"Optimists are simply people who don't have all of the information."
This, apparently, was something a raving, homeless man told one of my classmates on a New York subway. My classmate cited this quote because she will be teaching a course on the psychology of happiness (interestingly enough, eh?) and used this quote on her syllabus. A lot of other people in the class really didn't understand the purpose of the quote.
"Isn't that quote counter-intuitive to the idea of happiness?"
"Doesn't it seem really negative to say that optimists are also dumb?"
Well, no. See, I happened to really enjoy and appreciate this quote because it raises an importance distinction between optimism and happiness, namely that optimism and happiness are not the same thing.
What I've come to discover through both this blog and just by living and coping and trying to understand how I'm feeling and who I am is that being happy is not necessarily exuding unending hope or joy. In fact, I'm happiest when I'm simply satisfied, content, and at peace. As a consequence of satisfaction or contentment or peace, I may feel momentarily giddy that I enjoyed a pleasant book or discussed a great piece of writing or had a really wonderful, long conversation with a friend or had a fun social interaction, but rather extended periods of engaging in stimulating thought and enjoying true, loyal friendships with thoughtful people.
I'd still say that I have long way to go towards total, complete happiness, but I can experience moments of optimism that can raise my mood and can contribute to achieving long-term satisfaction.
See, the thing is, I agree with the crazy, homeless man (I hope this doesn't speak volumes about my own mental state). I agree that unquestioning hopefulness towards the world and a perpetually bright spirit indicates a sort of daftness and an inability (or perhaps even unwillingness?) to examine that which is in front of you. Optimism can be blind to circumstances that are negative. Optimism implies, for me, a sort of non-judgmental stance on the world. I wouldn't say that criticism and judgment necessarily lead to happiness either, but in order to find contentment, distinguishing (and therefore judging) between what's important to you and what isn't, what fits into your set of values and what doesn't, seems absolutely vital.
I feel as though optimism, too, can often lead to a lot of unhappiness. While hope in the face of conflict/loss/depression can be uplifting, it can also eventually lead to a lot of disappointment. After all, there are moments in which you shouldn't be hopeful; that's called delusion. Not that one should strive towards wallowing in never-ending pain, but one should at least face and accept one's reality before finding ways to heal and overcome said reality.
I'm making it sound as though being an optimist is easy (it isn't) and I still strive towards optimism more than pessimism in my own life, but adopting optimism without judgment or thought seems, to me, a destructive approach and one that doesn't contribute towards achieving happiness.
It's funny to me that I feel as though I can logically understand these concepts and this psychology and yet still not wholly apply it to my own life. These reflections, these thoughts are coming from someone who some days still feels overwhelmed with emotion, who still tries to overcome anxiety, sadness, and loneliness, and who still indulgently dialogues with herself about how no one else understands the magnitude of her suffering and other such angst. I can distance myself from such feelings when I want to, but other times it feels all-consuming.
Ultimately, this struggle is part of being - well - human, but here I am still figuring out how I fit in on the spectrum of happy and healthy people. I'm getting there, aren't I?
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Today I Appreciate My Coworker, With Whom I Stole Paper Cups For Tea
At my job, we have a coffee maker, a water heater, and tea bags, but alas, there are no cups. This lack of cups deems all of the aforementioned items completely useless, which is sad. Very sad.
I worked at the same place last year as a writing tutor and it seemed as though our snack bar was significantly more loaded up with cookies, crackers, chips, and other snacking items. Oh, and cups.
So, my coworker, Laila, and I decided it was about darned time we got some cups! With both of us working three hour shifts tonight, we decided caffeine would be an asset to actually, you know, helping us help students write.
Alas, grocery stores are not within easy walking distance from the tutoring center as we work up near the residence halls on campus. However, there's a quick-service cafe ("BruinCafe" otherwise known as "B Caf" to those cool enough to shorten it) right near the dorms that hosts a plethora of paper cups. Surely they'd be willing to give up a couple for the cause of tea?
In a break between sessions, Laila and I make our way down to B Caf (yes, I'm one of those cool enough people to abbreviate BruinCafe as such) and head straight towards the coffee section of the cafe because we figured, you know, coffee cups would be best for hot drinks. Laila bravely asks one of the baristas (is B Caf fancy enough to have baristas? A debatable point for later) for one of the cups, and...
"No. Sorry."
Laila and I look at each other.
"You can't just give us a cup for - um - water?" Laila asks.
The worker, strapped into an unfortuante apron and visor uniform shook her head again.
"No." That was it. Note that we were the only ones in the cafe at this point, staring at the stack of coffee cups waiting, just waiting, for delicious tea to fill them. No one was exactly clamboring for coffee at 6:30 PM, anyway.
