TELL ME YOUR STORY

 

 



“Tell me your story. For that’s where I’ll find your heart.” – James Simmons 

 

The question was: High heels, Pencil skirt, 1 km to the post office, 15 minutes before I had to be back in the boardroom for my next meeting.  Could I make it?

As usual, I had left things to the last minute. I am an artful procrastinator who has unconsciously made “Works well under pressure” a personal mantra. I am forever rushing out during my lunch hour to try to bite off a morsel of my never-ending list of personal chores. On this particular day, my chosen destination was the post office, where I hoped to mail off a stack of soon-to-be-due bill payments.

Off I went, the clickety clack of my heels accompanying the rhythm of my panicked heartbeat as I flew down the hill to the main street. (Ok, ok, “flew” might be a slight exaggeration.  I admit my skirt had me doing more of a thigh-chafing shuffle than any kind of graceful gazelle-like stride…)

My mind raced faster than my feet. If I didn’t get back in time for my meeting, my boss would think I was irresponsible. If I didn’t mail off my car registration it would expire in two days.  Without a car I’d have to take the bus to work.  If I had to take public transit I’d be an hour later to the office every morning.  If I was late every day I would lose my job.  If I had to look for a new job, I’d have to explain why I got fired…and so on and so on.

My hyperactive brain barely registered the shops or passers-by that streamed by me.  There’s the eclectic corner store that sells cigarettes and sushi.  Here comes the neighborhood dog-walker (Hmm, I wonder how much a dog-walker makes?  An alternate career if I got fired…?) There’s the ‘artisan’ bakery that sells $5 cake-pops (Is it just me, or is someone making a whole lot of cash off ten cent donut holes...?) Here's that Goth-styled street kid, laughing it up with her friend.

And that’s when I skid to a stop.                          

At first, I wasn’t even sure what it was that made me take a second look.  I had seen this homeless teen plenty of times before.  She sat outside the pharmacy most days and stood out on this trendy street with her worn army surplus fashion, charcoal lipstick and requisite piercings. Her scraggily-looking dog rested his chin faithfully on her lap. Goth Girl was a fixture on this corner.  Most passers-by bent their heads to avoid eye-contact. Sometimes I would dig in my purse to drop a few coins in her black manicured hand.  Other days I uttered an awkward “Sorry, not today” as I strode past.  But this day I stopped.

I had never heard her laugh before. Though her ever changing cardboard signs sometimes hinted at a hidden sense of humor; “Bet you a dollar you read this sign”, “Spent my last cash on this cardboard and marker", “Obama ain’t the only one who wants change,” I had always taken her defeated cynical expression for granted. But today her eyes lit up as she recounted some hilarious episode to the young woman beside her.

From where I stood, I couldn’t hear what she was saying.  Was she explaining how she ended up here and where she slept at night?  She had not always been here on this street corner.  Once, she was like any other child.  Like my child.  I pictured her as a baby, being held by her mother. I imagined the butterflies in her stomach on the first day of kindergarten. I saw her close her eyes to blow wishes over her birthday cake. She, like all of us, had her own story. I glanced at today’s cardboard billboard. 

“Have you ever felt invisible before?” 

I felt the weight of her words in my chest. But the truth is, it was neither her painfully honest question nor her unexpected laughter that stopped me in my tracks. In fact it wasn’t even Goth Girl herself at all. It was her companion.

Goth Girl’s friend was no street-kid. I estimated that her recently highlighted hairdo must have taken a good 45 minutes with a high-end flatiron to achieve. And here she was, parked unselfconsciously on the grimy pavement in her pristine pink Lululemon pants. She had torn her ham sandwich in half to share, all the while listening intently to Goth Girl’s animated tale.

It was her story that really piqued my curiosity.  Were they friends from before?  She struck me as half of the oddest lunch date ever. I wondered what chapter of her past compelled her to squat and randomly chat with a homeless kid on the sidewalk. Was it just some instinctual adolescent affinity or was there an event in her own story that had shown her with clarity what really matters.

