The Art of not being a control freak - relationships, Part I

I started dating someone.

There. I've said it. I used the "d" word.

It's been grand, though I can't admit, entirely easy. Through the 'still new' course of this boy-meets-girl-and-they're-hanging-out adventure (see, I still can't use the "d" word), I have discovered a few very interesting things about myself.

The least pleasant of which is, I am a control freak.

I am still hard pressed to admit it because frankly, I'm okay with being a control freak providing I don't suck anyone else into the vortex of my control.

I think it's okay to try and have control over your life (even though we all know that never works out the way we think either) but to expect anyone else to fall into place is just plain unreasonable.

They're too busy trying to control their own life, their way.

And I don't know why it always suprises me when I realize for the gazillionth time that every one else's reality revolves around them and not me. But it's true.

That's why when people ask me, "but what are people going to THINK"? (in reference to their dirty laundry - or mine - being exposed), I say:

"Nothing. Because nobody really cares about your life (except your friends, and even then...) The rest are too busy trying to figure out their own lives to worry about yours. And even if they do, it's temporary cuz everybody's wrapped up in their own drama."

So what does it matter what people think?

But maybe the best answer I heard came from David Foster. When asked in an interview:

"You've been so successful, why do you want people like me, asking all these personal questions about your life?" (this followed a discussion about his former, disastrous reality show which the interviewer thought might be a huge source of embarassment for Foster).

Foster answered:

"Because I don't care. Do you know how long you're on this earth? (snaps his fingers) That long. You're here for 80 years or 73 point something and you're dead for trillions of years. Trillions. So does it matter?"

No David, it doesn't. And neither does the fact that I'm trying to control every aspect of my life and I can't. Sometimes, you just have to let things go and let them play out on their own.

'Cause before you know it, it's going to be over. How much time of that 'snap!' do you really want to spend freaking out?

Things will work out the way they're suppose to. In the meantime, I just have to be the best person I can. Since I can't control anyone else's reaction except my own, that's where I have to start.

I came into this 'connection' having established some pre-conceived notions of how it was suppose to be. I had been treated dismissively so consistently in previous relationships, that I was now looking for signs of a laissez-faire behaviour which could only mean one thing - he could "take-it-or-leave-it". In other words, I didn't mean squat either way.

And if that was the case, I was done. I was crispy I was so done. Matter of fact, I couldn't wait to be done because I was getting tired of waiting for the axe to fall. So why not just find something wrong and get it over with? Seemed logical to me.

At least that way, I'd be the one in control.

So when things weren't playing out the way I had imagined they should, but more casually (the irony being that's the way I had set it up in the first place because I wasn't ready for anything that resembled a dating label), I was pissed off. Okay, irate is more like it.

Hypocrite that I am.

But oh, so busted.

Sure, there were other things I actually did have the right to be ticked about...

I like someone to make plans with me way ahead of time because my days are usually full, I like punctuality, lots of communication when it comes to tardiness and a man to do a bit more of the chasing while I get to play 'coy', but generally speaking I freaked out not because any of those expectations were violated, but because I didn't know how to handle my new feelings.

I was back in Junior High.

I was feeling more vulnerable than I had in years and I didn't know what to do with it. And I needed a big neon sign to come out of the sky and tell me if my feelings were reciprocated.

I wanted a guarantee that this was equal. Even Steven. A shared feeling right down the line. Tit for tat.

If I was going to feel raw and be vulnerable, then I bloody well better not be the only one. And when I realized I couldn't be sure, (and furthermore had no right to ask because I had made it perfectly clear I was a committaphobe), I put up the Berlin wall of defense strategies and turned into a someone I suddenly didn't like very much. Or as he put it:

"Man, you are mean when you're angry."

To which I replied, "No I'm not. Only with you."

Because this relationship (and I can't believe I am calling it that) has become a trigger.

I realized that no matter how much work I have done on myself to understand my failings, my behavior, the reason I attracted the wrong men into my life, there's nothing quite like putting what I think I know into practice.

You can't truly say you've broken the negative patterns in all your previous relationships by living in a vacuum. You have to BE in one.

In other words, you can't do it alone. Theory is one thing, intellectualizing the process is one thing, but feeling your way through it, is quite another.

So...

Even though I'm still not labelling anything, and even though I'm not crazy about plowing through some very uncomfortable feelings, I realize that it's time I stopped being a control freak, stopped running away and just DEAL WITH THIS.

And sabottaging what might actually be good for me? That's no longer an option. (Although I can't promise I won't still try).