We would not let this bureacracy-tied barista stop us from fulfilling our caffeinated dreams, however. Upon exiting, we saw stacks of paper Pepsi cups beside an unattended cash register. We look at each other again and nod. Perfect. Without saying a word, we follow out of B Caf and each swipe one cup from the top of the stack. Empty paper cups in hand, we giggle all the way back to the tutoring center about our stealthy accomplishment. True, we only stole about 5 cents' (if not less) worth of glass - er - plasticware from UCLA, but it still felt like a secret mission and accomplishment in which we could revel and savor the sweet taste of clever victory.
This post is not to endorse stealing, of course. In fact, stealing is bad. However, there's something that inherently bonds people together when they share a secret mission or goal together, even if it's for something as silly as some cups to make some tea.
The only sad part about this story is that the water heater at our tutoring center doesn't work. So, after all of that adventure, we found ourselves still tea-less in the end. However, the adventure was half the fun, anyway, and the conversation with all of the tutor-less coworkers kept us awake enough that the time at work flew by without any yawns or sleepiness.
I worked at the same place last year as a writing tutor and it seemed as though our snack bar was significantly more loaded up with cookies, crackers, chips, and other snacking items. Oh, and cups.
So, my coworker, Laila, and I decided it was about darned time we got some cups! With both of us working three hour shifts tonight, we decided caffeine would be an asset to actually, you know, helping us help students write.
Alas, grocery stores are not within easy walking distance from the tutoring center as we work up near the residence halls on campus. However, there's a quick-service cafe ("BruinCafe" otherwise known as "B Caf" to those cool enough to shorten it) right near the dorms that hosts a plethora of paper cups. Surely they'd be willing to give up a couple for the cause of tea?
In a break between sessions, Laila and I make our way down to B Caf (yes, I'm one of those cool enough people to abbreviate BruinCafe as such) and head straight towards the coffee section of the cafe because we figured, you know, coffee cups would be best for hot drinks. Laila bravely asks one of the baristas (is B Caf fancy enough to have baristas? A debatable point for later) for one of the cups, and...
"No. Sorry."
Laila and I look at each other.
"You can't just give us a cup for - um - water?" Laila asks.
The worker, strapped into an unfortuante apron and visor uniform shook her head again.
"No." That was it. Note that we were the only ones in the cafe at this point, staring at the stack of coffee cups waiting, just waiting, for delicious tea to fill them. No one was exactly clamboring for coffee at 6:30 PM, anyway.
We would not let this bureacracy-tied barista stop us from fulfilling our caffeinated dreams, however. Upon exiting, we saw stacks of paper Pepsi cups beside an unattended cash register. We look at each other again and nod. Perfect. Without saying a word, we follow out of B Caf and each swipe one cup from the top of the stack. Empty paper cups in hand, we giggle all the way back to the tutoring center about our stealthy accomplishment. True, we only stole about 5 cents' (if not less) worth of glass - er - plasticware from UCLA, but it still felt like a secret mission and accomplishment in which we could revel and savor the sweet taste of clever victory.
This post is not to endorse stealing, of course. In fact, stealing is bad. However, there's something that inherently bonds people together when they share a secret mission or goal together, even if it's for something as silly as some cups to make some tea.
The only sad part about this story is that the water heater at our tutoring center doesn't work. So, after all of that adventure, we found ourselves still tea-less in the end. However, the adventure was half the fun, anyway, and the conversation with all of the tutor-less coworkers kept us awake enough that the time at work flew by without any yawns or sleepiness.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Today I Appreciate Not for Tourists
I'm a sucker for novelty, as long as it's not something too dangerous, scary, or emotionally/physically exhausting. Therefore, a guidebook like Not for Tourists is perfect for people like me because I can seek out novelty in the L.A. area and flip through pages of tidy maps that tell me where to go without having to actually really go to any of these places.
That's not to say that I don't want to go to any of these places. Au contraire, I would go to all if I could, but one can only do so much and reading about fun places is half the fun of actually going, right?
See, I was prompted to flip through my NFT guide tonight in an attempt to formulate some late night plans. As a college student, I am supposed to act and find great adventures spontaneously, but that's not really my style. Spontaneity, in my opinion, typically does not emerge at the most convenient times, so relying on it to strike on a Saturday night and magically find something exciting to do seems like a bit of a crapshoot. Besides, I'm a planner in general. I make to-do lists every day. I e-mail party invitations. Yep, I'm that kid.
