Cha-Ching!

It’s been said that a man and a woman can say the exact same sentence, but mean two different things. Example: Both parties can stand before an open closet door and say, “I have nothing to wear.”

What the man really means is, “I have nothing clean to wear.”

What the woman really means is, “I have nothing new to wear.”

As I stand before my closet this morning, trying to decide what will fill the suitcase for my Canada adventure, I find myself saying, “ I have nothing to wear!”

In black and white reality, this is absurd. I could clothe my entire neighborhood with the clothes I own. Of course, many of them would be shoeless, because unlike most women, I don’t have a shoe addiction. But if they showed up wearing their own shoes and undergarments, we could have ourselves a real fashion show.

But dressing myself is not a black and white issue. It’s about colors and fabrics and style and comfort and how to make it all work together. I want to wear something that feels like me, expresses who I am, fits me, and compliments me. If something fits all four categories, you can wrap it up, bag it, and charge it, because you've just made yourself a sale! Cha-Ching!

So, as I’m looking through my closet, my first instinct is to go shopping because, “I have nothing to wear!” But as I engage in a little self-talk, the reasonable and practical side of me points out that nobody in the entire country of Canada has seen me in any of the clothes I consider “old“, so it’s all new to them! I could cross the border in my favorite jeans and t-shirt from last year and the Canadians would be totally clueless. And if I take another step towards reality, I would realize that nobody in Canada really cares what I’m wearing, just as long as I’ve got my passport.

This ridiculous dilemma plagues me every time I pack for a trip and every time I actually get where I’m going, I find that I don’t really care what I’m wearing. When I walked out of the airport in Rome last spring and breathed in that Italian air, I could have been wearing a toga and high tops and I would have been happy. I don’t need new clothes to go see my friends, Sarah and Torben – I’m going for the food, the friends, and the fun.

Still, Sarah did mention hiking and I don’t have true hiking attire, so I might have to do a little shopping today, because I can’t hike in the Canadian Rockies with simple sweats and running shoes – that’s just silly.

Cha-Ching!

Two Lessons Learned

A man named Matthew Kelly – author and speaker – handsome Australian, once said that the difference between pleasure and happiness is that pleasure cannot be sustained beyond the act that gives us the pleasure, but happiness lingers long after the experience that produces it. If you think on that for a moment, you’ll realize the Aussie’s right!

Today after Mass, I decided to take a new way home and missed a street or two, got myself turned around, and ended up in the “keep on movin’” part of town. There are so many one way streets in this city – I know, because I’ve challenged a few over the years – that once you get going the wrong way, it’s hard to turn around. This morning I felt like a dopey mouse in a maze - turning onto street after street - eventually finding my way back to the church. Once there, I decided there was nothing wrong with taking the old way home. At least that way got me home!

After my self-induced detour, I decided that treating myself to some ice cream would make me happy, so I drove to Graeters and got myself a kiddie-sized scoop of Black Raspberry Chocolate Chip. Let me tell ya...it did the trick. Oh, the pleasure of eating ice cream is always divine! Mr. Kelly was right though: ice cream gone – pleasure over! (Gimme more...gimme more)

Fast forward a few hours and I’m outside enjoying the beautiful fall-like weather. The thought of going to the gym flashes through my brain, but my lazy ass tries to talk Mr. Brain out of it. Then the brain reminds the ass that it’s left cheek is sitting on a kiddie-size scoop of ice cream and the gym is the best place to get rid of it. Fifteen minutes later, I’m at the gym, warming up for a spinning class.

Did I mention that I learned two lessons today? One, being Pleasure versus Happiness, and the other one …….

I’ve had some interesting and specific severe pains when doing spinning sometimes that, despite my injured pride, have caused me to leave the class – devastating to my ego! It hasn’t happened for a long time, but when it does, I pray feverishly that God take the pain away. Unfortunately, that hasn’t worked too well.

Recently, my father was talking about praying over things. He said that sometimes we must tell God that we lovingly accept whatever it is that ails us. I told him that was ridiculous, because that means that I’m saying it’s okay, and it’s not Ok – I do NOT accept the things I do not want. Dad insisted that sometimes we must accept what we do not want, before it can be taken away. Whatever!

