When It Comes to Expressing Emotion Is There a Middle Ground?

            Not long ago, I texted my daughter: “Have you heard ‘Mama’s Broken Heart’ by Miranda Lambert? It’s hilarious!” (Yes, I’m a baby-booming, ex-English-teaching texter. I spell out all the words and include the capitalization and proper punctuation.)

            Her reply: “no”

            My response: “When you hear it, give me a call. I want to know what you think. I love it!”

            A few days later I got a call from her. “I know why you love that song,” she said. “The mama is you. You think she’s giving good advice.”

            I didn’t deny the charge, although it’s not completely true.

            What I call my formative years occurred during the 1950s, when “what will the neighbors think?” was a genuine concern and behaving yourself in public in order to “save a little face” wasn’t frowned upon. But I entered my teens during the 1960s—the decade in which pop-culture influencers instructed impressionable youths to “let it all hang out.” So can it come as a surprise to anyone that on the subject of expressing emotions, I stand firmly in the middle?

            I contend somewhere between uptight restraint, which insists we inhibit our feelings to the point of denying them, and flagrant exhibitionism, which says it’s perfectly okay for a full-grown adult to throw a temper tantrum in the Walmart parking lot, there is a balanced way to handle them.

            Here are some strategies I recommend:

1. Acknowledge your feelings, but don’t act on them in public. Your little tirade might be cathartic for you, but it unnerves innocent bystanders. And when it’s all over, you’re going to want to forget about it while others have already posted it on Facebook. (Of course, there are those out there—and you know who you are—who thrive on this kind of attention.) Also, a public display could get you fired or arrested. I’ve always found the shower to be the perfect place to carry out a noisy meltdown.  

2. Talk out your angst with family or friends, but know there’s a limit to what even those closest to you can endure. If the BFF you’ve known since grade school—or your own mother—starts blocking your calls, take the Dear Abby route: consult a professional.

3. Employ a diversionary tactic. Shopping works for me, even if it is just window shopping. But if financial problems are the cause of your emotional stress, find another tactic.

4. “Fix your make-up...paint your toes.” The song makes fun of mama’s instructions to take a little pride in appearance, but I happen to think that’s wise advice. If you're dealing with anger, I’ve always liked Ivana Trump’s approach: “Looking good is the best revenge.” But DON’T make any major cosmetic decisions—like cutting your hair (with or without “rusty scissors”) or getting a tattoo—before giving yourself a reasonable cooling off period.

5. Take Olivia Newton-John’s suggestion and “get physical.” Okay, I’m thinking more along the lines of going for a run or cleaning your house. But if the kind of “physical” advocated in the song works for you, go for it. And speaking of songs...

6. Sing! That’s right. My mama once told me she knew when her mother was upset because she’d start humming. Even if your singing ability falls somewhere between an off-key bagpipe and a cat’s caterwauling, find a private place and belt out a song. The louder, the more therapeutic. I’ve found the shower stall is a good place for this, too.

Above all...

7. Pray. This is the tricky one. I think it’s especially difficult to pray when dealing with anger, but that’s the time it’s most critical. I’ve discovered (after a lot of resistance) that it’s hard to remain mad at someone for whom you’re praying.

            I must admit I’ve learned these lessons the hard way—through many trials and errors. But on the times I’ve had the presence of mind to follow them, I’ve saved myself a lot of grief. And, yes, I've spent a lot of time in the shower.

            If you have some strategies that work for you, I can always use more!      

 

Remember These?

             Don’t know about you, but I’m not fond of those Facebook posts that picture a gadget (usually some kitchen knickknack) and say, “Do you remember these?” I guess the posts are meant to evoke warm fuzzies for days gone by, but  I just roll my eyes. More often than not, I not only remember the item but am still using it.

            I’m not a hoarder. In my house, trails don’t meander through stacks of used newspapers, and closets don’t bulge with clothes from thirty years and thirty pounds ago. But for some reason I form strong attachments to kitchen utensils. I don’t mean to, but you know how it goes: One day you’re peeling potatoes, and the orange plastic handle on the peeler crumbles in your hand, and you think, “Wow, I got that peeler for a wedding shower gift thirty-nine years ago.” Then you think, “The same time I got the avocado green hand mixer and the harvest gold colander and funnel I’m still using.” You decide maybe it’s time to update, but, heck, by now your old stuff practically qualifies as “collectibles.” If you throw it out or donate it to the thrift store, the next thing you know, you’ll see a reproduction of it selling at Cracker Barrel for big bucks. Or you’ll see an original version of it selling at an antique mall for even bigger bucks.

