Mirrors

Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall

“Never in her life had she liked the stories told by mirrors.”

Since the Snow White era, mirrors have been telling outrageous stories, if you think of it that way.  Stories we believe, stories we want to believe, and stories that no one in their right mind would believe. 

The above quote is by Pat Conroy, describing a character in a book I am currently reading.  I am intrigued by the idea of mirrors telling stories, and find it to make perfect sense.

For example, every morning we wake up, we go through various rituals of preparing ourselves for the day, and at some point these rituals lead us in front of a mirror.  We look into it, and….do we not immediately transcribe what the reflective surface is telling us to think?  Here are some things that my bathroom mirror has said to me in the recent past:

            “The bags under your eyes are not too bad today!  A little concealer and it will look as though you slept for 12 hours!”

            “Luckily, you can still suck in your tummy enough to look as though you didn’t completely overindulge over the last few weeks.  It’s a good thing you’re planning on going for a few runs this weekend.”

            “You’re dressed professionally enough that you look enthusiastic about your job.  People will take you seriously while wearing this get-up.”

            “You look like a sincere, intelligent young lady.  Matt’s parents will think you are wonderful.  Just smile and try to relax.  It will be fun.”

            “You look exhausted.  You should really try to go to bed early tonight.  Like, really early…..6 PM early.” 

            “Matt is going to LOVE this dress.  And what’s under the dress.  And my charming wit and personality.  But the dress is a good starting point.”

And so it goes.  Am I alone in this reflective conversation?  Do men stand before mirrors and hear similar stories about facial hair, brawny shoulders, and tie knots?  Are these stories helping or hindering us?  Is it just another thing we tell ourselves to get another day started?

What if you shower at night?  (I am choosing to associate these mirrored stories with the part of day that we spend the most time in their presence.)  By showering at night, you are no longer focusing on the tasks of the day ahead, but perhaps reflecting on how the day went.  The stories are more retrospective, full of either wishful mental do-overs or exaggerated accounts of the day’s fulfilled goals and disciplines. 

In my case, I tend to believe that the mirror is spinning things more positively than perhaps is warranted.  I am choosing to be thankful for this for the moment, mostly because I can remember a time when this was not the case.  Is the opposite true for others?  I would think that someone suffering from depression is hearing different stories from the mirrors in their lives, stories that are perhaps harder to twist into a hopeful attitude as they set out to conquer the day. 

Is the mirror a representation of what we think of ourselves or what we think that others think of us?  Are we putting words in the mirrors’ mouths?  Regardless, how seriously are we as humans taking this information?  Self-esteem is obviously found in more than what you see in a mirror and choose to believe about yourself; it is also in the reflection you get of yourself through other people who matter to you.  Or in some cases, sadly, through people who don’t matter to you but whose input seems valuable for some reason.

There was this horrible reality TV show several years ago (I don’t remember the name exactly, but I think it had to do with a swan?) that involved people who were “less attractive” by societal standards getting the chance of a lifetime:  to go through complete physical transformations involving all-expenses-paid makeovers.  Most included severe dental procedures (full veneers or at least braces, and many had dental-related surgeries to restructure their jaw line), hair implants, skin grafting to cover up those unsightly freckles or wrinkles, and of course – the intensive personal trainer and wardrobe stylist to “fix” these poor souls who had lost their way.  The most interesting part of watching this train wreck was that a large part of their transformation involved them being completely separated from their family and friends, and they had went to painstaking effort to remove all mirrors from the facilities.  The participants went months without seeing their reflection at all.  Being true to reality TV, they played up the drama of missing their families, enduring painful recoveries from surgeries, and slipping into their familiar negative self-talk, but most of all – capturing the “big moment” when the participants would see themselves in a mirror for the first time in several months and hardly recognize themselves. 