Mostly, I wondered how she knew that hope could be found in half a ham and cheese and that all it took to expose another’s heart was to stop for a minute and ask that simplest of questions,

“Tell me your story.”



HALLMARK'S REJECTED VALENTINE'S CARDS

Roses are red,

Hydrangeas are aquamarine.

If you’re looking to turn me on,

Try running the washing machine.



Roses are red,

Fuschias are magenta.

If only like Jaime Oliver,

You could sauté up some polenta.
 

 

Roses are red,

Tree bark is tan.

Ok, so maybe I talk a lot and a lot and a lot and a lot,

But what’s up with your attention span?

Roses are red,

The wings of the Ara glaucogularis(??) are teal.

Suppose this year you remembered our anniversary,

Seriously, what’s the big deal?
 

Roses are red,

Fluffy Labrador puppies are golden.

If you’re seeking a new form of foreplay,

Just show me the laundry that’s folden.
 

Roses are red,

Our dried out lawn’s an odd hue of chartreuse.

If you’re hoping I’ll excitedly kiss you,

Maybe don’t come home reeking of booze.

Roses are red,

Pea soup’s a light shade of pistachio.

Unless you’re auditioning for the role of Rhett Butler,

Think about shaving off your mustachio.
 

Roses are red,

Lilacs are purple.

This stanza’s duller,

(‘Cause nothing rhymes with that color…)
 

Roses are red,

Adam Levine is maroon.

You sure are a regular prince charming,

On the couch, scratching like a baboon.
 

  Roses are red,

Before she died, Bambi’s mother was taupe.

Honestly when I’m bloated and so damn tired.

I’m really not looking for a late night grope.
 

Roses are red,

Those beans are white; they’re not really navy,

But look baby, don’t be judging me,

When I order poutine with extra gravy.
 

Roses are red,

Overcooked asparagus is khaki.

Somehow in the end I just love you,

Maybe ‘cause like me, you’re also kind of wacky.
 



WORK IT, BABY!

 

 

     I am a beach baby.  I love the soft gritty feel of sand between my toes, the warmth of the sun on my face, the sound of the surf coming in.  But nothing makes my heart flutter more than the sight of a man in a speedo.

     Only, I don’t mean Daniel Craig’s rippling body  emerging out of the water after working out for six months with a personal trainer.  I’m talking about the middle-aged bald guy whose belly rests boldly over the elastic of his barely-there trunks as he strolls down the beach on his annual vacation.  The quiet man who stands alone, facing the waves , soaking in the rays on his wrinkling skin.  Packs of spring-breakers might snicker from their beach chairs as he walks by.  They may whisper sarcastically as if reviewing red carpet arrivals for MTV.

     But I love him.

     Nothing says life is good like a man in a bikini brief on a public beach.  I am in awe of his intrinsic self-confidence.  I admire his complete comfort in his own skin.  He inspires me with his authenticity.  He knows who he is and hides nothing. He is just a content, regular guy enjoying a day in the sun. Work it, baby.

     As time goes on it’s an attitude I try to adopt.  These days I mostly choose joy over convention, but it hasn't always been so easy. For the longest time I worked hard to conform.  I'd read an article that said grey and navy inspired confidence and I'd promptly invest in a wardrobe of monotone suits.  I was convinced they would give me the self-possession I needed to achieve my dreams but more often they just gave me heat rash and high dry-cleaning bills.

     And then I met Rachel.

     Rachel was a young doctor I worked with.  She was top of her class.  A brilliant and funny woman whose dedication and compassion led her to excel in her field.  She was friendly, humble and always ready for a good time.  She loved to travel and meet new people. She seemed to have it all.

     But not everyone felt that way about her.  Because as smart and successful as she was, Rachel looked an awful lot like….Barbie.  Not millennial Barbie whose proportions and corporate look have been updated to appease feminist groups.  I’m talking platinum blond, micro-skirt-and-stiletto- wearing Malibu Barbie whose figure defies the laws of physics.  Some of it was God given, but the rest…well that girl just knew how to work it.