And even though I'm not buying new shoes yet, I've only got one toe out the door these days instead of my entire foot.

What I realized also is that everybody express themselves differently.

I can't get someone to like me the way I think they should like me. Even if I did, it wouldn't mean anything. They have to do it the way they need to do it. In their own time, using their own methods. And if that doesn't sit well with me, well... then I can decide if it's enough for me or if I need something else, something more to feel valued and appreciated.

And if that's the case, then I can choose to move on.

But in the meantime, I'm going to learn the art of not being a control freak. I'll do my best to give that other person the benefit of the doubt and not jump to conclusions. Because all things considered, things are pretty darn good.

So, it's time to leave the baggage behind. After all, do you know how long we're on this earth for?

(snap!) That's right. That long.

-----
Next - an anthropologist's view on the nature of love...

The Art of not being a chickenshit and busting yourself

Okay, so this isn't gonna cut it.

Even I know one blog a month is lame. I mean, like... this is totally lame.

But I've been contemplating cutting out my blog life. And in the interim between self-deprecatory excuses, I have been emailing my friend, mentor, and confidante, "Writer Jim" my best I've-been-to-law-school-so-just-try-and-talk-me-out-of-it-I-dare-you arguments justifying my actions.

Or perhaps, more accurately, lack thereof in the writing department.

Why? Because suddenly, I doubted my ability to post on a consistent, (2-3 times a week) basis. And I don't mean just any old post, but a good post. With life lessons, an open heart, and of course, my life on a platter.

Sometimes that's the toughest part.

It's one thing to lecture about what I know (correction - what I think I know)and quite another to use the blog not only as a venue of personal expression (for that's what a blog is) but as Gestalt therapy.

Gestalt therapy: an existential--experiential form of psychotherapy that emphasizes personal responsibility, and that focuses upon the individual's experience in the present moment, the therapist-client relationship, the environmental and social contexts of a person's life, and the self-regulating adjustments people make as a result of their overall situation.

Y'all are my collective therapist.

You even fit the stereotype - that of a silent listener who takes notes from a fancy leather-studded armchair while I lay on some matching burgundy chaise lounge spilling my guts out and wondering how crazy you think I really am when I leave.

Oy vay.

And yet, I know that some of my experiences simply mirror those of others. So I'm not really operating in a vacuum. The difference is, I put words and analysis to mine. And somewhere along the way, somebody gets what I'm saying.

And that's why I do it. That's why I want to keep doing it.

As I bust myself constantly, there exists a possibility that someone, somewhere might identify their crap with mine. And maybe, just maybe, take note and save themselves a little unnecessary aggravation in the process.

Interestingly enough, it was busting myself that made me come back...

It's not that I couldn't find the time to blog - although I am the queen of legitimate excuses - I couldn't see myself personally delving further (in a no-holds-barred kinda way) into my life anymore without feeling completely and utterly exposed.

But if there's one thing I've never wanted to be in life, it's a chickenshit. And I just busted myself on being one.

So for better or worse, I'm back. Maybe just once a week on Sundays, because I've started another book (more on that later) but I am, indeed back.

The Art of Letting go - Part II - new beginnings

There I was, 40-something, standing in the middle of my new one bedroom apartment when it finally occurred to me...

For the first time in my life, I was about to live alone.

I felt my eyes brimming over with tears as I took a walk down memory lane and the last 25 years. I was overtaken with emotion.

No more kids to clean up after, no more vats of food to make, or fights to mediate, or tears to wipe or homework to check, (well that's not true - occasionally they still send their essays for feedback), but mostly...

NO MORE BATHROOM TO SHARE.

And you know what that means...

I could finally pee with the door OPEN.

Wahoo!!!

Silly as it sounds, anyone who hasn't tried this yet has no idea how liberating it is. Combined with an exercise that entails walking through your home completely naked serves up an effective recipe designed to remind one what life was like before restrictions. Frakkin' awesome.

Welcome to your potty training mental state.

Yesiree. The perks of living alone were starting to overshadow the awkward silence I was feeling in a space that was for once, COMPLETELY mine.

I had taken living with (and caring) for others so much for granted that I realized it was going to take some time for all of this 'freedom' to sink in.

But as always old habits die hard.

I was still buying food in bulk and making vats of it, just in case any of the boys or their girlfriends dropped by. (And there was always a chance, since everyone lived but a block away).

But that's not the point. I simply wasn't used to it.

It hadn't really dawned on me how foreign this concept of living alone was until I went to bed for the first time. I turned the TV off and there it was...