            Of course, I may have gone to the extreme in saving a couple of items. If you look closely at the picture, you’ll notice that my set of measuring spoons—ca. 1974, the year I got married—is missing the bowl off the tablespoon. And my yellow plastic measuring cup set is missing the one-third and one-quarter cups. And if you look really close, you’ll see the one cup is missing the handle. But that doesn’t mean it’s not useful. I need it to guesstimate one-third and one-quarter cups. Besides, it has seen me through four kitchens and two remodels. You can’t just toss out loyalty like that.

             I’ll admit a few years ago I received a nice set of stainless steel measuring cups and spoons for Christmas. I didn’t throw out my old ones, though. I figured they’d come in handy if I needed to measure something and the new ones were in the dishwasher. I figured right. But today in TJ Maxx I made a tough decision. In a moment of stoic practicality, I purchased brand new sets of cups and spoons. The old ones are now retired from service, but I have yet to throw them out. I’ll have to ease into it, comforting myself with the knowledge that the colander, the funnel, and the mixer are still on active duty. 

                      

 Have useless gimcrack you can’t part with? Share with a comment on my blog. Or I'll even welcome it with a picture on Facebook!
 

Lesson from My Bike: Fighting the Aging Process Is Not a Good Look for Me

            A couple of times on my road to middle age and beyond, I decided to accept the inevitable and age gracefully. It wasn’t a good look for me. My body ballooned; the wrinkles increased exponentially. So I went back to fighting. I’m not saying fighting is working all that well, either, but at least I’m trying. Trying anything that doesn’t hurt too much, doesn’t cost too much, and won’t leave me looking like Joan Rivers. And in that spirit of adventure—or desperation, call it what you will—I took up bicycling. The I’m-doing-this-for-my-health kind of biking, not the buy-a-$10,000-bike-and-dress-head-to-toe-in-spandex kind.

            Yesterday morning, I donned my helmet—definitely NOT a good look for me, but I’m willing to make some concessions for safety’s sake—and set off with Bill on a new route. Edmond is currently working hard to become bicycle-friendly, but this particular route is not quite there yet. Part of it involves navigating narrow sidewalks and busy streets in order to reach a beautiful hiking/biking trail south of town. I was VERY cautious along the treacherous stretch and reached the trail intact. 

            You guessed it. Just when I thought the sailing was smooth, I took a tumble. I wasn’t being careless or dare-devilish. An innocent—and courteous, I might add— detour around two walkers resulted in my front tire becoming wedged between the grass and asphalt. Down I came, and, of course, on the asphalt side, not the grass side. 

            As a result, I have bruises that resemble ripe plums and strawberry abrasions on my calf and elbow. Those boo-boos joined with the chigger bites I acquired on a “healthy” hike the day before. The bites are the size and color of a cherry tomato. My body has become a metaphorical fruit salad, another not-so-good look for me. In the middle of summer, I’m wearing long pants and long sleeves when I venture out. I would stay home, but I have to go to CVS for antibiotic ointment and anti-itch cream.

            I know what you’re thinking, but before you even suggest it, let me make this categorically clear: I’m NOT getting one of those adult tricycles. That’s not a good look for me, either.




I thought these boo-boos would impress grandson Brooks...

   



but he was more concerned with what happened to my bike.

iScream

             Hubby Bill announced he was going to the AT&T store for a phone update and asked if I would like one, too. I tagged along with mixed emotions—excitement and dread. Yes, it would be nice to have more speed and to take sharper pictures. But entertaining no delusions about my computer skills, I also knew I was in for a lot of frustration.

            To preserve her anonymity and to ensure I don’t get sued, I’ll call the AT&T sales rep Holly. Holly was pleasant and, no doubt about it, knew her stuff. After she sold Bill and me two new iPhone 5s, she downloaded our contacts into them. Then she told us the instruction pamphlet in the box contained everything we needed to know. But I had a question:  “Can I transfer all the photos from my old phone onto this one?”

            Any grandparent will understand the importance of this request. For most of my life, I’ve carried no more than two or three pictures in my wallet, but now I need all 491 of my pics and videos with me at ALL times. I never know when someone will ask to see my grandsons blowing out birthday candles. Or sliding down a slide. Or turning over. Or...You get my point.

            Holly said, “Oh, sure. You can do it through iTunes. It’s simple.”

            Her language shocked me. I couldn't believe she used the s-word: simple.