My age, unfortunately, prevents me from visiting some of Los Angeles's classier nightlife joints, but who knew that there was a restaurant on the Sunset Strip open late with a mechanical bull? Apparently, there are also several karoake joints that stay open until 6:00 A.M. and kitschy beach-themed diners. Cool, right? Imagine what kind of people frequent these places, what faces one could see, and what conversations one could overhear.
Restaurants and clubs are, after all, feature some of the most varied smattering of individuals. Probably not the finest individuals in Hollywood, but at least some characters that provide good stories and insights into - well - who we all are. There's a piece of us in every drunken twenty-something, every gaggle of giggling high schoolers, every forty-year-old couple. Plus, I constantly itch to escape from the college apartment party, the cloistered soirees on someone's mom's old couch with with indistinguishable movie noise coming from the TV.
So, thanks to Not for Tourists for letting me dream about the possibilities to explore and be an active young person in this huge, huge city.
That's not to say that I don't want to go to any of these places. Au contraire, I would go to all if I could, but one can only do so much and reading about fun places is half the fun of actually going, right?
See, I was prompted to flip through my NFT guide tonight in an attempt to formulate some late night plans. As a college student, I am supposed to act and find great adventures spontaneously, but that's not really my style. Spontaneity, in my opinion, typically does not emerge at the most convenient times, so relying on it to strike on a Saturday night and magically find something exciting to do seems like a bit of a crapshoot. Besides, I'm a planner in general. I make to-do lists every day. I e-mail party invitations. Yep, I'm that kid.
My age, unfortunately, prevents me from visiting some of Los Angeles's classier nightlife joints, but who knew that there was a restaurant on the Sunset Strip open late with a mechanical bull? Apparently, there are also several karoake joints that stay open until 6:00 A.M. and kitschy beach-themed diners. Cool, right? Imagine what kind of people frequent these places, what faces one could see, and what conversations one could overhear.
Restaurants and clubs are, after all, feature some of the most varied smattering of individuals. Probably not the finest individuals in Hollywood, but at least some characters that provide good stories and insights into - well - who we all are. There's a piece of us in every drunken twenty-something, every gaggle of giggling high schoolers, every forty-year-old couple. Plus, I constantly itch to escape from the college apartment party, the cloistered soirees on someone's mom's old couch with with indistinguishable movie noise coming from the TV.
So, thanks to Not for Tourists for letting me dream about the possibilities to explore and be an active young person in this huge, huge city.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Today I Appreciate the Girl Who Packed My Dozen Bagels
NOTE: "... Who Packed My Dozen Bagels" is not a sexually euphemistic expression. I realize it looks and sounds that way, but the Noah's Bagels' worker literally put a dozen bagels into a bag for me. Look how nicely I'm avoiding controversy right up front.
To be a true reform, culturally Jewish youth, one must be able to distinguish between a good bagel and a bad bagel. There are many qualifications for this distinction:
1. Bagels must be chewy. A piece of sliced bread from a Sara Lee loaf is not chewy. Your bagel, therefore, should not be the texture of a piece of Sara Lee white bread.
2. Bagels must not crumble. OK, so I know this is a confusing concept as bread crumbles, cookies crumble, cakes crumble, and other grain-like products crumble, but after you eat a bagel, you should not leave behind a single crumb. See textural qualifications above to clarify this non-crumbling characteristic.
3. Bagels should NOT contain blueberries or chocolate chips. I'm sorry if you like sweet bagels, but we simply must agree to disagree. I realize that at many popular bagel chains, these types of bagels are sold to the goyim sweet-toothed masses, but bagels are meant as a savory carrier for a.) cream cheese, b.) lox, or c.) butter.
4. Bagels should not include any of the following: asiago cheese, jalapeno, "pizza" Enough said.
5. Bagels should not be less than 200 calories. If you're on a diet, fine, I'll understand if you eat paper-thin 100-calorie pieces of crumble-bread, but a real bagel is thick and carb-filled.
With these set of stringent guidelines, I can never bring myself to purchase bagels at any old grocery store. The only bagel place that truly succeeds in fulfilling all of these qualifications is Noah's Bagels. Ironically, Noah's "New York Style" Bagels are not actually sold in New York, but I don't really care about its East Coast authenticity. All I really care about is how they taste, how chewy they are, how thick they are, and how many no-frills bagels I can get my hands on.
Anyway, the problem with me and purchasing bagels is that I tend to feel a little bamboozled by the variety of bagel options, in spite of my strict rules and guidelines. This means that picking out a dozen for bagging takes longer than it should for the average bagel purchaser.