Silence

No more residual noises leftover from kids socializing until the wee hours of the morning, no more video games playing softly in another room, and no more wondering who will waltz in late from a night out on the town.

It was absolute, total, unequivocal silence.

How the hell am I suppose to sleep in this? I thought.

I know... like this - zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

And just like that, I did.

However, life alone was not all daisies and daffodils.

As I settled into the new life changes I was experiencing, I realized that the trough-sized portions of food I was constantly cooking were less of an altruistic desire to feed my family and perhaps more honestly, a reflection of my own need to keep some semblance of my old life intact (and my other self).

After all, who was I if I wasn't needed?

I wanted to be needed. I wanted to matter.

Most of all, I wanted to count.

And if I didn't do something for someone, then what need would exist for them to come over?

It was such a large part of my modus operandi that I'm not sure I knew who I was without it.

So I cooked. But as the weeks and months passed, I stopped cooking for those other reaons (that I needed to be prepared just in case someone dropped by). I did it because it relaxed me, as it always had after a hectic day at work.

Cooking became its own reward. Especially soup.

So I became The Soupmaker.

Whether someone came by to enjoy the fruits of my loving labors became irrelevant to me. (Even though someone usually did). What was relevant was the feeling I got from doing it.

It always comes down to feelings.

If it feels good, you're doing it for the right reasons (whatever it is you're doing). And if it doesn't feel good, you stop.

It's as simple as that.

As the months wore on, something else occurred to me that shifted my life into new beginnings, changing my perspective once again...

I no longer had a nuclear family.

That realization became one of the turning points in my life. For this one however, I had to learn the art of really letting go.

While I am privileged to receive a phone call from at least one of the boys on a daily basis, for the most part, I was now on the outskirts of their lives.

And I'll never forget when it dawned on me either.

I had just gotten off the phone with one of them, and was told they had all made plans with each other (and girlfriends) over the holidays - dinner at one of their apartments, complete with wine and dessert. Always a big success.

Always?

"It's a tradition we started years ago Mom".

And I was not in the mix.

Oh my GOD, I thought, I'M EXTENDED FAMILY.

All the pieces were starting to fit together.

I realized I was also not the first responder in a crisis. Not that I didn't want to be, I just wasn't necessarily the first one they called when they had a problem - sometimes I was, but often they called each other first.

As it should be.

The shock wore off quickly enough. But as I hung up the phone, I remained standing, hands on my hips, looking at the ground expecting it to open up and an invisible home theatre to slowly emerge as the trailer of "My Life as a Mother" would start playing, melodramatic music n' all, to an audience of one - me.

And the same words rolled around in my head like a broken record...

I'm extended family now. Me. Holy crap. What does that mean?

It meant, it was time to let go.

A strange calm came over me then. I knew that whatever happened, they were going to be alright.

They had each other. And I smiled.

Not only did they have each other, but soon they would develop working relationships with people in their chosen fields and become intangibly connected with some of them as well. (Just as close as family).

I believe that every time you get to know yourself better, (ie; everytime you grow - academically, through a crisis, or creatively), you become better acquainted with who you are and begin to draw from within the circle of your experiences more people with whom you resonate energetically than ever before.

And those are the closest relationships you will ever have. As close as family. They include girlfriends, siblings, lifers, and co-workers.

I have some like that. Now it was their turn.

This was the curve in the road I had never anticipated.

It also became the perfect opportunity for me to do some of the discovering I had put on the backburner all those years ago when raising a family and staying alive had become the only two priorities in my life.

(Self-awareness held a distant fourth, after number three which was trying to pick God's brain in an effort to understand the nature of suffering).

But I smiled that day.

A quiet smile that no one, save me, was privy to. It was a smile that came with a knowing that I was once again presented with a golden opportunity to work on myself and learn some of the things I had always wanted to learn and do - like write a book, go on a trip with friends and learn how to be a Princess.

Maybe even, fall in love. With the right guy this time.

And so once again, the quest began...

The Art of Letting Go - PART I - hindsight is so yesterday.

I should have written more this week but I find myself completely distracted by the Olympic games.

It happens every time they come on. I can't help it. They move me.

And I revisit how I would have loved to compete in my younger days. (Not now of course, unless I could convince the olympic committee to incorporate something like shuffleboard as an event. Then I might be convinced to train feverishly amid regular breaks of beer and nachos).

Not that I was anywhere near athletic perfection back then mind you - even in my prime (which was probably around fourteen). I wasn't even terribly athletic for that matter. And I could be oh so uncoordinated when attempting new activities.

