Everyone Has a Story

There used to be this segment on the national news that our family enjoyed. It was called "Everyone Has a Story" and the storyteller was a journalist named Steve Hartman.

It was human interest kind of stuff, but we loved it. The story would open with Steve throwing a dart at a map of the US, and then whatever town the dart landed on, he would go to that town and get a phone book and then pick a random name from the phone book. And off he would go, to meet that person and find out their story.

It doesn't seem like it would work, as a piece on a newscast or even as entertainment.

I mean, the first thing you think when you see him knocking on the door of an unknown person is, "Well, what if he knocked on MY door? I don't have a story. People would be so bored. There's nothing to tell. How can this even work when he doesn't know who's behind the door and if they are going to have anything interesting to say?"

It turns out Steve Hartman was right, though. Everyone Has a Story. Not once did he knock on a door and get faced with a dud. Not once. And I'm going to give Steve Hartman his due credit and say he was (is) a fantastic journalist. The guy knew what to ask and how to follow up to get good stories from people.

I got to thinking about this because last week I gave a statement in a courtroom at a sentencing hearing. The courtroom was filled with people, most of whom had nothing to do with the case for which I was there. There were defendants in orange jumpsuits waiting their turn to enter a plea with the judge. There were lawyers walking in and out counseling clients as to the status of their cases. There were family members there to support their relatives, friends to support their friends. It was a room filled with the spectrum of humanity, from victims to perpetrators and everyone caught in between.

I was there to tell my story. Which had nothing to do with most of the people in that room. Yet they all had to listen to it.

Afterwards, when I sat down, the woman sitting to my left, whom I did not know and had no idea why she was in that courtroom that day, turned to me and said, "You did great. I'm so sorry. I wish you all the best."

And then as Dave and I were walking to our car in the parking lot, a woman stopped her car and yelled out to me, "Excuse me!" and when I turned around to respond she said, "God bless you."

And I just wanted to cry. Not because I was sad. Kind of the opposite. These two people, who I do not know and will probably never see again, took a moment to let me know they heard my story. They stopped doing what they were doing to be kind to me, someone they did not know.

Because they heard me.

We don't live in a world right now that encourages us to take the time to ask people what their story is. We live in the era of snap judgements (Twitter likes) and assumptions (what channel you watch is who you are). Imagine if we took the time to ask people who they are, and then actually listened to them. And maybe shared some of who we are. We might find commonality, altruism, compassion in the unlikeliest of people.

Details. Facts. Background. Nuance. Those things take time and effort to find out. We should spend that time making that effort.

It's not likely that Steve Hartman is going to come knocking on my door. But if he does, I have a story. And I'd like to hear his.

keep going, Sideways Runner Guy

Dave and I moved to Elk Grove in 1991. It was a decidedly much smaller place back then. You could drive down the length of Laguna Boulevard in under 5 minutes (it now takes about twelve). There were 2 high schools (there are now nine). The population was significantly less--like by a hundred thousand! There was no Target, no Walmart. It was challenging to find a gas station.

I bring all of this up because through all the changes, sideways runner guy was a constant.

I first noticed him at least twenty years ago. I would see him running west on Laguna Boulevard, on the windy path that allowed people to bike, walk, roller-skate and run the length of the busy street without being on the road with cars. I'm a runner, and when I see other runners I notice. I estimate their pace, look to see if they're wearing a watch, observe their form--that kind of thing.

Sideways runner guy captured my attention, and then my imagination. I would see him every so often, usually in the evening, at various points on Laguna Boulevard. He was easy to spot because he ran tilted to his right. For lack of a better way of describing it (and I mean absolutely no disrespect with this description but I think it's one that makes the situation easier to visualize), he's sort of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, running tilted to his right.

For a while I didn't realize what was going on and I thought to myself, "That guy is wasting a lot of energy with that form."