I could tell the bagel bagger was confused with me. A sudden desire to switch from a sesame seed to a whole wheat bagel got her flustered and she immediately apologized, muttering that it was her first day. Typically, this annoys me, but today I felt sympathetic and remembered my own first experiences working retail, trying to figure out where different clothes were supposed to be hung on different racks. So, I told her not to worry, that she would be fine. She breathed a huge sigh of relief and smiled and then said that she liked her job, really, but that she was just learning the ropes.
Her positivity was refreshing (in spite of dealing with a rather picky customer like me) and, heck, food service jobs really never are easy.
There was going to be a lot more written here, but the day passed by quickly.
As a small note, I also appreciate the couple at the restaurant I went to this evening that brought their own Ziploc tupperware containers to pack up their leftover food. Sure, it's a little kooky, but they're saving two stryofoam packages from hitting the landfills. So, thank you, geeky couple at the Mexican restaurant.
To be a true reform, culturally Jewish youth, one must be able to distinguish between a good bagel and a bad bagel. There are many qualifications for this distinction:
1. Bagels must be chewy. A piece of sliced bread from a Sara Lee loaf is not chewy. Your bagel, therefore, should not be the texture of a piece of Sara Lee white bread.
2. Bagels must not crumble. OK, so I know this is a confusing concept as bread crumbles, cookies crumble, cakes crumble, and other grain-like products crumble, but after you eat a bagel, you should not leave behind a single crumb. See textural qualifications above to clarify this non-crumbling characteristic.
3. Bagels should NOT contain blueberries or chocolate chips. I'm sorry if you like sweet bagels, but we simply must agree to disagree. I realize that at many popular bagel chains, these types of bagels are sold to the goyim sweet-toothed masses, but bagels are meant as a savory carrier for a.) cream cheese, b.) lox, or c.) butter.
4. Bagels should not include any of the following: asiago cheese, jalapeno, "pizza" Enough said.
5. Bagels should not be less than 200 calories. If you're on a diet, fine, I'll understand if you eat paper-thin 100-calorie pieces of crumble-bread, but a real bagel is thick and carb-filled.
With these set of stringent guidelines, I can never bring myself to purchase bagels at any old grocery store. The only bagel place that truly succeeds in fulfilling all of these qualifications is Noah's Bagels. Ironically, Noah's "New York Style" Bagels are not actually sold in New York, but I don't really care about its East Coast authenticity. All I really care about is how they taste, how chewy they are, how thick they are, and how many no-frills bagels I can get my hands on.
Anyway, the problem with me and purchasing bagels is that I tend to feel a little bamboozled by the variety of bagel options, in spite of my strict rules and guidelines. This means that picking out a dozen for bagging takes longer than it should for the average bagel purchaser.
I could tell the bagel bagger was confused with me. A sudden desire to switch from a sesame seed to a whole wheat bagel got her flustered and she immediately apologized, muttering that it was her first day. Typically, this annoys me, but today I felt sympathetic and remembered my own first experiences working retail, trying to figure out where different clothes were supposed to be hung on different racks. So, I told her not to worry, that she would be fine. She breathed a huge sigh of relief and smiled and then said that she liked her job, really, but that she was just learning the ropes.
Her positivity was refreshing (in spite of dealing with a rather picky customer like me) and, heck, food service jobs really never are easy.
There was going to be a lot more written here, but the day passed by quickly.
As a small note, I also appreciate the couple at the restaurant I went to this evening that brought their own Ziploc tupperware containers to pack up their leftover food. Sure, it's a little kooky, but they're saving two stryofoam packages from hitting the landfills. So, thank you, geeky couple at the Mexican restaurant.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Today I Appreciate the Receptionist at Work
This was a bad day.
Consistently on the verge of weeping/crying (depending on the severity of what little thing bothered me), I'm exhausted. Walking felt strangely automatic today, as if my feet were working for me and I had little control over where they shuffled me. My head felt light, detached from my body, trapped in its own hazy state separate from every other part of me. Everything was - still is - bizarrely muted. Ironically, this distance from everything around me triggered this instinct, this desire to flee. Anything would have been better than that distance I felt, that complete and utter isolation from everything around. Nothing felt close and real and nobody could hug me or kiss me or rub my back and assure me that it was going to be OK.
So I cried in a crowd, too, and it had to be one of the worst feelings, watching everyone pass me content or bored with their own lives when I felt like I was simply drowning in mine.
The receptionist at work noticed, though. I'm a writing tutor and no students signed up to work with me today, so I worked on homework and perused Facebook when I lost focus. I saw our receptionist out of the corner of my eye; he sat down next to me and just asked me:
"Hey, are you OK?"