Now, I am not an advocate for reality TV, but I would be interested to hear what stories these people heard from that supposed new mirror.  And, did they create stories to fill the void during the time away from their visual self-image?  If so, how varied were these stories from the ones with a visual component?   Do we rely on a daily “story” to check in with our progress?  Is having access to a mirror a human requirement?  Are our mirrors ultimately enabling us to lie to ourselves on a daily basis?  If so, where do we look for truth? 

As much as I hate to admit it, I think the fairy tales were onto something. 

Glitter and Fog

(August 2010)

Sometimes, I have these moments when I feel like I’ve got it all figured out. 

I was browsing Craigslist, and came across an ad for freelance writers in Reston.  After closer investigation, I learned that it was for an online news website that will launch in August and is in need of freelance writers for all kinds of stories. 

Five hours later, Matt came over and opened the front door into what was “Angie’s Reality” and into the “Angie’s Land of Maximization Dreamworld” where I have it all figured out.  I’m surprised he didn’t hear the swirly, shimmery music or notice the fog and glitter seeping out of the keyhole.  I showed him the online ad, and patiently waited for his reasonable, practical reaction.  Too late for reason; reason left on a glittered breeze four and a half hours ago.

“Just think!  I could write concert reviews and maybe they’d even get us free tickets or press passes and we could go to restaurants for discounted prices and we’d be the hippest Reston couple out there because we’d be where all the action was happening and I’d get so much better at writing or at least faster at it and I could interview people for profile writing and maybe even do some travel writing – I could write about all the great road trips we’ve taken and how they’re easily accessible from Reston and then we could feel it out for our little adventure-planning business idea!!!”

<huge, dazzling smile sans breathing>

Matt smiles patiently, waiting for his turn to talk, knowing that it is not yet upon him.

And here was the eureka! moment:

“I mean, these people with these cool jobs out there that everyone is always so envious of?  They have them because they simply figured out that they wanted them and asked for them.”

(Did you hear the trumpets?  I’m pretty sure I heard trumpets.)

Matt gave his kind, plausible blessing of my enthusiasm, reminds me of the comforting fact that this job will not, in fact, be the sole means for putting food on the table, and braces himself for more animated babble.

“The worst that could happen is they say no,” I say.  “Oh, but I would be so thrilled if they said yes!  Maybe I could even write a weekly column, and…”  Matt kisses me, perhaps the only way to get me to stop talking.  It works, temporarily.

Two weeks later, I am a bit foggy on my interpretation of my royal declaration of life.  According to yours truly, all we apparently have to do is ask for something and we get it.  Sure, we have to be excited about it, but excitement apparently outweighs skills or preparation. 

So the next question is, “What else have I asked for and received in life to prove that my mumbo-jumbo is true?”

I certainly don’t remember excitedly asking specifically for a wonderful guy to share my life with who consistently looks out for me and considerately collaborates on happiness.  However, during my previous relationship, I do remember wishing and hoping with all my being that there was more out there to hope for, if I could be brave enough to consider it.

I do remember when I decided that the only job in the world with my name on it would be teaching elementary school music.  Even though I went through a brief period of doubt in college, mostly a lower-confidence phase, I can classify it as an “I asked, and I got” experience.

Since I have not yet heard anything from the writing job prospect, I have moved on to other creatively patient distractions.  I’m in search of some inspiring quotes to adorn a paintable mirror in my house, and I came across a Rumi poem that is currently the leading candidate:

                  “Let yourself be silently drawn by the stronger pull of what you really love.”

(I’m positive I heard trumpets.  Four hundred of them, in three-octave harmony.  Wait, it says “silently drawn”.  Damn.)

So maybe it’s Rumi that has it all figured out.  But I choose to think I was close. 

Possibility

(August 2009)

I’ve spent the last few days purging things from my house.  I always procrastinate this task, until the walls start to feel as though they’re caving in a little more each day.  Since I put it off until I can almost take it no more, I enter the job motivated to roll up my sleeves, throw my hair up in a bandana, blast my favorite music through the stereo, and forge ahead with garbage bags by my side.  I envision the sigh of relief I will enjoy when I fill each bag with discarded items, leaving behind a few more inches of unworn carpet and exposed floor molding.

