Primal Scream

One of Caleb’s favorite activities is to puff out his chest with a big intake of air and then let it all out with a powerfully joyful scream. He does this on the changing table, in the bath, while kicking a ball around the living room. Sometimes I join in the fun in a kind of call-and-response yelling match (Caleb: “ahhh!” Me: “Oh yea? Ahhh!” Caleb: AHHH!!!”), before I remind myself that we have both up and downstairs neighbors who might not appreciate our escalating scream contest.

Why do hair cuts always fall on good hair days?

Women definitely know what I’m talking about. After weeks of bad hair days, your hair looks unexpectedly fetching on the day of your hair cut appointment. Bouncy and shiny and falling in all the right and flattering places, as if to mock your decision to change things up with a hair cut.

What’s going on here? Is it just some cruel hand of fate taunting you, making you second guess what should have been a simple hair sacrifice? Or is it all about perspective – just when you risk changing something you appreciate it in its current state?

I’ve been thinking about this “hair cut on a good hair day” phenomenon, especially as we contemplate leaving our city. Bowing to the “cruel fate” hypothesis, I’m guessing that the amount of fun we have here is in direct proportion to the likelihood of our leaving. My cynical pessimistic side reasons that the more we enjoy our time in Boston, the greater our likelihood of leaving. If that’s the case, then we should really start packing our bags.

What have you done lately?

“What have you done lately?” was Mrs. Anderson’s favorite question. As my high school Western Civilization teacher, she’d pose that question to the class after expounding on the achievements of some child king or teenage military hero.

“What have you done lately” (drawn out emphasis on the ‘you’) she’d ask us with a toothy Cheshire grin, a playfully accusatory look peering over her bifocals. I suppose we were meant to feel already underaccomplished at age 16 or merely that much more impressed with the exploits of these historical figures. The way she said it made it a fun and highly imitate-able catchphrase, and we’d mock mimic her in the hallways between classes.

But that question, “what have you done lately?” with its implied response of “not as much as that guy” has continued, for better or worse, to ring in my ears since then; and as I get older, the list of people more accomplished than me “at my age” has exploded. Some day it will include presidents and Nobel laureates.

I should feel pretty self satisfied. I’m well liked and respected where I work; I have a loving family and good health. But there are just too many highly accomplished people around there messing this up, making me feel underachieving in comparison. Facebook is no help. Last week, I was reminded through this oh so helpful platform that two old friends had just published books and another was interviewed as an expert on NPR.

Why do their accomplishments accomplish making me feel so underaccomplished? Does everyone feel this way?

Probably not highly evolved and self actualized people. Probably not people who never expected much in the first place. I suppose my occasional self-disappointment malaise is the downside of growing up with loving and encouraging parents who told me I could (should?) achieve the world.

I’ve read that, despite the gloomy weather, Denmark has the happiest people of any country. Why? Not the generous social programs and high standard of living. The happy-ologists report that the Danes are happier because they don’t expect a whole lot and then are quite satisfied with outcome.

But I did not grow up in Denmark. I grew up in a corner of Horatio Alger’s Keeping-Up-with-the Joneses America filled with doctors and lawyers. And with a teacher who kept asking, “What have you done lately”?

Ahhh... Boston

This morning I learned that, according to a new report, Boston is among top most expensive cities in the US. Not really a newsflash, but definitely add that to the pile of things we won’t miss if we move.

Here’s a little something to throw on the pile of things we will miss if we move:

Last night, Colin picked up Caleb and I from daycare/work and instead of heading home we decided to take a little walk. Government Center, the neighborhood in which I work, is wasteland of Soviet-inspired architecture and concrete, so we started out our walk with low expectations.

But this is Boston, so after a few minutes we found ourselves approaching the State House, just in time to duck in from the rain. And what a place to “duck” into! Where else can you take a post workday walk and end up walking the exquisite gold and marble halls of a building as old as our nation?