            AT&T might have done an excellent job training Holly to sell and program phones, but they fell short in the customer-relations department. Did the girl even look at me? Were my gray hair and Clarks sandals and the leopard-print case on my old phone not enough to scream, “BABY BOOMER!”? And did she not know that to a Baby Boomer NOTHING associated with technology is ever REMOTELY simple?

             It’s not that Boomers are stupid. It’s just that, unlike her generation, we weren’t trained to use a computer before we were trained to use the potty. And while they might be able to text with their thumbs, I could teach them a thing or two about using the nominative case of pronouns correctly.

            But not wanting to appear stupid, I asked no more questions and took the phone home.  After hours of googling and searching without transferring a single photo, I returned the next day to the store and to Holly. She patiently punched in some numbers on my phone and explained my pics had been stored on my iCloud. All I had to do was download them. Right. 

Thanks, Apple, for shattering my "cloud" fantasy.

            For all my life, a cloud has been a cottony puff of bliss, associated with floating above life’s problems and experiencing euphoria. But Apple has shattered that fantasy. Now, for me, cloud is just another word for stress. My photos were somewhere, floating on my own, personal iCloud. Obvisously they liked it there, because I couldn’t convince them to leave and take up residence in my new phone.  So three days later, not caring if I appeared stupid, I went back to the store and...success! I have no clue what they did and don’t want to find out. All I know is I have my pics on my new phone, and I’m satisfied.

             But if you yourself don’t want to be shocked, don’t mention the iC-word in my presence.

Latest Marketing Ploy--More Questions Than Answers

            No doubt about it, the writers for Yahoo Shine know how to rope in a reader. The teaser under the headshot of an attractive young woman was something like: “What’s different about this mannequin?” Oh, so it was a mannequin. I clicked on the pic. 

            I thought the article would be about how a certain H&M store in Sweden is using lifelike robots as mannequins. I was wrong. What’s causing all the buzz—or what has “gone viral” or “set tongues wagging”—is that the mannequins are a lifelike Size 12. In addition to “sparking an internet praise-a-thon,” the use of these mannequins has raised a criticism: “Will this just encourage obesity?”

            I’ll have to say, this particular question was not what first popped into my mind for many reasons. First, Lane Bryant has used “plus-sized,” “full-figured,” or my favorite Precious Ramwotse euphism “traditionally-built” mannequins for years. The concept is not new. I guess what makes these mannequins so special is that they’re being used in a more mainstream venue—a store that caters to the youthful and “hip”—as opposed to the old and hippy. Second, I don’t consider a Size 12 to be obese. A little overweight, maybe, but not to the point of being unhealthy. And when the average size of women these days is a 14—as the article states—a Size 12 could actually be considered the “new small,” couldn’t it? Anyway, that’s the reasoning I’m going with.

            So while the obesity question didn’t occur to me, here are some that did:

·         What’s with the Princess Leia hairdo? I’m so hoping this isn’t a fashion forecast. But maybe because this store is in Sweden, the Viking-opera-singer look works.

·         Why the socks? Are the mannequin’s feet cold, but not her bare legs and midriff? Has she just smeared Vaseline on her heels and doesn't want to get the platform greasy? Are slouchy, stretched-out socks the latest in sexy boudoir attire? If so, I’ve been sexy all this past winter and didn’t even realize it. I don’t think my husband did, either.

·         If this model is supposed to be so lifelike, where’re the muffin tops? I know they claim to make panties that don’t create these, but I’ve yet to find any that follow through on this promise and still stay up without a belt or suspenders.

·         Along this same line, where are the wobbly bits? If we’re truly going for lifelike here, let’s show a little cottage cheese.

·         Why the shawl? Actually, I know the answer to this—to hide the wing-dings. The only time I’ve bared my upper arms in public in the past few years was to go swimming. And I wouldn’t have done it then if they made swimsuits with sleeves.

            Maybe you can answer some of these questions for me. Or maybe you have questions of your own. Or maybe you just don’t give a rip about what marketers tell women they should look like and you’re happy with yourself whatever size you wear. Please comment!

PS If you know where I can find those magic no-muffin-top panties, I'd really love to hear from you!

           

Say "Cheese"...and Duck

           When I asked my daughter Kristin to send me a picture of Brooks in his new room, this is what I got.

 

Seems he’s going through a phase in which he hates to have his picture taken. I can’t blame him. I’m going through that phase myself. The difference is he’ll probably outgrow it. I'll only get worse.