            So, I begin.  Five minutes into the wire hanger jungle creature that has taken over my closet, I can feel my motivation start to slide down the curvy paisley pattern on my bandana.  I am a quarter way through the shirts that I definitely haven’t worn in at least a year and instead of plucking them off the hangers and piling them into the bags, I rationalize why I should keep them – yet again.  I start to envision when I just might need those silky bell-bottom black pants that are two sizes too big.  I could use a silky scarf as a belt, another one for my hair, and I could be the perfect genie for Halloween.  Or, the dorky T-shirt I got in Budapest that cleverly states “Budapest” on the front might be the only way I will ever remember my trip to Eastern Europe.  And so it goes for the entire bottom rack.  I can suddenly think of endless possibilities for these items that have been hanging around, patiently waiting for their turn in the spotlight. 

            There are some items in my house that I won’t even consider for the purging process.  For example, my CD and book collections will stay untouched, whether I have actively used most of them, and whether or not I have space to add to them.  Of course I have books that I haven’t read and CDs that I haven’t listened to.  These are for retirement.  But for now, my shelves will remain configured, ready to burst into literal sidesplitting laughter at my perhaps old-fashioned integrity. 

            I ponder over why I tend to hold on to these hypothetical ideas as I strive to fill each bag.  One of my favorite things about teaching is sculpting all of the possibilities I see in my students and the program I can create from them.  I can sift through countless lesson plans, sit through tedious staff meetings, attend workshops, and always take away at least one possible idea that will usually end up being a source of motivation for weeks to come.  I think most people’s motivation lives in possibilities. 

            I think about how many songs are themed around possibility.  “Over the Rainbow”, “Wide Open Spaces”, “The Rainbow Connection”, are just a few that immediately come to mind.  The patriotic songs that celebrate our country were penned from inspirations of possibility.  I direct musicals each year with plots that leave some kind of wonderment or question about how we might change something about our life or see things in a new light.  When we read a book or watch a movie, we often see the possibilities of the characters in ourselves.  We travel, take classes, buy things, go out on dates, interview for jobs, join sports teams, cook, and wake up each morning for possibility.

            As I continue to dig into the burrows of my storage, I think of my dad who passed away eight years ago today.  This day every year is filled with moments of memories, stillness, and perspective of how this stepping-stone has affected me as time has passed.  I also wonder about how he is, wherever he is.  I wonder if he feels any regrets about his life, or if regrets are something we let go of the minute we let go of this world.  My dad and I were never very close, but I try not to have regrets about that.  We did the best we could under the circumstances with the time we had.  I feel most thankful for the sense of peace that we were able to share during the end of our time together, as we used the suddenly precious time to see one another in an unguarded way free of judgment and past obstacles.  The saddest part of that was realizing how comfortable we could be together and wondering how things might have been different.  Even with the emotional distance we had always tolerated, I had always seen my dad as someone I might one day get to know better.  Some people can rattle off thousands of memories they shared with a loved one and the things they miss about them after they leave.  I miss the possibility of my dad.

            I suppose this plays into my habit of allowing seemingly small decisions such as sorting through closets overwhelm me at times.  Maybe it’s a branch of the grieving tree.  I have unconsciously made many decisions in my life that pivot around possibility, finding comfort in its omnipresence. 

  

Six Friends

(from January 2010)

Last week on the Today Show, there was a segment from a woman who had written a book about “the six kinds of friends every woman should have”.  It got my attention since I’m into lists or things that are ranked.  It’s also the reason the movie “High Fidelity” hooked me within the first five minutes; I enjoyed hearing John Cusack rattle off his top five lists with such sarcasm and assuredness.  People who declare lists of things in this manner give off the impression that they have lived through it all, and can now funnel all the important stuff with such ease and clarity.  And now (cue rotating spotlights and boomy, echo mic) they can help you live through it all too!  What a time saver! 