     Rachel would show up to work with her bleached hair freshly blown out, in a body hugging sweater-dress and thigh high boots.  Her patients  adored her.  She was great at her job and made each of them feel as though they were all that mattered. I loved hanging out with her.  She was generous, interesting and hilarious. We would go dancing, dissect books over coffee, dish about men.   She had a string of boyfriends with whom she was always going on exotic vacations.  Each was hypnotised by her but none seemed to be quite the right match so they inevitably faded away only to be replaced by another.

      But behind her back, colleagues and strangers  gave her a hard time.  Judged that she did not look “professional”, gave the “wrong impression”, was "attention-seeking", "couldn’t be taken seriously". Eventually her supervisor made her put on a lab coat but it only seemed to accentuate the low cut of her shirt and the remarkable “junk in her trunk.” 

     I asked her about it once.  Asked  if she ever thought of wearing her hair up for work.  Maybe exchange her red Lee Press-On nails for a sporty French manicure.  Maybe she should leave her false eyelashes and stilettos at home sometimes.  She countered simply,

     “Why?”

      The higher the heel, the happier she felt.  To her, airbrushing butterflies on her nails was artful expression.  How would trying to be someone else make her a better Rachel?

     I tried to explain, “But maybe others don’t understand that.  Maybe they don’t always respect you the way they should.”  For a few minutes, I wasn't sure she had heard me until she finally concluded,

     “I don’t think that’s my problem.”

 

     Eventually Rachel moved away.  She was looking for a new career challenge, and yet another romance had fizzled out so she decided to try her luck in another city .  I lost touch with her, but have tried to hold on to her message. To  joyfully just be myself.  To not let others’ expectations wash out the colours that are me.  And like Mr. Speedo on the beach, I find myself drawn to those who are true to themselves.  I am the first to happily consider a job candidate with a pierced bottom lip, to silently cheer on the cashier with the beehive and fishnet stockings , to be fascinated by the stories behind people's tattoos.

     I haven’t seen Rachel in over ten years but still think of her from time to time.    I wonder where she is and how she is doing.  I wonder if she is still as self-assured.  Did she ever find true love?  I like to think that she did.  That she hasn’t changed.  I hope she is still rocking her Pamela Anderson hair right through middle age. That she still likes to travel, and that one day I will run into her while on vacation, and will see her walking down the beach arm in arm with her soul-mate, her hand resting lightly on his snug little speedo.





HOME IS NEVER CLOSED

 

I have always been a sucker for superhero movies.  Childhood daydreams included visions of clinging to Christopher Reeve’s back as he flew me over Manhattan.  More recent fantasies have me as the iron lady Robert Downey Jr. serenades after popping off his metallic suit.  Why do these superhuman characters strike such a chord with me? (I confess I never did get Batman.  So dark and brooding.  I mean come on, you’re independently wealthy, easy on the eyes, have a personal assistant and a kick-ass car.  Is life really so bad?  Maybe if you added a little colour to your wardrobe you’d feel better…)

Perhaps it’s the exciting chill of a fantastic action sequence.  Maybe it’s the hopeful wonder of witnessing a nerdy outsider discover their secret power.  Or maybe it’s the absolute certainty that at the end of 90 minutes, whether aided by x-ray vision or arachnid senses, the hero will save the day, order will be restored and everyone will return  to the safety of their homes knowing that everything will be ok.

Thankfully, my daughters share my love of Marvel men.  This December, right after “a life sized doll” my youngest wrote to Santa that what she really wanted for Christmas was superpowers. Unfortunately,  I couldn’t find that section in Toys ‘r us but I was happy to announce to her one evening that we were going to have a girls’ night out to go see the new Spiderman movie. 

It was a treat for the girls to be out so late. The weather was mild as we joyfully walked to our neighbourhood cinema.   Andrew Garfield did not disappoint.  Oh Spidey, what an optimistic icon you are for invisible nerds everywhere.  If a touch of bright spandex and a heart full of integrity has you accomplishing such amazing things, anything seems possible. 