And that was the only thing I needed to hear. I told him honestly ("no"), but he didn't pry, he didn't try to get at any gossip or emotional trauma. Instead, he just said he hoped I felt better, but not in a passing way. It felt genuine.
So, thank you, Covel Receptionist, for noticing me.
Consistently on the verge of weeping/crying (depending on the severity of what little thing bothered me), I'm exhausted. Walking felt strangely automatic today, as if my feet were working for me and I had little control over where they shuffled me. My head felt light, detached from my body, trapped in its own hazy state separate from every other part of me. Everything was - still is - bizarrely muted. Ironically, this distance from everything around me triggered this instinct, this desire to flee. Anything would have been better than that distance I felt, that complete and utter isolation from everything around. Nothing felt close and real and nobody could hug me or kiss me or rub my back and assure me that it was going to be OK.
So I cried in a crowd, too, and it had to be one of the worst feelings, watching everyone pass me content or bored with their own lives when I felt like I was simply drowning in mine.
The receptionist at work noticed, though. I'm a writing tutor and no students signed up to work with me today, so I worked on homework and perused Facebook when I lost focus. I saw our receptionist out of the corner of my eye; he sat down next to me and just asked me:
"Hey, are you OK?"
And that was the only thing I needed to hear. I told him honestly ("no"), but he didn't pry, he didn't try to get at any gossip or emotional trauma. Instead, he just said he hoped I felt better, but not in a passing way. It felt genuine.
So, thank you, Covel Receptionist, for noticing me.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Today I Appreciate Hearing My Own Words Spoken Back to Me
Inevitably, there is something you wish you never said.
"Neato burrito," for example. Never a phrase I should have uttered. But I've used it. Ow.
Also, why did I think that "chillax" was ever an OK verb? To relax and to chill must remain two separate entities as smushing them together simply feels redundant and stupid.
The same goes for "tight." I find most tight-fitting things rather uncomfortable, which is as far away from "cool" or "great" as possible.
But! Just for the record, despite my Northern Californian roots, I have never seriously used the adjective "hella" (as in, "This blog I'm reading is HELLA tight. You dig? Time to get all hyphy on some literature!") If I have used "hella," it was solely for the purpose of irony.
Anyway, I'm taking a class right now (English 180: "The Art of the Interview," for those of you curious enough to explore it in the future) about - well - interviewing. Currently, I'm transcribing an interview I recently had with a classmate and everyone who has ever transcribed anything knows that it must be the dullest, most tedious, most painfully mind-numbing work one can engage one's self in. Fortunately, I'm a fast typist; an intensive summer of Mavis Beacon typing program (please, someone, tell me you remember Mavis Beacon) led me to believe that anyone who types at less than 100 words per minute is a total typing slacker. So, fortunately, transcribing for me is much less tedious than it would be for a slower typist, but it's still boring work as it's a lot of starting and stopping the recorder (in my case, my new, beautiful, clear-sounding digital recorder. What an improvement from microcassettes!) to make sure everything's been transcribed correctly.
Typically I avoid transcribing anything until the very last minute. It's not the sound of my voice I mind so much (working in radio one summer really beat that out of me), but rather the sound of my laughter, my assurances that something (almost anything) is OK, my apologies for... something (almost anything, it seems) that irk me. I'm annoyed at myself (why do I laugh so much?) or confused (what was I apologizing for?) and I become self-conscious of the way I interact with other people.
However, with this interview, I hear myself sound comfortable. I still laugh too much and I still probably respond with too many supportive "uh-huhs" and "awwws!", but I'm not embarassed by it anymore. In fact, I think I sound natural and cool and (dare I say it?) collected. I felt prepared for this interview and I can hear it in the way that I speak, in my responses, and in my follow-up questions. I felt good when I walked away from the interview, but hearing it back resurges some confidence in my ability, rather than depresses me or makes me feel incompetent or self-conscious. It helped that I was talking with someone with whom I felt fairly comfortable as well and we had a good conversation (which always puts one in a better mood), but... it was comforting to hear myself comfortable. My awkwardness and social consciousness always inhibits me to a certain extent, but it was certainly a relief to know that I can be OK in a conversation. Really.
There is something soothing about knowing how one sounds to others having the opportunity to listen back and see what a particular interaction was like, think about the statements more carefully, and reflect upon the conversation. It's an odd practice, really. In "real life," we don't have moments to just reflect and record what other people say and think, but doing so has taught me something further about what makes simple conversation one of life's greatest joys: curiosity, engagement, and comfort.
"Neato burrito," for example. Never a phrase I should have uttered. But I've used it. Ow.
