In Praise of Being Infantile

Calling someone infantile is often taken as an insult. Maybe it is meant to offend, but what if we choose to be infantile? What if being infantile means looking at the world with innocent curiosity, breathtaking excitement, and appreciation for the all the world’s simple beauty: the graceful dance of the clouds, the heavenly intoxication of springtime flowers, the eloquent symphony of the birds, bees, and other vocal things? What if being infantile means laughing without thinking—‘til your cheeks hurt, and you belly quivers? What if it means smiling at strangers, touching people in an uninhibited, loving way with hugs and kisses, and reaching for someone’s hand when you or they are scared or sad? What if being infantile means exposing our feelings without fear of rejection or judgment? What if it allows you to feel the tickle of grass wiggling between your toes, or feel sound vibrating in your soul, hear colors sing you a love song, and see everything “grown-ups” are too busy to notice? What if being infantile is listening to our bodies whisper what we need to do and when we need to do it? Maybe being infantile means fearless exploration. And what about trust? Can you trust like an infant? Can you see people as good? Perhaps being infantile is being happy—truly happy—with nothing more than a full belly, a warm place to sleep, and the smiles and love of the people around you. What if we choose to embrace life with all its fragile infancy? What if we see every breath as a miracle and forget about the past and have no worries about the future, but instead, enjoy the moment just as it is? If we can do this, is it so bad to be infantile? Perhaps that is the secret to having wisdom, health, and old age.

Sustainability in Angespeak: What Really Matters to You?

Can we be real with each other for a few minutes? I know you’re busy with work, family, hobbies, and keeping your head above water. I am too, so we’re probably more alike than not. Finances can overwhelm me, people sometimes frustrate me, and politics often madden me. I want to live a long, happy, and healthy life. I want to have equal access to the same opportunities everyone else has, and I want the same for everyone I care about.

We are hearing more about “sustainability,” and we are supposed to be excited about it. But why should I care? Call me selfish, but if I have to change what I’m doing or if I have to do more, I want to know why. What’s in it for me? How does it affect me? Because if it doesn’t directly affect me, I don’t have much time for it.

Is sustainability just another bureaucratic buzzword to add to the myriad others that mean nothing to the average Joe? Methodologies, implementation, mitigation, deliverables—the list can go on.

How often do you hear people outside of the work world use the words that are part of our common office language? If you stop in your morning coffeehouse, and you notice the café is being remodeled and has new equipment, do the workers tell you, “We’re implementing new methodologies to mitigate costumer delay so we can more rapidly provide our deliverables”? No. They’ll likely tell you, “We bought new equipment so our customers don’t have to wait so long in line.” You care, because it makes your life better. At your third-grader’s parent-teacher conference, does Ms. Jones tell you, “We really need to mitigate Johnny’s challenges. Let’s implement methodologies to increase his deliverables”? If she does, have Johnny transferred to another teacher—immediately. Instead, she’s going to say, “Let’s work together to help Johnny get his homework turned it.” You’re happy because she’s trying to make your kid’s school life better.

When I first heard “sustainability,” it went in one ear and out the other. It meant nothing to me, but once I delved into it a little more, it turns out that I do care about it. It does affect me, and if I take it outside of its bureaucratic box, it’s just as simple as talking to the folks at the coffeehouse or Johnny’s teacher.

So what does sustainability mean to me? It means striving for the highest quality of life not only for myself, but for everyone else, and everything else—and not just now, but for my baby, and all the babies that will come after him.

Sustainability means that if my status in life changes—if I suddenly become poor or unemployed—I have equal access to jobs and safe, reliable public transportation to look for work or get the help I need to get back on my feet. Sustainability is not only finding a job, but knowing that job won’t compromise the quality of life for people now or in the future. It means that if my physical abilities change and I am in a wheelchair, I will be able to safely travel most anywhere people on foot can travel. It means that my baby, my future grandbabies, and my future grandbabies’ babies will know how fresh, clean water tastes, and what a blue sky looks like. Polar bears will not be something they see only in a museum’s exhibit of stuffed extinct animals. Sustainability is taking care of what I have now so that I can hold on to it for as long as possible.

Sustainability is also the way I spend my money. If I am looking to buy a car or new TV, I want to find the best product I can find that will last the longest, with the least amount of repairs and for the lowest price. But I’m also going to think about how much insurance, gas, or electricity will cost. And if I want to make sure my future generations inherit the kind of world I want them to inherit, I’ll need to consider what that new purchase will do to our environment.