            I digress.  Back to the woman with the book.  In her six and a half minutes on-air, she was able to speak at warp speed to Meredith Viera and the rest of us about each of the six kinds of friends we women are to covet and experience in our lifetime.  Here they are, in list fashion:

·      The Childhood Friend

·      The New Friend

·      The Workout Friend

·      The Spiritual Friend

·      The Younger Friend

·      Your Partner’s Friend

            And there you have it.  Of course, even if you have no interest in this woman’s book, seeing a bulleted list on your TV screen (and now on this paper) makes you immediately go into checklist mode.  I am intrigued enough to at least try to put a face or two with each one. 

The Childhood Friend

            I suppose this idea has to do with the benefits of having someone accessible in your life who “knew you when”.  My friend Melissa is the easy choice here.  Our parents were best friends (both moms and dads) and we became instant friends when we were both in the same dance classes.  She had the coolest house because it was just up the street from Lakeside, the town’s amusement park.  We could see the top of the roller coaster from her bedroom window, and I still dream of having an old, squeaky-floored, crystal door-knobbed, Victorian home someday.  I had the privilege of being in Melissa’s wedding, being around for her when her father passed away a few short years after mine, and countless laughs about the past.  I am thankful that we are still in touch and that we still find it so easy to talk to one another.

The New Friend

            I find this one difficult at first thought.  I feel that in my adult life, I have had a series of new friends that have came and gone.  I suppose their staying power shouldn’t be what nominates them as “new”.  My friend Kavita comes to mind, as she was one of the first new friends I made once I moved to Northern Virginia over ten years ago.  She now lives in Chicago and even though we do still keep in touch and even visit one another now and again, I wouldn’t call her a very close friend at this point. 

            I believe I’d more appropriately choose my friend Kevin.  Wait, are these six friends supposed to be only female friends?  Kevin and I met during the summer of 2008 when we both joined the same random DC kickball team.  When I say “random”, I mean that none of us knew each other before showing up for the first game downtown on the National Mall.  Lucky for us, everyone was extremely nice and many of us are still good friends.  In fact, I would say that the people on my kickball team definitely rank among some of the friendliest people I have met in my eleven years of living in the area.  Even though I am unable to make most of the events on their social calendar, since I live out in the burbs and most of them are city folk, they always, always, always extend invitations and keep me in the loop.  Sometimes, it’s just being invited that makes you feel less lonely and more connected.

            Upon first meeting my teammates, Kevin was the one I thought I would be least likely to gel with.  Let’s just say his outward appearance would suggest motorcycles, possibly drugs, and punk rock.  Turns out that punk rock is the only valid one of the three.  He is by no means extreme, and I sometimes feel badly that I thought otherwise, even if it was only for a few hours.  We ended up totally clicking during the first game, mainly because he is hilariously high on life.  He’s loud in a happy way, he knows this, and he spreads it around very unassumingly.  More importantly, he is nice to ev-er-y-bo-dy.  Everybody.  He’s the kind of guy who would give his very last penny to a total stranger.  Kevin is my go-to for a movie buddy, fun and free stuff in DC, and is one of the few people besides my boyfriend and my family that I can almost always count on to pick up the phone at any hour.  He’s also creative, and comes from a similarly dysfunctional family.  We can relate.  He’s also great at giving the guy perspective when I am otherwise clueless. 