It was after 10 by the time we started to head home.  The girls shuffled along beside me in sleepy contentment.  The lights of all the local stores were off and we could see our neighbours through their living room windows, cozying up for the night.

“Look! The pharmacy is closed!” My 10 year old was wide-eyed at this view of the neighborhood she rarely got to see.

I pulled her tight.  “Yup, it’s really really late!”

“And the hairdresser is closed!”

“Yup. They’ve all gone home to bed.”

“And even the grocery store is closed!”  I laughed and took her hand.  We fell into comfortable silence, our feet keeping a soft rhythm on the pavement.  The houses rolled by us.

And then, out of the quiet of the night, my three-foot-high, curly-haired sage observed,

“But home is never closed, is it mommy.”

Home.  That place where we feel safe and secure.  Our bat cave where we lean on the strength of family and friends when faced by our own kryptonite.  Not the physical structure where we lay our heads at night, but the friends we can always call up after months of absence to go out for a night of drinks, laughs and commiseration.  The family members who make us laugh through our tears. Those people we return to that calm our spirit, ground us and pull us back to centre.  The superheroes of our daily lives.  The anchors of familiar security that remind us that it’s all going to be ok.

***

Recently I found myself having a series of hard days.  It was one of those weeks where all the uncertainties and pressures of every sphere of your life seem to converge in some galactic test of your inner resilience.  It was a test I felt I was failing as the end of the week approached.  Weeks earlier I had scheduled to go out with some friends for a drink that day but when 5 o’clock rolled around, I was so spent I wasn’t sure how I would ever manage to drag myself to my car.  In the elevator I found myself cornered by a colleague. 

“You meeting us there?”  Oh crap.  I stumbled to think of an excuse and flustered through some rambling explanation about how I wasn’t feeling great and thought maybe I would pass this time.  He persisted.

“You have to come.  Just one drink.  You’ll be glad you did.”  I could feel tears of exhaustion start to sting my eyes.  I finally mustered up some authentic courage.

“I really...just need to go home.”

When I finally peeled off my coat and boots and walked into my house, I paused at the entry of the living room.  My husband and kids were cuddled on the couch in front of the TV.  My own team of avengers.  The little one looked up and shouted excitedly,

“Mommy, Thor is on!”

I finally exhaled and smiled as I nudged them all over to make room for me.  Silently I thought to myself, yup, everything is going to be ok.

I was home.

 





With Love and Laughter: AND YOU, ARE YOU HAPPY?

With Love and Laughter: AND YOU, ARE YOU HAPPY?: How are you? A simple enough phrase heard so many times each and every day. Along with its equally banal cousins, “How’s it going...

AND YOU, ARE YOU HAPPY?

How are you?

A simple enough phrase heard so many times each and every day. Along with its equally banal cousins, “How’s it going?” and “What’s up?” it is generally followed by a range of similarly empty responses, “Fine thanks.” “Not bad.” and “Not much.”

Repetitive words with little meaning.

My father had it right.  He had little time for such trivial interactions.  An archetypical academic, my bicycle-riding, tweed jacket-sporting father would simply ask of any friend, grocer or stranger he happened to cross paths with,

“And you, are you happy?”

There was never any lead up to this intimate interrogation.  No introductory “Good morning” or “It’s so nice to meet you.”  He would simply open with the most essential of questions,

“And you, are you happy?”

Whether face to face on the street, through a long distance phone call or in later years, by  emails punched out on his boxy 1980’s Toshiba laptop, the experience was the same.  The phone would ring, and as you brought the receiver to your ear, you would hear his succinct British lilt.

“And you, are you happy?”       

Five little words, profoundly strung together, uttered across a crackling wire.

“And you, are you happy?”

In college, my roommates were taken aback at first. They didn’t quite know what to make of this curious query. I would amusedly watch them stumble as they tried to decide how to respond.  

Were they?

What does one answer when forced by a stranger to examine your heart?