Unfortunately, I was also fearless to the point of stupidity. (A characteristic my parents dutifully ignored because they figured I would eventually grow out of it.)

Little did they know this stubborness would simply transfer into other aspects of my life. But that is neither here, nor there. (Whatever that means).

But I digress...

In any case, when I was a young lass, a brash restlessness to test the boundaries of my limits overtook my more logical senses on a regular basis, resulting in a few injuries, all sustained before the age of 13; like crushing a couple of vertebrae together in my neck because I fell off a horse going over a fence I wasn't ready for, or flying off a mogul without any clue as to form and getting the tip of one ski practically stuck in my skull.

And of course, I ignored each and every injury, the extent of which I was blissfully ignorant upon receving, and repeated the exercise so as not to end the day on a negative note.

The Gods must have been on my side while no doubt shaking their heads at my complete indifference to the life they gave me. Good thing they had a sense of humour.

I'm still convinced I could have done it all back then.

If only... I had had a little focus.

But at the ripe young age of forty-something, I now know that hindsight is not only 20/20, but it's also so yesterday.

Interestingly enough, I have few regrets. As one athlete quipped earlier today, "everyone has their path, this was mine", (or something to that effect).

Being an olympic athlete was simply not part of mine.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

Dreamers beware.

Shoulda, woulda coulda are three dirty little words, that when accompanied by the infamous 'if only' become a sour recipe for regret and its ensuing disease hindsightitis.

These are our worst enemies in the art of letting go. They hold us back from truly experiencing the wonders of life in the here and now.

I had other things to conquer in life, things to beat on a personal nature that can't be timed on a clock or gauged by a medal. As do most people.

And I still have many things to do that are as exciting to me as practicing for the olympics would be for a world-class athlete.

It's all relative.

Life is relative.

It's all about being good with where you are and what you're doing.

Accpeting the choices you've made (or forgiving yourself for some) as well accepting things for which you had no control but that affected your life anyway - whether you agreed to them or not... whether you like them or not...

And then there are choices you embark upon to make the necessary changes in your life that take you out of the comfort zone you've been used to - sometimes for the last twenty-five years.

But don't worry, Darwin was right. We're pretty good at evolving to accomodate our newer circumstances - bigger and better than ever.

Accepting, letting go, changing, living for the moment, and looking to the future with an open heart and mind.

That's the key.

These are all things you must do to keep from contracting 'hindsightitis' or 'regrettaphobia' and other unnamed diseases of the heart and mind that prevent you from living fully and enjoying every stage of your life for what it offers you in the form of love and learning.

So as I watch the olympic games and feel the adrenaline pound in my chest for every athlete whose hard work, heart ache, sacrifice and last minute injuries add to the drama and celebration of my own life, I am grateful, not regretful.

Grateful they exist to remind me of the joy of following your passion. Grateful to share in their experience and energy, because their courage only adds to my own.

Next - Part II...

"The Art of Being a Princess"

There it was, sitting at our table, beckoning...

... a plastic gold tiara, glistening beneath the dimmed fluorescent lights of another cheaply decorated ballroom of black balloons, silver stars, tacky tablecloths and cheap champagne served in plastic flute glasses.

It was New Year's Eve in the 'Peg.

And I was busy absolving myself of any lingering guilt associated with dragging my friends to this single senior's ball with promises of midnight kisses with smoldering hot, single guys.

In all honesty, the coordinator of these festivities did not lie to me about the age range: "about 25 to 75", he said.

What he failed to mention was that 90% of them were retired.

But none of that mattered now. My friends were drinking and having fun dancing with every geriatric well enough to ask them, while I sat and contemplated the theme of my coming year.

Every new year simply must have a theme.

And it has to be worded in such a way that you remember it.

Not a list of resolutions made to be broken within a month, but rather one, catchy phrase preceded by the starter statement:

This is the year that I... (fill in the blank).

Some examples might be:

"Get fit"
"Heal old wounds"
"Get laid"

or in my case...

"Become a Princess!"

However, given that manifesting principles dictate that all statements must be placed in the here and now to be effective, (as there is nothing other than the present moment), the catch phrase:

I Am a Princess

... was born.

Earlier that evening, my Columbian friend L, had chosen a different theme. This year, she was going to "surrender to da Universe".

"I have faith dat Got knows best", she said with the solemn determination of a newly ordained priest.

(When I looked at her I thought I detected a faint halo, but it was probably hair product). "Say what?" I said, distracted by the glow around her head.