If I’m used to feeding a family of four, and my brother losses his job and he and his family have to move in with me, we have to learn how to fit everyone in my house and feed seven people on the same budget that I’m used to feeding four. That too, is sustainability. It’s working with what we have. It’s fitting everyone into the existing space we have without building in my neighbor’s yard, and working with the money we have.

Sustainability is not just being in the moment; it’s stopping to think about the future and the domino effect my decisions have on everything my choices touch. It’s thinking about the many ways everything is connected and how they affect the environment, my equal access to what I want and need, and my access to jobs so I can make the money I need to live the life I deserve.

Sustainability is a complex simplicity. It is many tiny pieces that touch each other. It is a huge umbrella under which everyone and everything falls. It’s what we all want, and on some level, it’s what many of us are already working toward. It’s maintaining what we have, but it’s also working toward something better. It’s the three interconnected E’s: Environment, Equity, and Economy. We need to make sure people have access to social equity and economic prosperity, and we need to protect our environment as well.

During the work day, it’s easy to imagine being somewhere else, doing the things we enjoy, but what we do at work does affect our personal lives. We’re not just earning a paycheck. We’re helping to keep us connected to the people we want to see and places we want to go. We’re sustaining our quality of life and working to improve it.

When I look at sustainability as investing in my own life and future generations’ lives, sustainability is no longer a bureaucratic buzzword to complicate my workday. It’s a way of life, and it’s working toward what really matters to me.

I challenge you to think about what really matters to you, how it fits into sustainability, how you’re making it happen.

She's Baaaaaaaack!

Okay, so when I first started this blog, it was my intention to post regularly; however, despite that intention, it didn't quite happen that way. Now, it's been about a year and a half since my last post.

For many months, I've been wanting to start writing again--for me. I think writing and editing all day, combined with the lack of drama in my life, satisfied enough of the need to spit random words, and I found enough fulfillment in my work-related writing.

So what's changed? Work. My duties have changed, and the material that I'm writing. I guess I'm not getting the same satisfaction from it, so it's time to once again start spitting my rantings, ramblings, observations, gratitude, sappiness, and any other other nonsensical--or perhaps occasionally nonsensical--silliness or madness.

When I first started writing editorials at work, I was reluctant. For much of my life, writing was a very private activity for me. Likely because my writing was the one place where I was completely myself--unabashedly so, but only to my one true confidant--the paper on which I wrote.

It wasn't until I was in college that I began to share some of my writing, and even then, I often held back. However, like most things in life, the more I did it, the more comfortable I got with it. Spewing out words has always been in my blood. It wasn't something I enjoyed, but something I needed. I never had any grandiose dreams of becoming a bestselling author. I've always known that writing is like any of the other arts: highly competitive, and few people make a comfortable living from it, but rather it's something that you do because your soul requires it to exist.

It was in college that I began to discover that a few people enjoyed my stories, and I'm sure that's what contributed to my increasing comfort with sharing my writing.

When one of the former executives at my office suggested that I start writing regular editorials, I was initially slightly uncomfortable. I mean really, my life isn't that exciting or impressive, but because it came as a suggestion (with more of the tone of a directive) from one of the top people, I began writing editorials. I wrote about whatever popped into my mind at the time, and they were like nothing  we'd published before. I was given two rules: the article had to relate to our agency, and it couldn't get any of my bosses in trouble with anyone above them. Albeit, I still had to censor myself considerably from much of the randomness that I can be known form, but for government, that's quite a bit of flexibility.

I didn't think people would really care what I had to say, but to my surprise, readers seemed to enjoy it, and over the years, I received frequent letters of support and encouragement--many of them begging me to never stop writing. I have to admit, that was a huge boost to my confidence.

Now, the office is changing, and my editorials are a thing of the past, but what came out of it was my appreciation and deep understanding for the relationship between reader and writer. I write because I have to. I have to write to earn my paycheck, but I also have to write to keep my spirit alive. And somewhere in that process, people have to read--maybe not necessarily what I write, but I know some people need to read the same way I need to write. If what I write in any way touches them, then it's been a gift, but not so much a gift to them as a gift to me to know that they shared in that moment with me.

And...on that note, this groovy girl is out. Time to take a shower and head to the office.

Make it a great day everyone!

Hot

It’s a beautiful day out. The sun is shining. The air is crisp, but calm. There’s the occasional color of flowers in bloom, and the birds are busy flying around and chirping—almost like a spring day—except it’s the middle of winter. Days like this, I think global warming might not be all bad.