But as I saw him again and again, always tilted to his right, I realized that he wasn't wasting energy at all. He was, in fact, running the only way he could. I don't know what happened, but clearly he and his body had undergone some sort of trauma, possibly a stroke. That realization changed the way I saw sideways runner guy. I no longer wanted to analyze his form, didn't care about his pace, and forgot to even look if he wore a watch. All I wanted to do was cheer him on.

You know how sometimes in life you see something again and again, always the same way, and then all of a sudden, for whatever reason, your perspective shifts, and you see that same thing completely differently? Sideways Runner Guy shifted my perspective on who I want to be. He shifted my perspective on me.

I want to be a person who appreciates people trying, not a person who notices their shortcomings.

I want to be a person who respects people's originality, not a person who criticizes their differences.

I don't know why Sideways Runner Guy runs sideways. But I do know that I want to be a person who simply appreciates that he runs.

In Favor of Cocktails

I made margaritas yesterday evening. And by evening I mean 4:59pm.

It took me a long time to come to margaritas. And tequila in general. I never drank it in college--didn't like the taste (as if that mattered--but it did, to me, at the time). I didn't like it in early adulthood. Just not a flavor that appealed to me for whatever reason.

But in my fifties--for whatever reason--tequila appeals. It tastes good. Not in shots. Really, let's be honest. Nothing tastes good in shots. Can we all just admit that now, as adults? Vodka has no taste. Whisky is nasty and no one likes the smell (and we all threw up on 7 and 7's in college--you know you did! Admit it!). Rum is just...rum. What's the point of rum? I mean, if you just want to get drop dead drunk fast, I guess shots might be your game. But that's never my goal (anymore). Now, a nice buzz, built up over an hour or two--yeah, that's a can-do.

So margaritas. Yes, please.

Yesterday, I made my own simple syrup (truly, simple--equal sugar to water ratio heated until sugar dissolves and then cooled) and squeezed fresh lime juice instead of using "sweet and sour" mix. No triple sec, either. Just lime juice, simple syrup, ice and tequila. Freakin' delicious. And I forgot to salt the rims of our glasses. Imagine how great these drinks would have been if I had actually followed ALL of the directions!?

And while we're on the topic, is there anything more refreshing on a warm evening (except, I guess, now that I've discovered it, a margarita on the rocks) than a gin and tonic? No. No there is not. That is the correct answer.

Okay, a good IPA. That might be an acceptable alternative answer.

But there's just something fun about making a cocktail. The glasses. The ingredients. The ratios. The mixing. The twist of lemon and the squeeze of lime.

And maybe a friend or two (or ten) to share your delicious alcoholic bounty.

Bring it, summer. My cocktail shaker is ready.

Ok, I meant that literally. I have a cocktail shaker. I'm ready to make cocktails. There was no double-entendre intended with that. Sorry.

Flying with Bonnie and Clyde

Let me begin by saying, genuinely, kudos to you, TSA agents. You have a very difficult job. I wouldn't want to be you. Seriously--fantastic work.

Let me introduce you to my in-laws, Dick and Jan. Here they are!

On the left is Richard. He's 84. On the right is Jan. She's 81. These two gamers recently accompanied me and Dave down to Los Angeles to watch Olivia walk the stage at her college graduation and celebrate her achievements. This was no small feat! It took some planning and some "out of your comfort zone" and some determination on the part of Dick and Jan. My in-laws, who don't travel often, came through in spades! Olivia was so excited to have all of her grandparents present for the occasion.

Let me give you (literally) a better picture of what was going on:

Okay there we go. There's beautiful Olivia in her cap and gown and stole, with her grandparents, Bonnie and Clyde.

I'll back up and explain. Dave, myself, Dick and Jan flew to LA. Which obviously means we went through security at the airports. Dave and I made it through just fine, thank you. No hiccups. No delays. Wham, bam, thank you folks. My nail file didn't spark anyone's interest at all.

Dick and Jan were another story. These two octogenarians set off all possible security apparatuses (yes, I checked--it's apparatuses, not apparati). I'm not kidding. The walk-through thingy beeped. The wand made that weird Star Trek-y sound. You would have thought they were suspects on the run from a bank robbery! Bags were checked! Cavities were searched!