"Yes", she responded with dignity, tempered with a sexy Spanish accent a la Salma Hayek and a fiery beauty to match;

"Dis year, I ham going to surrender to da universe and embrace de unfolding of life."

She looked at me and smiled serenely, at peace with herself and all that is, was, and ever will be. All this, coming from a woman forced to escape her country of birth after a life-threatening stint as a prosecuting attorney sent her packing.

I admired her without reservation. But I couldn't compete with her resoution.

"What about you?" she asked.

I hesitated, knowing I was about as far removed from a similar answer as a Pygmy tribe in Africa was to having Inuit relatives in the Arctic tundra.

But she knew me. And she never, ever judged. So I was safe.

"This year I'm gonna spoil myself to the point of no return." I said with my arms crossed daring some invisible audience - the Gods maybe - to convince me otherwise.

Just let 'em try, I thought, L wasn't the only one who attended law school.

"Good for you!" she said, without missing a beat, "you deserve it!"

Ya gotta love the sisterhood.

So there we were a few hours later, in a ballroom setting capable of putting all redneck family reunion decorations to shame, and I was faced with the TIARA. It was my moment of truth.

I pulled my hair back and put it on.

It had a strange power over me, this tiara. As the plastic teeth gripped the sides of my carefully coiffed hair, I suddenly felt my back straighten just a little and my chin tilt up just a tad - enough to give me an air of royal dignity and scare anyone away unworthy of my attentions.

Either that or it was my attitude.

But no matter! I had embraced my inner princess and God help anyone who tried to take the title away from me! I was no longer the runner-up in this game called life! I was a winner!

-----
As the weeks passed and I returned to my life substitute teaching, evidence of this theme cropped up randomly as reminders of my aspirations this year.

One day I subbed in a kindergarten class and the teacher had left specific instructions to make TIARAS with the children who were having a TEA PARTY on Friday in celebration of the letter "T".

How perfect.

I donned the sample Tiara, told the children they could either call me Ms. A or Queen A but that "I preferred the latter".

I wore it all morning and was forced to repeat the exercise with the afternoon class.

By the time we were done, I had my own Tiara with more gold and silver sprinkles than there were stars in the desert night sky.

Another day, I subbed at a school that was having a 'hat day'. The secretary wore a fabulous tiara.

When I said to her, "I want your tiara", she replied, "You can't have it. Only special people get to wear them."

Indeed they do, I thought, and smiled coyly knowing I was destined for such an honor.

By now, the tiara syndrome had embedded its way into my brain and I no longer needed the crutch of a fake one to get me through the day.

I had learned about the tiara syndrome from another grade one class. When they had 'choice time' at the end of the day, a group of girls chose to draw.

They all drew princesses.

When I asked them, "Who is that?" they all replied, "That's ME!"

But of course! This was an A-HA moment if there ever was one.

I began to notice a pattern...

In every elementary class I taught, whenever the girls were given free time to draw, one group always chose to draw princesses. The rest did some variation of butterflies, trees or small, furry animals (while the boys did trucks and guns I might add, but that's another story).

My conclusion?

EVERY girl has an inner princess.

Now, at the age of... comfortable... I was finally finding mine.

The only difference between me and them, was that I wasn't waiting for my Prince Charming anymore. If he shows up, SUPER. And if he doesn't, that's cool too. No one's carriage is turning into a pumpkin in this story anytime soon.

With my vow to be a princess, I made myself responsible for every act that came my way. EVERY ACTION and every REACTION.

Don't kid yourself. None of these self-contracts come without a little work.

I had to work on myself. I had to feel worthy.

Every, single, day.

That was the catch. Not always easy when you've spent a lifetime thinking you have to work harder than everyone else to be loved and adored; that nothing comes for free. And then you have the kind of relationships that prove this false theory over and over again.

Not good.

But this year, I am going to treat myself the way I had always imagined it would feel like to be doted upon and adored.

As this is something I had failed to experience in my love life, I thought it was high time I set the bar myself and see what it felt like...

...in all aspects of my life.

From now on, I would buy the good cheese (even if it wasn't on sale), quality dark chocolate to keep in my freezer and nibble on when times were tough, fresh flowers for my living room, the perfect jeans (even if they cost me a day's work), and maybe even that trip to California I had been wanting to do for years.

As it turns out, that was the first thing I booked.

After all, if I don't think I'm a princess, then I will justifiably spend my sit-com life as the runner-up in my own story.

And it'll be a cold day in L.A. before I play that rerun again.

So here goes nothing :)