The Workout Friend

            George.  George is the friend who has been my recent yardstick and inspiration for physicality.  George and I were roommates in college for two years, so I’ve known him for a while.  Until almost three years ago, I had never known George to be very physically active even though he has always been jealous-inducing thin.  But it was almost three years ago when he went into great length over dinner about his relatively new hobby of distance running.  By the time the check came for our insanely high-calorie Mexican meal, he had convinced me that I could successfully finish a half-marathon if I trained for only three months.  And he was right.  I figured if he could do it, having little to no background in endurance sports, then I had a chance at it too.  And now, two marathons later, I am hooked.  George and I live in different towns, but train together for our respective races via the phone, internet articles, and strategic monthly training plans that hang on our refrigerator doors.  You should also know that George is ordained as a pastor and is amazing at it.  He currently counsels at-risk, emotionally-disabled kids for a school division in Luray, Virginia.  He is one of the best listeners I know, and can quickly sum up how you’re feeling with eloquence that hits home immediately.  His wife Abbey is a dear friend as well, and their one-year-old son Sam is magical.

The Spiritual Friend

            These may be more transient for me than the “New Friend” category.  I have not been lucky enough to have a core friend to go to for lengthy discussions on spirituality.  My history with religion, or rather, religious people, has been bumpy, leading me to feel more private about how things make sense for me. 

            However, I have recently begun exploring my hobby of writing.  Doing so has opened me up to my thoughts and beliefs with more focus.  My writing group is wonderful and sincerely accepts everything I could and would ever say, if it’s true to how I was feeling.  I think that a spiritual friend is just that.  I have plenty. 

The Younger Friend

            I suppose this category is meant to “keep you young at heart”.  I don’t feel old enough yet to desperately need that, but Stephanie and Ashly are both young enough to remind me sometimes of the more past-tense phases of my life.  They have both been coworkers of mine, and their energy has often kept me going at times when I’ve felt more like coasting by.  Another neat thing about having younger friends is feeling helpful when they come to me for advice.  I’m very grounded in thinking ahead all the time, and I value these younger friendships to remind me to look backwards for my own advice at times. 

           

Your Partner’s Friend

            Of course we all want to seem cool – especially during that first meeting of your partner’s circle of friends.  We want everyone to magically hit it off, while we dream of hosting fabulous dinner parties and game nights.  Eventually, this can all lead to ladies nights of gossiping while all the men are downstairs drinking beer and shooting pool. 

            My relationship life has a different picture.  Matt and I do not have huge circles of friends around all the time, but concentrate on the closer ones.  We have not comingled our friends into our relationship much.  It’s not that I don’t like his friends or that he doesn’t like mine – we simply aren’t around each other’s friends often enough to form any kind of real bond. 

            There is one who comes to mind as perhaps having the most potential.  Matt’s friend Sam is married to Sarah.  I think that Sarah and I, if given the chance to hang out  more often, could really click.  She’s a runner, and even more of a maximizer than I.  There’s a lot of common ground to start from.  She is also very nice and easy to talk to.  I don’t know if it counts as one of Matt’s friend, since he’s only known her through his friend Sam, but it’s where I would start.  I have a feeling that this notion of your partner’s friend is maybe something that comes with marriage or in a different stage of life. 

            I’m curious about whether such a list exists for men.  Are there six types of necessary friends for men?  If so, how do they compare to the requirements for women? 

          Applying this list to my friendships reminds me to have more patience and to pay more attention to what really matters.  It’s not always about how many people show up at the happy hour you planned, but who shows up when your father passes away.  Or, who sends a short but sincere email after you’ve had a success in your life.  Maybe we all need six essential kinds of friends to have constant back-up for everything we will face in a lifetime.  Or to help us publish a book.

Mixed Tapes

(March 2010)

Youth has its rewards.  When you’re younger, you naturally take in many experiences as though you will never have them again.

One of my most beloved birthday gifts as a child was my first stereo system.  It was my first “real” piece of sound equipment, with multiple components and larger speakers.  Within that first August weekend, it became a prominent fixture in my small room and I could sit on the edge of my bed, staring mindlessly out the window for hours listening to the radio.  It was my “precious” time. 