But over time they got to know his routine and soon enough were bantering playfully with him before thrusting the phone at me and proclaiming,

“It’s your Dad.”

He was a man who loved words.  An English professor and author, he could lecture on many a topic.  And yet in his greetings, he kept it simple.  Kept it to that most important of questions,

“And you, are you happy?”

At the time, I don’t think I understood the depth of his statement.  That he was rooting to the essence of what matters.  I naively chalked it up to his endearing eccentricity along with his fridge full of homemade chutneys and his determination to bring back the appeal of the cravat.

Speaker, Lenny Ravich, suggests that the only appropriate answer to the question “How are you?” is to declare,

“This is my best moment.   There is no other moment.”

Lenny goes on to say that if you try this, two things will happen.

1.     You will finally confirm to others that you have completely lost your mind.

2.     You will begin to feel and see life differently.

I’ve been trying it out.  My first attempt fell flat. I came home at the end of the day and when my husband greeted me with his usual “How are you?”  I quickly exclaimed,

“This is my best moment!  There is no other moment!”

He promptly burst out laughing at the combination of my latest insanity and my blatant insincerity.  I couldn’t help but laugh too at the outward silliness of it all, but paused for just a second in a moment of new awareness.

Somewhere in me, something flickered.

Months before his scheduled retirement, my father died.  Although I was 28 at the time I think of it as the moment that thrust me unwillingly into adulthood.  It was a moment that knocked me off my feet as I somatized my sorrow and spent endless nights seeking comfort in his old blanket. He was taken by a series of unexpected heart attacks.  Unexpected by me, though I wonder how long he knew his less than healthy lifestyle was taking a toll.  Though some choose to bury it, the loss of a parent hits hard regardless of the relationship as it represents the end of what was, and what we wished that fundamental parent-child union had been. Through the year of grief that followed, as I leaked tears and stumbled through the obligatory normalcy of daily life, I somehow forgot his unusual greeting. 

It was only years later that my daughter reminded me.

My youngest daughters never met their grandfather.  It is a sadness I will carry always.  He would have so enjoyed their sense of play, and I will never know the things they might have learned from him.  He will never pluck and hand them a fresh plum from his garden. He will never tell them fantastical Shakespearean bedtime stories and they will never fully grasp how they came to be.  And yet, somehow-

I had come home from a long day at work and my ten year old daughter rushed to greet me.  She silently watched as I danced around the porch, struggling to take off my snow boots without touching my socks on the cold wet floor. Out of the blue she asked,

“How about your day, did you like it?”

I froze and looked at her, flashing back to another loved one who so often asked me a similar essential question. I caught my breath, and confidently answered.

“This is my best moment.  There is no other moment.”  I grinned.

For finally I understood.



JEST DO IT.

 

 

“Jest do it.  Determination and resolution are all you need to start your humor workout.  The actual decision to pump up your humour practice can be similar in scope to the decision to include more physical fitness in your life.” – Mary Kay Morrison

Just. Do. It.  I never could relate to Nike’s short and sassy slogan.  The words slide across the screen as a lithe glistening model crosses the finish line.  Just. Do. It.  Who is this woman with her neon sports bra and sweat proof makeup?  How does she just do it?  Does she slip in a streamlined workout between dropping the kids at school and realizing the documents she needs for her meeting are still on the kitchen table?  Does she just do it after putting in a 12 hour work day but before baking 48 pink and yellow cupcakes for her daughter's class party?

My relationship with exercise is a little less like a glossy TV ad, and more like an unsuccessful round of speed dating.  I start with the best of intentions and the most positive of attitudes, knowing that if I can just get this relationship to work, it will be so good for me and I’ll feel energized for the rest of my life.  I try something out, a new fitness trend, a new class but realize pretty quickly it’s not for me, so I say we are not a good match and I move on to the next table.  Periodically I am grateful to hear the bell ring twice so I can go to the bar for a time out and a couple of drinks.

But a humor workout.  Now that I can jest do. After all I have the best of coaches.