Also, why did I think that "chillax" was ever an OK verb? To relax and to chill must remain two separate entities as smushing them together simply feels redundant and stupid.
The same goes for "tight." I find most tight-fitting things rather uncomfortable, which is as far away from "cool" or "great" as possible.
But! Just for the record, despite my Northern Californian roots, I have never seriously used the adjective "hella" (as in, "This blog I'm reading is HELLA tight. You dig? Time to get all hyphy on some literature!") If I have used "hella," it was solely for the purpose of irony.
Anyway, I'm taking a class right now (English 180: "The Art of the Interview," for those of you curious enough to explore it in the future) about - well - interviewing. Currently, I'm transcribing an interview I recently had with a classmate and everyone who has ever transcribed anything knows that it must be the dullest, most tedious, most painfully mind-numbing work one can engage one's self in. Fortunately, I'm a fast typist; an intensive summer of Mavis Beacon typing program (please, someone, tell me you remember Mavis Beacon) led me to believe that anyone who types at less than 100 words per minute is a total typing slacker. So, fortunately, transcribing for me is much less tedious than it would be for a slower typist, but it's still boring work as it's a lot of starting and stopping the recorder (in my case, my new, beautiful, clear-sounding digital recorder. What an improvement from microcassettes!) to make sure everything's been transcribed correctly.
Typically I avoid transcribing anything until the very last minute. It's not the sound of my voice I mind so much (working in radio one summer really beat that out of me), but rather the sound of my laughter, my assurances that something (almost anything) is OK, my apologies for... something (almost anything, it seems) that irk me. I'm annoyed at myself (why do I laugh so much?) or confused (what was I apologizing for?) and I become self-conscious of the way I interact with other people.
However, with this interview, I hear myself sound comfortable. I still laugh too much and I still probably respond with too many supportive "uh-huhs" and "awwws!", but I'm not embarassed by it anymore. In fact, I think I sound natural and cool and (dare I say it?) collected. I felt prepared for this interview and I can hear it in the way that I speak, in my responses, and in my follow-up questions. I felt good when I walked away from the interview, but hearing it back resurges some confidence in my ability, rather than depresses me or makes me feel incompetent or self-conscious. It helped that I was talking with someone with whom I felt fairly comfortable as well and we had a good conversation (which always puts one in a better mood), but... it was comforting to hear myself comfortable. My awkwardness and social consciousness always inhibits me to a certain extent, but it was certainly a relief to know that I can be OK in a conversation. Really.
There is something soothing about knowing how one sounds to others having the opportunity to listen back and see what a particular interaction was like, think about the statements more carefully, and reflect upon the conversation. It's an odd practice, really. In "real life," we don't have moments to just reflect and record what other people say and think, but doing so has taught me something further about what makes simple conversation one of life's greatest joys: curiosity, engagement, and comfort.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Today I Appreciate Not Being Thirteen Anymore
I had completely forgotten what thirteen looks like until this weekend. Thirteen is all pink lip gloss, big feet, and braces. Thirteen also involves a lot of squealing, jumping up and down, and lip synching. Thirteen gets awfully tired, awfully quickly, especially if you're not thirteen.
See, it was my cousin's Bat Mitzvah (a Jewish coming-of-age ceremony that girls and boys undergo at... thirteen) this past weekend and as my sister and I entered the temple and saw a huddle of girls clamored together in the back of the synagogue, biting painted fingernails and gripping on to oversized purses, we looked at each other and understood that this was SO MUCH THIRTEEN all in one place.
When I first think of myself at thirteen, I'm actually not all that embarassed. In fact, I'd say most of my memories at thirteen are pretty happy ones. To be a Jewish thirteen-year-old I think makes being thirteen a little bit easier because if you're enrolled in Hebrew school and if you're at least a socially acceptable member of said Hebrew school class, you will be invited to a Bar or Bat Mitzvah at least every other weekend. What this means are constant opportunities to feel accepted and social and to have fun. At what other age does one have any excuse to go to an elaborate birthday party every weekend geared specifically towards your own age group?
Seeing my cousin's friends huddled in the back of the synagogue reminded me of Michelle, Leah, Rebecca, Liat, and me all squished in one row together, whispering about how cute each other's dresses or shoes or make-up looked. We'd try to nab the yamulkes off the boys sitting in front of us (Josh was the only one who minded, but he wore purple sweat pants to Hebrew school every day, so he never really counted). We'd be the loudest singers of the prayers (we knew them all, thanks to meeting for Hebrew school twice a week). We'd all find a way to migrate to the restroom together at steady intervals during the service (because god knows, a two hour or longer service gets pretty boring when you have a party to anticipate and lipstick to reapply). Most of all, however, we'd be the most congratulatory towards the Bar/Bat Mitzvah at the end of each service because we all knew exactly what it was like to sweat on the bima (that is, the pulpit) and crackle out Hebrew prayers that held very little direct relevance or meaning for us. That's not to say that the service itself lacked any value. On the contrary, I felt proud of my accomplishment to read Hebrew, to sing Hebrew, and to become an "adult" in the way that other Jewish women did before me.
