I know that love is all the rage, but hate is great in its own way, and here’s why.
When you’re curious about who you are and how you feel, hate is a shortcut to informing you what works for you and what most decidedly does not..
With summer around the corner (in this corner of the world), there’s a lot of talk about being your best self, which somehow links to self-care and self-love, both of which can lead to self-meanness, which then calls for self-compassion. So before we drive all of our selves completely crazy, here’s a breakdown of what’s up, and why it doesn’t really matter.
The answer is right there - in the grammar.
There’s a word that separates Your and Self - a word that allows you to set your goals, commit to your workout, juice your greens, save your money, hit your target, meet your soulmate, meditate to keep calm and carry on in pursuit of your best self. Whereas being yourself doesn’t require anything - not a dash, not a comma, not a space.
My swinging occurs almost everywhere else — in my food, in my mood, in my parenting, in my productivity. Some days I️ go full throttle, others I️ stay down low. Also known as black-and-white and ‘woah, you are too much!’ what I️’ve never been called is middle-of-the-road.
Panic is how I would describe it. The feeling I had when presented with my cake and candles and the moment to make my wishes (oh yes, even at fifty, I take my birthday wishes très seriously). Panic because nothing came to mind. I felt full. Full of food and drink, yes, but also full in that place that always has a yearning. That low-level hum of wanting more. That irritating itch of desire that feels unscratchable. That void which drives my drive, my ambition, my force. Devoid of the void, I am...fine?
That’s no way to live.
I’ve been reflecting on my fiftieth for some time now. Taking stock of my life, going over what I have accomplished, grieving all that I have not, reflecting on time that has past that I will never get again. Some say age is just a number, but in the game of life, resources are limited, and age is a barometer of time, a measure of how much has gone by and what is still left.
Let’s play a game. I’ll name a day and you tell me how much you weighed:
this morning,
your last check-up,
in ninth grade,
when you were nine years old. How many did you get?
I once asked Claude how she kept her jeans and tees so crisp and white. “I bleach the fuck out of them,” she said.
Claude is a brilliant artist with a great sense of humor, but of all our exchanges over after-school pick up, this is the one I remember.
I got married 21 years ago today. That’s 21 years of struggles and stress, celebrations and surprises (some more pleasant than others). 21 years of my belly growing, my heart expanding and my tolerance increasing as I learned to make room in and around myself for the (amazing) people that I share my life with.
21 years of figuring out how to compromise, to share, to think of others without losing myself.
The problem with getting what you want is that there is always more want underneath. Once you satisfy your appetite for food or for things or for power or for experiences, your desire becomes unleashed. There is more to want. More to yearn for, more to long for.
Lately, things have been good. Really good. And that makes me uncomfortable.
Grief has no rationale. It doesn’t care how old they were, how ill they were, how close you were.
Grief grabs you at your chest and squeezes relentlessly, just a moment longer than you think you can hold with a sudden and momentary release so that you can inhale sharply before you’re squeezed again. (Best to have a paper bag nearby to help with breathing.)
Ten years ago we moved back to NYC from the suburbs. While there, I had promised myself that when we returned, I would run in Central Park every day. On our first day back I stepped into the park at West 79th street. That’s when I saw her.
I haven’t been to LA in 25 years. It’s not personal - we’re just not a match(a). I used to come here for work and race back home when I was done. The place was pretty, but fake, plastic-y, a watered down version of its magical onscreen presence. The people felt the same as well - all smiles but little more - with one of my least favorite questions making me feel like work is the worth here, and little else. I opted for New York and its absolute reality.
Do I have enough of you in me?
Every evening, hunky hubby and I play a game (or best of three) of backgammon. The other night, I laughed aloud at something he said and told him what I assumed had led him to say it.
You’re wrong, he said.
Permission always granted — for no reason at all. But doubly so during flu season, which has made its way into our home. Hope you and yours are well.
Lest this be our first meeting, let me bring you up to speed: I spend hours thinking about my self. I mean, I spend hours thinking about others as well, but overall I am pretty self-ish (and proud of it, too - it took me a long time to get this way.
I was asking H about a date she had been excited to go on. She said it had gone great for her but clearly not for him because he had not reached out for another.
Ugh, I responded. How do you feel?
It’s fine.
Ouch.
Having money is easier than not having it.
Being happy is easier than being grief-stricken.
Being healthy is easier than being sick.
But…
It’s time for your year-end review. The one where you go over all the stuff you got done (or didn’t), the weight you lost (or gained), the promotion you got (or got passed over for). It’s time to go over all of the things that happened this year (can you believe it?) and reckon with the fact that the year is now over (can you believe it?).
Tis the season for gifts and giving and, by that count, receiving. We are well-instructed in the art of giving and somewhat practiced in the grace of receiving but know little about how to ask for what we want.
My nails are perfectly painted in Essie’s Limited Addiction.
I know this because I keep looking at them as if I am a scientist studying the art of manicure. When in actuality I am a writer practicing the art of distraction. (In fairness, I don’t need much practice in this, I’m pretty good at it.)
The holidays are here and with them a melange of magical moments and frantic frenzy. Nowhere else is this mixed messaging as decidedly pronounced as in our interactions with our family.
My friend L and I caught up last week. Her nanny had left to tend to family matters, and L hadn’t hired a new one yet. “What surprises me is not how much I’m enjoying being home with the kids, but how much I want to be home with them. I’ve always loved working - I never thought I would want that.”
This weekend I hung out with a dozen parent volunteers at a campsite: preparing fire, food and fun for 150 campers. The kids had a great time and so did we - enjoying the instant camaraderie that comes when you’re volunteering.
I should know, I am a chronic volunteer.
On Saturday, more than 3,000 students lined up outside New York’s Fame! school for a chance to audition. (A total of 18,000 will have auditioned by the end of the process.)
I stopped reading newspapers years ago. Being up-to-date in domestic and international news was critical to my job, but detrimental to my personality. You see, I am an optimist.
I love Mibodi. She is beautiful, flexible and strong with smooth olive skin and a sensuous hourglass figure that expands and contracts but never changes its shape. I hate her, too. With her floppy belly, chunky arms, and cottage cheese thighs; her bigness that makes her hard to dress and harder still to get up and out and around.
Aah, it’s May. Beach season kicks off in 27 days. And you know what happens when I say beach (let’s do it together). When I say “beach” you say “body”! Beach! ‘Body!’ Beach! ‘Body!’ So here we are, it’s body month. Bare-my-body, no-not-my-stomach, omigod-I-hate-my-thighs, I-know-my-body-looks-good-to-you-but-
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Bittersweet too small a word for when fierce pride and immeasurable joy crash into inconsolable sadness. But it’s all I’ve got for now. Congratulations, Graduates.