Since before Thanksgiving, I’ve had something going on every weekend. It’s been tons of fun, but I think my body has been trying to tell me that I need to slow my roll. I know my house has been neglected, and even though I finally got the Christmas tree out of the living room, the boxes of ornaments and wrapping paper are still in stacks waiting patiently to go to the garage.

Last weekend, I noticed a decent-sized lump on my back. After I let my wild imagination run through the fear of cancer (I had an aunt who died of cancer, which they first discovered when she found lumps on her back), I thought it might be one of those hard, beneath-the-surface zits. But, the thing started to get bigger, harder, and more painful. I had my son look at it, and he said it looked like a bug bite. Fair enough. On Monday, one of my friends looked at it and said it looked like maybe a spider bit me twice. It was about 3-4 inches long, oval-shaped, and warm to the touch. I made an appointment with my doctor for the next morning.

I figured that my doctor would probably lance the thing, but I had no idea what the thing was or what the treatment would involve.  She told me it is an abscess, and she not only lanced it, but she had to scrape it out, and stuff it with gauze. GRRRR-OOOO-SSSS! If you aren't familiar with abscesses or how you get them, you can join my club, because this is my first experience with them. My doctor said that they are caused by bacteria on the skin and are kind of like an ingrown hair. What. The. Hell? Apparently, showering daily and wearing clean clothes daily isn't enough to ensure this won't happen. The doc also said it's not really uncommon. "It is for me," I told her.

The first visit, she numbed the area, so it didn’t start hurting until the local anesthesia wore off. The second visit, when she pulled out the gauze and restuffed—yes, she literally stuffed gauze in the wound with the stick end of a long cotton swab—she didn’t numb it. She’s lucky I like her, because my instinct was to punch her, because that shit hurt worse than pushing Kane’s big-ass baby nugget out of me nearly 18 years ago. And, I still have to get "repacked" at least one more time. Uggg.

So, with the gauze-packed wound, the inflammation and accompanying pain, the antibiotics, which I usually hate to take, and my restriction from the gym until the beast within departs the premises, I’m not feeling like my usual spunky, chirpy, fiery, sassy self. In fact, I’ve been feeling kind of blah, and on top of that, I’ve got not one, but two cold sores, which I only get when I’m stressed or sick. I really think my body’s been trying to tell me, “Girl, you ain’t the yougen’ you think you are, and you better slow your roll, or I’m gonna make you slow it.”

Being the clown that I am, and figuring that I can’t control life, I try to roll with it and find the humor in what I can. At work, we’ve been cutting jokes that I’m growing a twin, which we’ve affectionately named Millicent. We’ve discussed the idea of me writing a book titled,  “Angela and Millicent’s Day at the Park.” I’ve also told some people that it’s the renegade tooth, chewing its way out of me.

So, this weekend, I am on house arrest. I’m chillin’ at the pad, thinkin’ about all the chores I could be doing, and trying to muster the umph to get ‘em done. Right about now, I'm wishing I was Samantha on "Bewitched" and that thinkin’ ‘bout those chores and a little twitch of the nose would magically get them accomplished. No such luck. All my twitching just makes me look like I suffer from Tourette Syndrome. It’s time to get busy. Lord knows, I’m dressed for it, because it’s just one of those days.

Yeah, I even went to the Co-op in this get up—which happens to be my PJs, and to complete the stylish look, I even have crazy mad-scientist-looking hair—and those lovely cold sores. Yeah, I’m lookin’ sooo hot. I'm not sure if it’s more hot babe or hot mess, but I know it’s H.O.T.!

Happy Saturday, y’all!

Tired

I’m tired, and I want to go to sleep. Tomorrow is Friday, and it’s my favorite day to go to the gym. If I go around 7:30ish, the place is like a ghost town, and I get to feel like Michael Jackson at Disneyland. After having a week-long bout of stomach nastiness, I’m slowly feeling better, but still not back to my old self. I want to make sure I’m rested so I can kick some ninja butt tomorrow at the gym.

On that note, I’m going to brush my teeth—including the new toof to replace the one I swallowed. But I just thought I’d share. Actually I got the new chopper only a couple of days after I swallowed the old one. In fact, I probably got it at about the time the old one vacated the premises, but I will never know for sure, and I wasn’t curious enough to check.