Today while spinning, the pain came on again and I started praying intensely for God to release the pain. It wasn’t working. I made the decision that I would die today before I left this class, so I decided to try my Dad’s grand idea. I repeated over and over again that I “lovingly accept this pain”. I repeated this mantra for nearly ten minutes and then like magic, it completely disappeared! I don’t understand it, but I’m grateful for it.

Maybe Dad’s right. Maybe sometimes we have to accept things for the way they are before we can move beyond them. Huh! Score another one for dear ol’ Dad!

In regards to lesson one, I should tell you that I was very happy after I finished my spinning class. I was very happy on my drive home. I was still a little giddy at dinner, and even now as I write this, I’m happy!

Both pleasure and happiness are wonderful, but happiness definitely lingers…...I like that!

( don’t worry – working on the source of that pain )

A Sure-Fire Laughfest

My very favorite past time is laughing and if I want a sure-fire laughfest, I just watch little kids play soccer.

My five year old niece, Emma played tonight and she’s a natural born soccer player. I’ve been watching her older brother, Mitchell play the game well for years now, but this is Emma’s first year at the sport. I was so proud of her tonight as she scored two commanding goals. She looked so pleased with herself. She has a real love of the game and she has seriously good focus.

Even though I go to her games to support her and root her on, I admit it’s not the only reason. See, the beauty of watching five year old girls play soccer is that there’s so much entertainment wrapped up in one 45 minute game. Running down the center of the field, you have the serious players like Emma and Sophia who give you hope that a goal just might be scored before the night is through. Then there’s the goalie who’s lying on the ground until one of the coaches lifts her up like a rag doll, reminding her of the duty of her all-important position. Of course, there’s always one girl standing in the corner, eating her hair, who’s only chance of touching the ball is to accidentally get hit by one. And you can always count on at least two of the girls hugging each other at midfield, unaware that the ball has just rolled past them. And let’s not forget that one child who is completely oblivious to everything happening around her. She literally has no idea why she’s on the field – she just came for the snacks. Did I mention the girl who is so focused on the ball and her footwork that she never looks up to see that she is driving to the wrong goal – again?

It’s like watching a Broadway comedy sometimes with an intermission and everything. Most of the funny business happens in the first act alone and then just gets repeated in the second half. It’s a shame they don’t serve peanuts and popcorn. All in all, the girls play great and I am super proud of Emma. She plays with real heart and she plays with joy and that is really fun to watch.

Thanks Emma!

I love you!

Namaste Cleo!

When I was a little girl, my favorite part of the Catholic Mass was The Sign Of Peace. As a child, the reflection and reverence aspect of the Mass that makes it so special was a little lost on me, but shaking hands and smiling at everybody around me during “Peace” was right up my alley.

The sign of Peace is when you turn to those around you, shake their hand, look them in the eye, smile, and say, “Peace Be With You”. As a kid, it was all about checking out who was sitting behind me and smiling at them – which I thought was fun! As an adult, this gesture carries a much deeper meaning for me. “Peace Be With You.” What a great thing to say to someone! Who couldn’t use a little more peace in their lives?

“Peace Be With You”

In India, they have a similar greeting – Namaste. Even though there’s no exact interpretation of this word, the intent is clear: “I honor the spirit in you, which is also in me”. I love that idea. To me, it means respecting the person standing before you for who they are and where they are in life and recognizing that we are all on our own path, trying to find our way to the same place – whether we know it or not – and all of us are doing the best we can to get there. Even the looney-tunes of this world, who seem completely lost, are doing the best they can with what they know.

Today, I saw a patient, that I‘ll call Cleo, who when I first met her, seriously challenged my patience. Even the girls at the front desk were voting on what flavor of crazy she was. When I meet patients such as this one, I just kill ’em with kindness, cover ’em with compassion, and do my best to tickle their funny bone. Most people can’t resist this trio and Cleo was no different. It wasn’t long before she was putty in my hands. As time went on, I watched her crawl out from underneath that crazy, grumpy shell of hers and emerge as a sweet, sensitive soul with a fiery spirit.