Once inside, Caleb made an enthusiastic beeline for the marble steps and, chasing him, we found ourselves smack in the middle of a session of state Congress. The dense fog of power hit us before we could even see the politicians roaming the halls, looking important, schmoozing and shaking hands. The hall is open to the public, but was full mostly of tall, tanned and graying pols oozing self-importance. Given that we were accompanied by a quite adorable baby, we were the target of some of this well honed schmoozing and were greeted with gratuitous smiles and chummy comments about Caleb like, “the reps are getting taller each year. Har har har!” I guess kissing babies is kind of part of the job description.

With the rain clearing and having had our fill of vicarious political excitation, we exited to the closest park, the Boston Commons, a 50 acre rolling expanse home to ponds, swan-shaped boats, ornate gardens and live performances, which also happens to be the oldest park in the country. There’s an old timey carousel for goodness sake, which gave Caleb a good old fashioned thrill.

Our stomachs grumbling, we walked, passed the balcony upon which the Declaration of Independence was first read and the and storied Faneuil Hall, and landed in…. Italy.

You can’t throw a rock in the Italian North End of Boston, without hitting a quaint Italian ristorante covered in vines and candles and filled with the din of Italian chatter and the aroma of fresh made sauce. Walking only a block, we passed probably a dozen enticing places, landed on a tiny trattoria with outdoor seating and proceeded to enjoy some of the freshest, most flavorful pasta this side of Naples. Dinner never lasts long with a toddler, so we soon found ourselves roaming the streets inevitably landing in one of the many Gelateria to get a cold treat for the rest of our warm walk to the train station to catch the 7:30 train back to Medford.

Keith, the ticket taker who jokes with Caleb and gives him old tickets to play with during our normal commute home, was working the later train and looked surprised to see us. “You’re coming home late today.” “Impromptu date night.” we replied as we descended to stairs to our short walk home.

File all of that under “what I’ll miss about Boston if we move.”

Talkin bout a resolution

At our house we call it “pulling a Trader Joes.” This is the phenomenon of getting inordinately excited and committed to a new, seemingly life changing idea and then watching it die as life’s commitments get in the way. It’s why we simultaneously have a growing mutli-billion dollar weight loss industry in a country with a more fat people than you can shake a Nutrishake at. There’s no threat that the weight loss gurus will succeed their way out of business. Not with all of us quitters out there.

We call this a “Trader Joes” because Colin and I vowed to do our shopping there after a particularly enrapturing experience with inexpensive prepared food and bizarrely friendly check out staff. Sure, it was much less convenient than our normal grocery store, but what a better experience! “We should always come here!”

Despite our initial enthusiasm, we repeated the experience exactly zero times. Stop and Shop was walkable and cheap, and we’re lazy.

For this blog, I vowed publicly, even if no one was listening, to write a little bit each day. Lately, I’ve averaged one post a month. Pathetic.

I know the root of this problem. Instead of confidently posting a quick description or rant and hitting “publish,” I expound on an issue at length and from all angles I can think of. I fear (but fail at) posting something that might offend or fail a grammar test and rework it. I won’t post something unless I like it, and I’m paralytically critical of myself. All this stymies progress and deters me from even starting most days.

So, the point is in order to reach a goal, you need to bite off reasonable chunks. I go to the gym pretty regularly – but only because it is downstairs from my office. If I’m not entirely in the mood, I still go and just do a short workout. There are no “transportation costs” allowing me easy excuses. On busy days, I do excuse myself, but overall it’s part of my routine because it’s manageable.

So, I’m going to make this blogging thing more manageable by doing more regular short posts. Every once in a while I’ll probably expound on something at length. (I’m restraining myself right now from delving into all the other factors that make goals attainable: having someone hold you accountable, early and observable success, interim reachable goals, making the tasks something you enjoy…). Maybe the invisible reader will hold me to this new task…

Beach day

This weekend, being desperate for a respite from the heavy and sticky heat, the family took a short trip to a small lake near our house to dip our overheated bodies in some cool water. Less than a mile from our house, Sandy beach is the size of large backyard, and looks over a tree-lined lake filled with small fish and dotted with sailboats. There are shaddy paths around the lake for bikers and runners and just behind the “beach” is a playground and soccer field. We congratulated ourselves for living in such close proximity to such a find.