Ok, well, that was just slight hyperbole. Cavities were not searched. But TSA hands did a VERY, and I mean VERY all in caps, thorough sweep of every inch of my poor father-in-law, who was nothing but patient and compliant. I don't think I would have been so patient and compliant (that's just me mouthing off for effect--I absolutely would have done whatever I was told to do).

Not only did they quite literally hand sweep every inch of him, they also made him lift himself up out of the chair so they could sweep the seat and his back pants pockets, and then they swabbed the entire wheelchair with one of those little pieces of bomb-maker-detector or whatever that is. Seriously--what is that? They never tell you while they're doing it. They just leave you wondering what it is they're swabbing for. What would happen if you just jokingly told them, as you were being swabbed, that you dabble in firecrackers? I mean, don't do that. You'd probably get in a lot of trouble. I'm betting cavity search.

So let's review. Dick (this menacing looking guy below, who was in a wheelchair) gets a solid ten minute head-to-toe search.

But it doesn't end there! Jan, the clearly-on-the-edge-of-committing-a-crime woman shown here

also gets pulled aside because her two fake knees set off all the bells and whistles! And in a little bit of poetic irony, the belt that Jan had taken off and put in her bag to go through the x-ray machine (because the sign said take off your belt and my mother-in-law is a rule follower damn it!) for some reason looked suspicious to the TSA officer so her bag was searched as well.

It's hard to imagine two less-suspicious individuals. They were troopers!

Again, I repeat, kudos to you TSA officers. If these two ne-er-do-wells had been packing, you definitely would have figured out where.

I know that's your job. I appreciate that you do it so well.

My mother and father-in-law in their younger years :)

Things I Kinda Miss

I don't dwell on this shit because it wouldn't accomplish anything. I get that. But here it is. Just to get it out. Does a whale feel better after letting everything out its blowhole? We can't ask whales that, but since they regularly do exactly that, I'm going with the notion that it provides them some relief.

OK, just for ducks I just looked up the whole whale/blowhole thing, and it turns out that's part of their breathing apparatus. So, YES! In fact, breathing DOES provide relief, right? I mean, if we held our breath for a long time we'd get uncomfortable, and then actually breathing would feel great, so I'm right on the money, apparently, with my whale "relief" theorem. And also, I just correctly used the word theorem so even though this post started out like it was gonna be a downer, things are looking up!

You know those words bank pictures that are so popular right now, with words people use the most being the largest? Here's a visual in case that wasn't the most clearly stated idea you've heard in weeks...

Picture the following list of things I miss as a mind word bank (not stuff I talk out loud about--just stuff that sits in my brain), but in the shape of a whale's spout! Now that I've actually imagined that little idea I can see that I'm clearly making myself the whale in this whole analogy. Who does that? Who makes herself a whale in her own cleverly concocted metaphor? Me, apparently. But whales are cool, so let's just keep going here. 

Things I miss: the thickness of my hair, the definition in my left knee, the ability to run normally, drinking soda for breakfast, event planning, yoga without a strap, walking down the stairs quickly, walking up the stairs quickly, not knowing my medical number by heart, being able to squat down, being able to get back up, my ponytail, above-the-knee dresses, my body looking athletic, my mind feeling like I'm athletic, not realizing the ubiquitousness of the word cancer on TV, doing a chaturanga smoothly, and my eyebrows. I really miss my eyebrows. 

Ok, I have spouted and I am once again breathing normally. 

I will work on my metaphors. 

One Mississippi

You probably already know this, but it's hard to be in the present moment for more than five seconds. Ok, for more than three seconds. Ok, one Mississippi. That's about all I can muster in the present moment. And it's not for a lack of trying. Don't judge. Try it. See how long it takes for your mind to wander.

Right? How many Mississippis did you make it through before you were thinking about what you were going to do next?

I signed up for a "yoga intensive" 40 day program, which is based on a book by a particular figure in the yoga world. As I learned on the first day, it's a three-fold program involving daily yoga, nutrition, and meditation.

