leather sandals I'd coveted for months before finally buying on sale.  It wasn't something I usually did, wear shoes I loved in the rain. In the past I'd have kept them boxed up until another appropriate but dry occasion, missing the opportunity to enjoy them now. This was growth for me.

But when a girlfriend noticed me switch out of the sandals and back into the flip-flops as I headed into the rain again, I felt an uncontrollable need to blurt, "Don't mind me. I'm just fussy." One step forward and another back. I was a child again, ridiculing myself before anyone else on the playground did.

It took me a while to understand where that had come from, my shame for wanting to protect something I treasured. I wasn't being fussy; I was being careful. Somewhere during my lifetime, though, I had unconsciously accepted the myth that consumption is cool and preservation is for fussy people. In our consumerism society, if something isn't shiny anymore--never mind if it still works fine--it gets tossed or gifted to somebody else. Or, if you're like me, donated to charity to assuage my guilt.

No wonder debt and dumps are growing. According to authors Helen Spiegelman and Bill Sheehan, Ph.D.*, New York City garbage collectors picked up more than 1,200 pounds of waste per resident per year a century ago. Three-quarters of it was coal ashes, 15 percent was garbage, and eight percent was what we now call "product waste", items ranging from paper to old mattresses. Today New York collects more than 1,600 pounds of waste per resident, but product waste is a whopping three-quarters of that.

Since we tend to preserve and keep what we care about, I wonder what that says about what we mostly buy? I know for me in the past I too often bought things to follow a trend, copy someone else's style, or fill a space in my home I didn't know what else to do with. All were eventually purged.

Then, last year, I bought a pair of shoes I didn't love just to work with a handbag I did. Within weeks I regretted the purchase, but I couldn't return what I'd worn. For some reason, that acquisition bothered me more than any had in the past, and I couldn't understand why. It wasn't that the shoes had cost much; they were inexpensive. So what was the problem? After all, I'd done this before.

And that's when it dawned on me: I wasn't the person I was before. I knew better. My transgression? I wasn't mindful.

For me, mindfulness means being consciously aware of everything I do and my motives behind it. But as I handed the saleswoman my credit card that day, I was totally oblivious that my motive was impatience. I didn't want to wait to find shoes I loved; I wanted to use the handbag now. Yes, yes, I know I don't have to match shoes to my bag, but this particular pewter metallic tote screamed for gray shoes or sandals (in my non-fashionista opinion).

Since then, whenever I consider buying a non-necessity, I try to remember to ask myself what my motive is. If my answer is that I love it, or at least really like it, and it's in my budget, I buy it. (Of course, my husband thinks the only acceptable motive should be to need it, but that's a whole different topic.)

Being mindful about what I buy also means taking the time to recognize the quality, significance, or magnitude of a thing. It means honoring the fact that someone took the care to create this object. On some level, it meant something to them. It expresses their inspired essence. So I'm trying to change my attitude about those gray shoes. After all, someone thought they were beautiful enough to create them for me. I want to be respectful of that.

I hope someone else would do the same for what I create for them.

*Products, Waste, And The End Of The Throwaway Society, by Helen Spiegelman and Bill Sheehan, Ph.D. "The Networker", http://www.sehn.org/Volume_10-2.html

QUESTION: How are you or are you not mindful of the things you possess and why?

(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment?  See the post above left. )

My New Blog Is Coming Soon

Look for the launch of my weekly blog column on Monday morning, November 9, 2009. I hope to see you there!

Vision

"Vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others." -- Jonathan Swift