In countless ways, Cleo and I are as different as two people can be, but we quickly discovered some small and interesting things we had in common. Every appointment she has with me, I learn a little more about the person she really is and I see her tender heart. She makes me smile when I see her now, and despite all the madness in her world, I respect the spirit in her, which is also in me. I haven’t determined what flavor of crazy she is yet, but whatever it is, I honor the person she is and I honor the person she’s trying to become.

Namaste, Cleo, and Peace Be With You….

I Would Rather Go To Confession

It’s no secret to anyone who knows me that I have a serious attitude problem when it comes to blind dates. Even though I'm an optimist by nature, some might say I’m a walking illustration of pessimism when it comes to believing that this cruel and awkward method of matchmaking really works. I can easily exasperate the most patient person in the room with my excuses, complaints, and theories on why it will never work for me.

I do declare myself a stubborn woman, who is determined to meet a man in her own spontaneous way and tries her best to resist meeting someone in such an obvious manner. Nothing worse than walking into a restaurant, meeting a total stranger you know nothing about - except that he’s “nice” - then sharing an entire meal with him. It’s weird sitting two feet from a stranger, who’s as acutely aware as you are that the sole purpose of this ’meeting’ is to sniff each other out as potential spouses. (Are you feeling the attitude yet?)

Honestly, I would rather go to confession!

I can sum up my all blind date experiences over the years, by saying that I have never wanted any of my first dates to call me for a second. I won’t say that any of these experiences were terrible because they weren’t, but I won’t lie – I went to bed most nights praying their jeans made it through the spin cycle with my number tucked away in their back pocket. I admit, I met some super nice, handsome, intelligent, successful men over the years, but none of them captured my attention or left me even remotely intrigued. Sadly, very few of them ever took up residence in my memory bank past the first twenty-four hours.

I always thought the guy was feeling the same way, too. Surely, he noticed that although we had pleasant conversation, that’s about all we had. Certainly, he noticed that the evening fell a little flat after the salads were served and by dessert, all the fizz was gone. Surely, we were on the same page about that.

Nope.

Within 24-48 hours the email or call almost always came in and I would most graciously decline his invitation for a second date. There have been a few exceptions where I accepted a second date, because I thought, “maaaaybe”.... But I only remember having one third date.

Well, last week the earth must have rotated off it’s axis, because I actually had my first good blind date. I will spare you all the details and skip to the part where I say that “I liked this guy". Of course, I know very little about him overall, but he made me laugh – and that scores big numbers in my book. Without analyzing the whole thing, I’ll just say that I enjoyed his company and when he asked for my number to call me for dinner, I happily handed it over - that was a new feeling! To top it all off, when I awoke the next morning, one of my first thoughts was, “I hope he calls me. I think we would have fun. I could use some fun”.

Yeah! So that was like a week and a half ago and Mr. Funny hasn’t called. Can you say, “Disappointed”? How about, “Bummed”?

It’s amazing what thoughts run through your head when the phone doesn’t ring and you realize it never will. I’ll tell you what I did notice though – the thoughts that run through my head now, in my thirties, are not the same thoughts that ran through my head in my twenties.

Ten years ago, if a guy wasn’t interested in me, my first reaction was, “maybe he was looking for somebody prettier, smarter, blonder, quieter, blah, blah, blah“. But now, when he doesn’t call, none of those thoughts make it to my brain, because I know better. There could be all sorts of reasons he deleted my number from his phone and I‘ll probably never know what they are. As curious as I am, I know deep down, in the end, it doesn’t matter.

What I know for sure, is that if he recognized the spark of something special in me, he would have called me. If he doesn’t call, it simply means he didn’t see the magic in me - the same way I didn’t see the magic in all the men I chose not to have a second date with myself. When I look past the disappointment, I can see that I am capable of having a good experience on a blind date, so maybe I’ll agree to another one someday. Until then, I’m still banking on a spontaneous, destined, fairytale meeting between me and my prince charming.

Wish me luck…...