             It’s kind of cute when a toddler throws himself face down on the floor and refuses to have his picture made, but not so much when his grandma does it. And the strategy of ducking right before the camera clicks doesn’t work anymore. It worked thirty years ago when it took weeks to get pictures developed, but in the age of instant photo-gratification, in less than a nano-second people are on to your trick. So through trial, error, and mortification, I’ve developed some coping tactics which—using myself as an example—I’m sharing with those of you who also suffer from photophobia. Feel free to use these the next time people insist you join in the group photo. 

EXHIBIT A: DON’Ts

 

 

 

 ·         DON’T stand next to, behind, or anywhere near the youngest, skinniest people in the group.   

        (I use the word skinny as a compliment.)

·         DON’T look at the camera face-on.
·         DON’T expose any more of your body than is absolutely necessary.
·         DON’T wear anything shiny on or near body parts you don’t want emphasized, e.g. thick neck, broad shoulders. (NOTE: If you, like me, have a weakness for bright, shiny things, don’t give up wearing them. Just remove them before having your picture made.)

 

 

EXHIBIT B: DOs

 

·         DO hide behind other people or position yourself on the row farthest back.

·         DO, angle your body to the camera.

·         DO cover or camouflage as much as possible those body parts you don’t want emphasized, e.g. thick neck, broad shoulders. 

Another helpful hint is to avoid squinty, “Porky Pig” eyes by smiling only with your lips and holding your eyes open. But a word of caution here: I STRONGLY advise you practice this technique in the mirror before trying it in a picture. Otherwise, you might come out looking scared. Or scary as evidenced below.

 

 

Finally, some advice for those annoying headshots we sometimes have to provide. To avoid the expense of professional lighting, photo-shopping, and air-brushing, your best bet is to follow this acronym: KISS (Keep It Small, Stupid). I might be the only person in the country who likes her drivers license picture. In fact, the last time I renewed my license, I asked for re-prints of the photo. The agent informed me she didn’t have the right equipment. That’s unfortunate because those stamp-sized pics are perfect for hiding wrinkles, fine lines, yellowing teeth, thinning hair, enlarged pores...whatever ails ya.
 

I hope these techniques prove helpful to you. If they do, please let me know, and if you have some of your own, please share. 

Wishing you Health and Happiness in the Shiny New Year!

(And thanks to the fabulously photogenic Inklings for helping me demonstrate my techniques!)

 

Just Give Me Books and a Bic and Call Me Old

I try really hard to resist induction into the-older-I-get-the-better-I-was club. But on a recent morning bike ride through the UCO campus (yes, Bill and I were the old fa...olks, swerving to avoid students and cars), I came alarmingly close to qualifying for membership.  

I’d braced myself for the latest campus fashion trend—Daisy Dukes paired with black pantyhose and Doc Martens. According to friend and author Sonia Gensler, this is a hot new look at Oxford. But I spotted no such outfit on the UCO coeds. Either wriggling into pantyhose takes too much time and effort before an early morning class, or this uber style has not yet made it across the  pond. Give it a couple of years. 

While I was prepared for what I thought students would be wearing, I wasn’t prepared for what they were carrying. Or, rather, weren’t carrying. Riding through the campus, I noticed the same thing over and over: students hurrying to class, carrying nothing more cumbersome than a purse or a wallet or a can of Red Bull. No books, no laptops, not even an iPad that I could see. I counted exactly three scholars whom I considered properly prepared for class: an Asian girl toting a book bag, a woman who appeared to be in her mid-thirties pulling a wheelie (pretty sure she wasn’t a professor), and—bless his heart—one rather nerdy-looking young man gripping a briefcase. 

When we returned home and were pouring milk over our Raisin Bran, I asked Bill, “Did you notice anything strange about those students this morning?” 

Being a card-carrying member of the aforementioned club, he gave the exact response I was expecting: “Everything about them is strange.” 

Rather than risk an I-don’t-know-what-this-world-is-coming-to lecture, I dropped the subject. But my mind was still churning, and here’s what I determined. A lot has changed on college campuses since the days I roamed them. Where my generation lugged twenty-pound tomes and bulging notebooks to class, today’s students have downloaded all their information on computers. Having read all assignments prior to class and having stored that vital information in their brains, they head to class burden-free, ready for stimulating and thought-provoking dialogue with their professors. OR tucked into their purses or pockets are teeny, tiny computers on which to take notes for further review. OR the class is being pod-cast and they can catch it again in the evening.   

Please assure me that these scenarios are feasible. I try not to dwell on the negative, but occasionally I worry about the future of our youth. And about the future of my Social Security check.