I'm all in for the yoga. The reason I signed up is so I would go to yoga daily and hopefully get stronger. And more flexible.

I have now read the nutrition component of the program. Nope. Not happening. It's not that I don't care about my diet. I do. Very much. I think quite a lot about what I put into my body and for what purposes. However, never at all ever do I think that the "cool" foods I eat (?) will make me sleep in the fetal position, be a more quiet person and make me have pale skin (which I do not), as opposed to the "hot" foods which might cause me to have problems sleeping and also make me prone to bad skin and a loud voice. Also, they might make me have a bad temper. WTF? (sorry--perhaps I ate to many "hot" foods this morning...)

I'm gonna need some hard scientific evidence to convince me that a particular food will cause me to speak in a louder voice. So no, not quite on board with the nutritional component. Which is fine. Yoga, as it turns out, is a very "take what you want, leave what you don't" kind of practice. I'm leaving the food part. (And to be honest, I'm not quite sure how food is even part of yoga, so I am feeling no guilt abandoning a complete third of this program)

Lastly, there is meditation. Full disclosure: I've never meditated. I've wanted to. I just never figured out the what and the how and the why. This program is, I am hoping, going to help me with that. I'd like to try meditation. The very first class began with the instructor doing a "guided meditation" for all of us.

Another full disclosure: As it turns out I'm really, really not good at meditation. Yet. It was a ten minute ordeal experience that felt endless to me. The purpose was to be in the present moment, with our minds cleared and our thoughts on only what we could actually physically feel and hear right then, at that moment. We were all seated criss-cross applesauce, and the teacher told us to take several deep breaths and try to just feel the air going in and going out--think about nothing but what our breaths felt like.

I did that. And then in the nanosecond it took the instructor to get to the next sequence I was thinking about how uncomfortable my lower back felt sitting criss-cross applesauce (the name of this position seems to me to indicate the age-level at which you should be sitting in this position; if retired adults were meant to sit this way it would be called "sad sack jack your back"). Anyway, this guided meditation continued, as we were prompted to empty our minds and only feel where our feet were touching the earth (feel them pressing in), and then to only feel where our calves were touching our mats, and our hands resting on our thighs... were were a solid four minutes in and we had only reached the thighs. I was trying. I really was. And while I was not being very successful at keeping my mind in the moment, I was definitely learning some things about myself.

(1) While I am generally an endlessly patient person, apparently I need to have a general inkling as to why I am being patient. I wasn't quite sure why I was trying to feel my thighs (or my hips, my belly button, my shoulders, my elbows, my fingers, my neck, my head resting on my neck, my ears, my eyes, or the crown of my head... seriously, if you want a good laugh consider that I was frustrated at my thighs and then re-read the list of body parts that came after my thighs). We did this for ten solid minutes. After minute five all I could do was try to guess what body part I was supposed to feel next, and it seemed like it could be a very, very long list depending upon how much kinesiology the teacher had in her. I just wanted to scream.

(2) My mind wanders. A lot. To weird places. Inexplicably weird places. Let's leave it at that.

(3) I am not often in the present moment. I never really thought about that. It's a startling realization, somewhat disquieting. I think I might be missing a lot of what's right in front of me.

After thinking about it for a few days, I get it. I understand, now, why I was supposed to be feeling my various body parts. If you can really feel the sensation, then you can't be thinking about your grocery list. You'll lose the sensation. If you can really feel your breath going in and out, then you can't be worrying about whether the car needs repairs. You'll lose the sensation.

I get it. In the moment means feeling the sensation of what is happening right then, right there. And while it's true that not every moment is memorable (and certainly there are some that we'd like to forget), if you're not mindful about paying attention you'll miss them all. You'll be somewhere else.

I'm a goal setter by nature. It helps me to have concrete objectives, and I love a challenge.

Two Mississippi. That's the goal.

You're welcome. And I'm sorry.