Narcissistic

I admit it. I’ve become narcissistic. For those of you who think I was already self-absorbed, I’ve fallen even more in love with myself, and I don’t care what anyone thinks about it.

I spent most of my childhood believing I was worthless. I thought I was disgusting, and I couldn’t understand how anyone could love me. Blah, blah, blah. This isn’t a blog to gain anyone’s pity or make anyone fantasize about a warm bath and a razor blade.

Long story short, in time,  with a lot of work, I started to focus on my good attributes. I gradually began to love the good things about myself. I never thought I was a hot babe, but I realized that when I was open to it, I received a healthy amount of attention from the opposite sex, and well, dammit, people liked me. All different people: young, old, men, women, adults, children, nerds, clerics, thugs, you name it. I could make friends with anyone. And when people like us, it’s attractive. Let’s face it. At some point in our lives. I think we’ve all met a hella hottie who lacks personality, and when we learn that they have the personality of road kill, their appeal suddenly starts to plummet. And how many times have we met someone who we wouldn’t give a second look to walking down the street, but once we talk to them or get to know them, they suddenly become absolutely irresistible?  I can tell you that the men I would gawk at on the street look nothing like the men who’ve made my “Top Hotties” list.

About a year and a half ago, I decided to step it up a notch. I wanted to be not only as healthy as I could be emotionally, but I wanted to be as healthy as I could be physically. I was 43, and the health gods had been good to me. I didn’t have to take any medications—well not for any physical ailments. At that time, was still taking my daily mood stabilizer for bipolar disorder, but I had escaped diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and many other curses that have plagued generations of my family. I realized I was playing Russian roulette, and I only had a couple to pulls of the trigger at most before that one bullet took me down. I decided to change my lifestyle. It was a gradual process, but I think it’s proven to be a successful lifestyle change.

After about nine months of my new life, which included months of walking 2 to 6 miles a day, I felt that I was ready to really kick things up and join a gym and work with a personal trainer.

I was feeling confident. Sure, I knew I wasn’t a body builder, but I was walking several miles a day, so I couldn’t be in that bad of shape, right? Wrong. The first time I met with Mike, the trainer, we spent a while talking about my life style and my goals. Then we were ready for him to give me a workout plan. The first thing he did was put me on the Precor AMT machine. Mike told me he wanted me to start with 10 minutes on the machine. Easy peasy I thought. Not! I lasted about 15 to 30 seconds and felt like my legs were going to give out—and they burned like I was walking through hell. I lasted a total of 4 minutes. Yes, only FOUR—and that was with a break every 15 to 30 seconds, and I couldn’t walk for three days afterward. However, I stuck with it, and within six weeks, I was up to 60 minutes on that machine. Once I achieved that goal, I increased the resistance, which goes from 1 to 20. Within about four months, I was not only doing 60 minutes a day on that machine, but I was doing it on resistance 20, half as stairs and half as a jog, clocking just over 7 miles during each 60-minute session.

That felt good. It especially felt good, because I felt that I had finally conquered that machine that took me down hard the first time we met.

Around the holidays, I took my sister to my gym as a guest. I had been trying to talk her into joining so we could be workout buddies. At some point, she made the comment, “Sis, you’re getting cakey.” If you aren’t sure what that means, it means someone has a booty. It caught me off guard, because my whole life, I was always Flat-Booty Judy. I had a pancake ass, a tuck butt—like tucking the sheets into your bed. I never had to worry about bumping into anyone or anything with my derrière, because it wasn’t there. This baby did NOT have back.

Just before Christmas, Mike had me stop working on the Precor AMT. He said my body had gotten too used to it and that I should wait about a month before I start doing it again. That’s when he had me start doing the SkiErg. That thing is no joke. It doesn’t look that tough, but it’s hardcore. It works your whole damn body: arms, core, and legs. When I first started, I lasted about 5 or 6 minutes (without a break this time), but I stuck with it, and now I’m up to about 45 minutes.

So how come the narcissism? I still don’t have the kind of body that would trigger insecurity in any of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit models. However, I am now the proud owner of an ass—and I don’t mean a donkey. I mean a booty…cakes. Baby finally got back. Sure, I still ain’t got nothing on J-Lo or Kim Kardashian, but it’s mine—all mine, and it isn’t airbrushed or lifted—and, I LOVE looking at it. Hey, I’ve worked hard for it. It’s my baby, and I know that with the right dedication, it’s going to just get better and better.

It’s my body, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks of it, because I like it in all its imperfect glory!