What most resonated with me at thirteen about my Bat Miitzvah, however, was that throughout the process, I became a part of a community. At an age where feeling isolated or different was about the worst possible thing that one could be, finding connection, finding unity with others, and most importantly, finding acceptance among my peers was what made my Bat Mitzvah so meaningful.
Of course, longing and yearning for this acceptance was also what made thirteen so painful. I could see it in the faces of the girls at my cousin's Bat Mitzvah. When I went to the bathroom during the service, six of them crowded around the sink, clamoring for views of themselves in the mirror to brush hair, adjust strapless bras, and purse their lips. A skinny girl with ratty, red-dyed hair, heavy black eyeliner, and black fingernails sighed.
"How much longer do you think this is going to be?"
One of the other girls, blonde, heavyset, and stuffed into a short sparkly blue dress shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't know. Do you think we're going to throw candy at the end like at Rachel's Bat Mitzvah?"
The girls at the mirror turn around and start to giggle and titter about candy.
"But you don't even get to eat the candy!" the ratty-hair girl asserts. "I remember, I like, started to eat some of the candy they gave us and then I, like, realized we were supposed to, like, save it and just throw it at her and I was just, like, what the heck? What are you supposed to do with candy if you don't, like, eat it?"
The blonde girl girl nodded and the others followed suit, everyone a little bit too afraid to voice any disagreement or dissent. Ratty girl was outspoken, a leader; no one wanted to try to justify the traditional candy-throwing after a Bar or Bat Mitzvah finishes reading a Torah portion. I remembered stuffing candy into my purse at other Bar or Bat Mitzvahas, saving some to throw, some to eat for later. This was not uncommon.
"God, I'm huuuungry," ratty-hair girl complained again and everyone else giggled.
"It is pretty long," I finally spoke up. The girls grew silent. The ratty-hair girl looked at her friends, looked back at me, and gave me a little nod. How old did I look? Was it totally weird for me to reassure them that services feel a little dull after a certain period of time?
Somehow, I needed some reassurance that I was cool enough, that I could agree, that I could assert my opinion. The insecurities of thirteen struck me again and I realized that with all of my fond memories of adolescence, all of my moments of happiness and belonging were coupled with constant questioning of how I looked, how I acted, and how I was perceived by my peers. I always felt a little on the fat side or a little on the plain side or a little on the nerdy side and never quite centered with Michelle and Leah and Rebecca and Liat. I would never (still don't! Ha!) fall into the camp of popular or totally accepted because I couldn't always be overwhelmingly friendly or bubbly or assertive.
In spite of these concerns, I grew. I changed. Upon entering high school, the rest of my body grew to meet the size of my large, thirteen-year-old feet, and my concerns with appearance, with attitude faded slightly.
At thirteen, it's achingly normal to feel so alone and to feel so lost and confused about one's identity. I apreciate the fact that I can see these other thirteen-year-old girls, smile, and realize that they, too, will grow to find their own identities. While it's exciting to be at the cusp of change, the cusp of adolescence, I'm also grateful that I'm past the point in my life where I'm concerned with those changes.
Thirteen may not seem like an appropriate age to become an adult as there is so much about being thirteen that's so immature, so childlike, and so unbelievably awkward, but it's the right time to emphasize to a girl or boy that no matter how alone or how weird or how unpopular you feel, you have family and friends and people who love and care about you in spite of yourself.
See, it was my cousin's Bat Mitzvah (a Jewish coming-of-age ceremony that girls and boys undergo at... thirteen) this past weekend and as my sister and I entered the temple and saw a huddle of girls clamored together in the back of the synagogue, biting painted fingernails and gripping on to oversized purses, we looked at each other and understood that this was SO MUCH THIRTEEN all in one place.
When I first think of myself at thirteen, I'm actually not all that embarassed. In fact, I'd say most of my memories at thirteen are pretty happy ones. To be a Jewish thirteen-year-old I think makes being thirteen a little bit easier because if you're enrolled in Hebrew school and if you're at least a socially acceptable member of said Hebrew school class, you will be invited to a Bar or Bat Mitzvah at least every other weekend. What this means are constant opportunities to feel accepted and social and to have fun. At what other age does one have any excuse to go to an elaborate birthday party every weekend geared specifically towards your own age group?