I usually listened to the more popular stations, and would get so genuinely excited if I heard a favorite song – especially if it was one reminding me of my friends or some happier memory.  I would drop whatever I was doing to be in that moment and just enjoy the song.  Pretty soon, I learned how to record onto cassettes and would always have a blank tape ready for those times when I was lucky enough to push the right combination of buttons before the singer’s first word.  Even if I didn’t get the tape reel turning until the first chorus, I would still deem it successful and declare it a “keeper”.  This was during the 80s, and the stations I was listening to cycled through the typical top hits of the time, repeating songs at least once every two hours.  Yet in my happy-go-lucky youth, racing to the play-record button combo, I truly believed it necessary to do everything in my power to preserve such a unique experience.  The resulting box of mixed tapes, most with awkward starts and stops and repetitive content, now resides in my closet as a childhood time capsule of sorts. 

Still today, I enjoy just listening to the radio at times.  I now understand the concept of “popular” music, advertising, airplay, and consequential ratings, so I’m not eagerly adding to my awkward collection of “chance music”.  And though my box in the closet is dusty, there is a small part of me that still gets excited to hear what they will play next – sometimes while sitting in the car a little longer to do so.  I sometimes use the iPod feature on my cell phone to shuffle through playlists while I’m getting ready in the morning.  The shuffle feature makes it seem like it’s all happening by chance, and I admittedly pay a little too much attention to which song randomly hits my ears first each day – interpreting it as an omen for what’s to come or some special, individual cosmic message.

It’s a small comparison to how some of my friends describe their religious experiences.  “It was as though the pastor knew exactly what I had been going through when he wrote the sermon.”  I don’t have a strong religious background, but in some weird way, I treat the randomly selected songs I hear as some sort of confirmation of what’s going on or what could be going on.  The child in me also likes the “here and now” of hearing something pleasing.  Maybe it has to do with the music I hear while at work; everything is planned and mostly predictable, since I’m the teacher in the room guiding it.  Though, the children’s reactions and energy they bring or don’t bring to the music I am guiding is usually unpredictable, making it worth the challenge of having a keen awareness to what they are perhaps nonverbally requesting.  (In my next life, I will try radio programming…)

This is a lot of analyzing for something simple like the radio, but as we grow up, we slowly become accustomed to what is stable in our world and what seems fleeting.  Things we mentally or emotionally organize as fleeting take on a much stronger vibe than things we know we can count on.  It takes more and more effort or reflection for those stable things to feel quite as special.  Birthdays and holidays begin to lose their real meaning for some, lost in commercialism or social expectations.  Others are even afraid to admit when something is special out of a fear of seeming too simple-minded.  We’re more selective of what we try to preserve and slowly take more things for granted, finding it “cute” when children are mesmerized by the common and uncomplicated.  Perhaps it’s one reason why ticket prices for concerts have grown to be so expensive; if there’s a large price tag, it will seem worthy of dropping everything else in your life to simply enjoy some music in a focused way.  We’re paying as much for an excuse to focus as we are for the entertainment aspect.  The same is true of vacations; it takes an awful lot of money sometimes to give you an excuse to relax.  Of course, every ying has its yang; not everything can be seen as amazingly unique, special, or worth fumbling for the video camera (we’ve all endured those long family videos…).  Yet, I sometimes wish there was a freshly paved middle road, with a bridge between youth and what we have decided to over-complicate. 

I’d bring my boom box.  

Because my writing group said so.

A year ago today, I ran my second marathon.  That was because my friend George said so, just as he had said the same for my first one a year prior.  Though many muscles and joints would recap otherwise, I have pictures that tell me this was a happy experience.

I also like writing a lot and at least once a month I am fortunate enough to spend time with my dear friends who are also writers.  Those of you who perhaps have this kind of jewel in your life know how invaluably authentic a process it can be to be creative around people who not only motivate you, but are contagiously imaginative.  

After many months of urging, they have convinced me to put more of my writing "out there".  I'm not overly impressionable, but since a long-term goal (read: dream) of mine is to have my own column, combined with the fact that one must actually practice things to get better at them, they might just be onto something.