Resistant

Do things differently. Do things differently. DO THINGS DIFFERENTLY.

As I said in an earlier post , I am trying to do things differently. Actually, I’ve been trying to do things differently for much of my life, but as I’ve gotten older, and especially the last year or two, I’ve gotten more serious about it and expanded my horizon of just what I can do differently. Some days though, it’s tough. Good god, can it be tough.

For those of you who have any belief or interest in astrology, I’m a cusp baby. My birthday decided to sit it’s sweet little baby ass right on the border of Pisces and Aries. Most charts say I’m a ram girl, but many say that I am a fish baby. If you don’t believe in astrology or you think it’s a bunch of crap, you’re entitled to your opinion, but this is my blog, and you aren’t the boss of me, so you can either stop reading now, or you can open your mind to a different view of life, because I’m not going to stop talking about the planets and stars—at least not yet. I’ve come to realize that my public self tends to be more Aries, and my private self tends to be more Pisces. Now this is only taking into account my sun sign, and none of the other planetary placements.

In keeping with my true Arian (not Aryan, although my fellow word geeks know that Aryan is actually derived from Sanskrit) nature, I have a tendency to be very childlike in many ways. I can be impatient, vocal, boisterous, spontaneous, and adventurous. Fortunately, I have time on my side, and as I’ve aged and I’ve worked to do things differently, I’ve learned to try to let my Pisces blood take over when it’s needed—kind of like split personalities, which, incidentally, I do not have pedigree papers for.

My son is a full-on Pisces. I think my being born on the cusp was part of the Universe’s great plan, because sometimes my Aries nature is so challenged by his dreamy, deeply sensitive ways, and if I didn’t have my own Piscean blood running through me, I don’t think I’d have been able to make it through parenting. Fortunately, I’ve been somewhat successful at flipping the switch when I need to see life from a fire perspective or water perspective.

Recently, I feel like my life has been bombarded with wishy-washy people. Fools who can’t make up their mind. People who don’t have the backbone to say what they want. Weak people who would rather avoid a topic or issue than face it and say what they want or what they are thinking. This is unfathomable for me. Even during my childhood I usually had no problem saying what I wanted or needed—at least most of the time, and especially when people asked. That’s part of being honest: answering a question, and answering it truthfully. Heck, I remember being a kid and my mom scolding me for being “too honest.” She once said, “Angela, people don’t want to hear the truth.”

“I do.”

“Yes, but most people don’t. Many people find the truth to be hurtful.”

“Then they shouldn’t ask me to tell them the truth if they don’t want to hear the truth. How am I supposed to know if they really want the truth if they say they want the truth but they don’t want to hear it.”

“I’m just telling you, most people don’t want to hear the truth.”

“But you always told me not to lie.”

“Yes, you shouldn’t lie, but that doesn’t mean that everyone wants to hear the truth.”

No wonder people think I’m crazy. I spent many years of my life trying to play by their nonsensical rules!

So, when I encounter these wishy-washy people, my Arian personality wants to curse them out. Tell them to get with it. Man up. Give it to me straight. I may not like what I hear, but I’m going to have a hell of a lot more respect for you for having the balls to say what you want to say. Ducking and dodging a topic or problem is not the way to be viewed as strong or confident. Sure, you might think you are being a nice person, but you’re not. It’s a form of manipulation, and most people find wishy-washy people maddening. Don’t be afraid to say what you want or need. If the other person doesn’t like it, and they are at all a decent person, they are either going to respect your request or work toward  a healthy, mutual solution. And, if you can’t tell people what you want or need, you are not a good communicator. Being a good communicator spans far beyond making small talk or cutting jokes. You can wear the “good communicator” hat when you are able to talk about the things you don’t want to talk about. Until then, you are still a novice.

Yeah, several of these annoying folks have been parading through my life lately. Because I’m doing things differently—or at least trying to—I’m looking at it as a message from the Universe that I need to learn how to deal with these fools. I need to learn how to either encourage them to respond effectively, or I need to learn how to manage myself so they don’t get under my skin and drive me crazy. Easier said than done—especially if you are forced to deal with them such as a family member or co-worker—or if you are like me and you generally have no problem saying what’s on your mind, how you’re feeling, or what you want.

But, I’m trying—the Arian part of me is resisting the urge to curse them out and it’s also resisting the need to let the Piscean part take over, but I’ve made a promise to do things differently, and a promise made is a debt unpaid in the code of the frozen north.

It’s their issue, not mine—unless I allow it to be.