Seeing my cousin's friends huddled in the back of the synagogue reminded me of Michelle, Leah, Rebecca, Liat, and me all squished in one row together, whispering about how cute each other's dresses or shoes or make-up looked. We'd try to nab the yamulkes off the boys sitting in front of us (Josh was the only one who minded, but he wore purple sweat pants to Hebrew school every day, so he never really counted). We'd be the loudest singers of the prayers (we knew them all, thanks to meeting for Hebrew school twice a week). We'd all find a way to migrate to the restroom together at steady intervals during the service (because god knows, a two hour or longer service gets pretty boring when you have a party to anticipate and lipstick to reapply). Most of all, however, we'd be the most congratulatory towards the Bar/Bat Mitzvah at the end of each service because we all knew exactly what it was like to sweat on the bima (that is, the pulpit) and crackle out Hebrew prayers that held very little direct relevance or meaning for us. That's not to say that the service itself lacked any value. On the contrary, I felt proud of my accomplishment to read Hebrew, to sing Hebrew, and to become an "adult" in the way that other Jewish women did before me.
What most resonated with me at thirteen about my Bat Miitzvah, however, was that throughout the process, I became a part of a community. At an age where feeling isolated or different was about the worst possible thing that one could be, finding connection, finding unity with others, and most importantly, finding acceptance among my peers was what made my Bat Mitzvah so meaningful.
Of course, longing and yearning for this acceptance was also what made thirteen so painful. I could see it in the faces of the girls at my cousin's Bat Mitzvah. When I went to the bathroom during the service, six of them crowded around the sink, clamoring for views of themselves in the mirror to brush hair, adjust strapless bras, and purse their lips. A skinny girl with ratty, red-dyed hair, heavy black eyeliner, and black fingernails sighed.
"How much longer do you think this is going to be?"
One of the other girls, blonde, heavyset, and stuffed into a short sparkly blue dress shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't know. Do you think we're going to throw candy at the end like at Rachel's Bat Mitzvah?"
The girls at the mirror turn around and start to giggle and titter about candy.
"But you don't even get to eat the candy!" the ratty-hair girl asserts. "I remember, I like, started to eat some of the candy they gave us and then I, like, realized we were supposed to, like, save it and just throw it at her and I was just, like, what the heck? What are you supposed to do with candy if you don't, like, eat it?"
The blonde girl girl nodded and the others followed suit, everyone a little bit too afraid to voice any disagreement or dissent. Ratty girl was outspoken, a leader; no one wanted to try to justify the traditional candy-throwing after a Bar or Bat Mitzvah finishes reading a Torah portion. I remembered stuffing candy into my purse at other Bar or Bat Mitzvahas, saving some to throw, some to eat for later. This was not uncommon.
"God, I'm huuuungry," ratty-hair girl complained again and everyone else giggled.
"It is pretty long," I finally spoke up. The girls grew silent. The ratty-hair girl looked at her friends, looked back at me, and gave me a little nod. How old did I look? Was it totally weird for me to reassure them that services feel a little dull after a certain period of time?
Somehow, I needed some reassurance that I was cool enough, that I could agree, that I could assert my opinion. The insecurities of thirteen struck me again and I realized that with all of my fond memories of adolescence, all of my moments of happiness and belonging were coupled with constant questioning of how I looked, how I acted, and how I was perceived by my peers. I always felt a little on the fat side or a little on the plain side or a little on the nerdy side and never quite centered with Michelle and Leah and Rebecca and Liat. I would never (still don't! Ha!) fall into the camp of popular or totally accepted because I couldn't always be overwhelmingly friendly or bubbly or assertive.
In spite of these concerns, I grew. I changed. Upon entering high school, the rest of my body grew to meet the size of my large, thirteen-year-old feet, and my concerns with appearance, with attitude faded slightly.
At thirteen, it's achingly normal to feel so alone and to feel so lost and confused about one's identity. I apreciate the fact that I can see these other thirteen-year-old girls, smile, and realize that they, too, will grow to find their own identities. While it's exciting to be at the cusp of change, the cusp of adolescence, I'm also grateful that I'm past the point in my life where I'm concerned with those changes.
Thirteen may not seem like an appropriate age to become an adult as there is so much about being thirteen that's so immature, so childlike, and so unbelievably awkward, but it's the right time to emphasize to a girl or boy that no matter how alone or how weird or how unpopular you feel, you have family and friends and people who love and care about you in spite of yourself.
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