Olivia was home for a few days of her spring break! What a ray of sunshine that girl is! I seriously feel like every sentence in a blog post including her should end with an exclamation point! Because that's kind of how you feel around her--excited!
!Perhaps I should begin each sentence about her with one as well as a newly invented (by me) means of literary approbation!

Okay, that's enough Nickelback (Olivia is possibly the only person who will get that joke so don't feel badly if I just lost you for a moment there).

But I digress. What I really want to write about is a particular conversation Olivia and I had while eating lunch together yesterday. Here's the background info:

I had gone to Bel Air to buy ONE item, and on my way in I ran into Bill, who at 173 years old is most probably the oldest bag boy in the history of bag boys. He was out in the parking lot, standing and chatting with a woman next to her car. The groceries had likely long ago been loaded into the car. And probably by the woman, not Bill. Which is pretty much how you will encounter Bill on any given day at Bel Air--out in the parking lot chatting with a customer who has loaded her own groceries into her car as he chats away.

As I passed Bill on my way in, he turned from his conversation to say to me, "Hey, I've got a good story for you! I'll find you inside!"

Uuuggghhh. I don't mean to be unkind. But I was there for ONE item. My five minute trip was about to turn into a twenty minute trip because make no mistake, Bill would DEFINITELY put my ONE item in a bag for me (he is a bag boy) and carry it out to my car if he has a story to tell or just wants to gab about the SF Giants.

Usually I don't mind shooting the breeze with Bill. In fact, there are times I look forward to it. Mostly when I have a very large cart of groceries and we chat AS he bags them (so slowly that the checkers almost always have to finish the job). To extend the conversation past the checkout line is to put your afternoon at peril. But it happens rather often with Bill. And not just with me. It's kind of his identity with customers and clerks alike. We all know Bill's MO.

So back to my lunch with Olivia. I wanted to know if she ever struggled with what I struggled with that morning at Bel Air. In a nutshell, I really just wanted to get in and out of the store quickly. I also, however, was going to feel badly if I just ditched Bill after he told me he wanted to tell me a story. I don't know why Bill is the oldest bag boy on the planet. Does he need the money? Is he lonely? I don't want to ignore him when he's always so nice to me. But also--I had shit to do!

It's not like this was a life-threatening decision, whether to stop and talk. I find myself in this predicament quite often, though-- is it okay to sometimes not be the nicest person you can be for selfish reasons? Or even, simpler, is it okay to sometimes just not be the nicest person you know you can be?

Olivia knew exactly what I was talking about. She recognized the struggle.  Being your kindest self doesn't always advance your day's agenda the way you want it to. Most interesting for me was what she said is her overall tack in these situations: she said she just goes with the "be kind". She said feels better about herself when she opts to take the high road, even though it is often not the most convenient route. It was a sweet moment-- she said that she learned from me and Dave to always try to be a good person, to be your kindest self. She thanked us for that.

And this is when I said to my lovely, altruistic daughter, "You're welcome. And I'm sorry."

Because it should be okay to opt for the selfish route occasionally (I mean, there are people--in high places--who opt for the selfish route exclusively) without feeling guilty. While I'm truly happy that Olivia is a young woman who, in a world that often seems to exude nastiness, chooses to be considerate, I don't want that choice to feel like a burden.

We all have to take care of the world around us, and the people in it. But we also have to take care of ourselves. Sometimes that means putting ourselves first. Guilt-free.

Not as easy as it sounds (at least for me). I want it to be easier for my daughter.

I'm going to end this with a quote from one of my favorite people, Lin-Manuel Miranda :)

"That imaginary fight you keep having in your head is taking up SO much room. Write it out... Tell it to a friend or a shrink. Or a canvas. Or chuck it. Get it out. You need your head and your heart for bigger things. Vamos."

So I've written it out, here, the imaginary fight I keep having in my head. I've talked about it with Olivia and Dave. I don't paint so the canvas isn't going to happen. But I've gotten it out.

My head and my heart are ready.

Talk to you soon, Bill.