When we arrived early in the morning the beach was fairly empty, giving it the feel of a campground oasis. There was a family of Brazilians playing in the water and a grumpy old groundskeeper cleaning up Canadian geese poop, who treated us to his musings on illegal immigration. (“It’s just like the Canadian geese. We let them in and protect them and then all they do is shit all over the place.”)

We shook this off and proceeded to cajole our water-averse son into the refreshing lake water.
Caleb remained stubborn in his anti-water stance and stood watch at the shore as dad and I frantically tried to make our case for its merits.

“Look Caleb, the other kids are having so much fun in the water!”

“See? Mommy’s feet are wet and it feels SOOOO good!”

“Look it’s your favorite toy boat sailing on the water! Come catch it!”

All of this was met with furious and defiant head shakes.

The whole scene was described (unprompted) by the curmudgeonly groundskeeper thusly: “Your wife is going to turn that child into a sissy.”

I suppose he would rather I had thrown him in, trial by ordeal-style, to see if he would sink. “Too bad about that kid. But he sure was brave.”

Oblivious to the name calling, Caleb actually had a fun time standing at the shore, screaming at the sailboats and birds and telling the other children that the ball we were playing with was “mine!”

All this is huge progress compared to our last visit to the beach, in which Caleb spent his time either screaming to go home or in the safe cocoon of a beach tent. Next visit we are hoping to actually meet the water. Someday he may even swim in it!

Alternate Realities and the Art of Happiness

Not just because of recent island-based, sci-fi, TV dramas, I’ve been thinking a lot of alternate realities. How the decisions we make shoot us down one path or another. Like if you had only gotten into that creative writing seminar, you’d have a plum reporting job, or if you’d gone on that camping trip to the Rockies, you’d have a different life partner. Would your life be better? Would you be any happier in those realities?

Or would whatever it is that makes you “you,” push you to pretty much where you are now with only slight differences? This is the “course correction” hypothesis. Sure, maybe you’d be with a different mate, but he’d share pretty much the same characteristics as your current spouse, given those are the qualities you, in all your “you-ness,” are drawn to. Is your fate pretty much sealed by a combination of your personal proclivities and upbringing?

Could it be that some number-crunching social scientist, given enough data on the circumstances of our birth and our abilities, could predict with reasonable accuracy where we’d end up. Born with an aptitude for science, introverted relational style and of upper-income parents with liberal politics and a connection to a religious community, will end up…… (peep peep, chug chug, chrunch chrunch ….) in a stable relationship working as a chemical engineer and vacationing in the Berkshires. Maybe you’d deviate a bit from this ending, but not much. Or would you?

Maybe there is truly enough randomness over a lifetime to put you farther off that course. Could be that the randomness in our lives accumulates to offer vastly different alternate futures. I’m sure Malcolm Gladwell could write a convincing essay on either option.

None of this is anything new. The debate between chance and choice has been the stuff of religious and philosophical musings (and late night pot-induced dorm room rap sessions) and the meat of great novels for centuries. What I’ve become obsessed with is wondering is if I’d be happier in any of these alternative realities.

My husband likes to remind me that I suffer from the “grass is always greener” syndrome, and this is unequivocally true. Objectively, I’m a pretty lucky gal. I have a reasonably fulfilling, low-stress and high-paid job, a loving husband, healthy baby and all around supportive friends and family. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking I could have it better, if only…

You see, every once in a while I run into those people. You know, the kind that ooze self contentment and emanate joy. They love their lives and feel lucky every day. They smile at strangers with actual sincerity, and brush off frustrations easily. Is that because the fates, or the consequences of their birth, or whatever drives their life’s trajectory put them in the most optimal outcome for them? Might they be less happy in another job, city, family? Or are they the types who no matter where they land would have a sunny disposition?

I need to know this because, like I said, I’m lucky. But I don’t ooze joy. And I want to. I want to be one of those people who feel happy to be exactly where they are. These people fascinate and frustrate me. Are they this way because of their perspective or their position. And which is easier to control? A new perspective or a new position? I guess that depends on who and where you are.