***

My son and I are addicted to laughter. I know few people who naturally radiate love and laughter like my handsome 25 year old.  His sense of humor is sharp and contagious.  He sees the opportunities for fun in everything.  Our “humor relationship” grows daily as we are forever sharing goofy movie recommendations or links to websites with hilarious photos and translation fails.   

Throughout the day I carry my cellphone with me, ostensibly to be able to respond to colleagues’ urgent emails or to schedule follow ups with partner organizations.   But nothing brings a smile faster to my face than the familiar soft buzz of a new message vibrating for my attention.  I look around the boardroom and sheepishly sneak a glance at the screen under the table.  My son has texted me.

What do you call a fake noodle?           

I smile and look up, verifying that no one has noticed my lack of focus. My colleagues appear to be hypnotized by this month’s financial report.   My phone quietly buzzes.

An impasta!

I snort loudly, and then try to cover it with a fake cough.  A couple faces turn accusingly in my direction but I look away chuckling.

***

One day I am preparing supper while the kids are all upstairs cleaning their rooms.  Our weekly ritual of tidying up the house inevitably ends in fits of giggles over some ridiculousness or another. My husband has decided to grab a shower before dinner. I hear my son’s conspiring whispers over the girls’ laughter coming from his room.  They are allegedly helping him fold his laundry but all I hear is the periodic plunk of objects falling and rolling across the ceiling above me.

Moments later my husband opens the bathroom door to find the girls poised out in the hallway.  Our youngest thrusts a Tupperware dish at him.

“I found your marbles!” The container is full of marbles they have gathered from the bottom of their toy boxes.

“We heard you lost them!”   Her sister pipes in.

I laugh as I look over at my son who can barely contain himself.  My husband smiles and shakes his head.  The girls are rolling on the floor.

***

A year ago my son bought himself a black sports car.  It is his dream car and slowly he has outfitted it with every manly automotive upgrade imaginable including an over-the-top sound system.  I confess I sometimes wonder about his choice as I think about the attention he brings to himself, this handsome, strapping young black man, driving around town blasting the latest rap tunes out of his soon to be tinted windows.  I await the evening he will find himself unfairly stopped by the police who may not believe him when he explains that he is on his way home from his full-time job that he uses to put himself through school, or that he is on his way to pick up his younger sisters, a task he readily takes on not out of obligation, but out of pure love.  Only I cannot help but smile at his bright grin every time I see him unfold himself from the front seat.

Combining his love of music, flashy vehicles and a darn good laugh, he has recently downloaded an mp3 version of Survivor’s hit, “Eye of The Tiger”. When he spots a neighborhood jogger on the street, he rolls down his window, turns up the classic Rocky theme and slows to a crawl beside the confused runner.  Almost all inevitably laugh and give him an appreciative nod.  Take that, Nike.

A couple years ago, he met a wonderful young woman who shares his love of laughter.  Their Facebook pages are equally full of romantic pictures of young love and ridiculous selfies of the two of them making goofy expressions.  I have asked them often how such a beautiful couple can manage to look so completely ridiculous.

They have plans, my son and his new love.  Plans for the future.  Plans for their futures together.  My son is slowly putting himself through flight school, realizing his lifelong dream of being a pilot.  His girlfriend recently got a long awaited promotion.  They talk of moving in together, of travelling, of starting a life.

I know they will carry out these plans. Realize their optimistic dreams.  Accomplish all sorts of fantastic things. With such a zest for life and laughter how could they not.

 But in the meantime, I relish listening to their more immediate plans of spending an afternoon riding the bus, eating  vanilla pudding out of a mayonnaise jar with a big spoon…just…for…fun.

***

This week I decided to just do it and start exercising again.  I have been rolling out my yoga mat and proudly completing a daily workout.   This morning I woke up to my stomach muscles feeling contentedly sore.  After an uber-healthy breakfast I decided to exercise while checking out Kevin Hart’s, Real Husbands of Hollywood, a faux reality show my son has been telling me to watch for months.  4 episodes and 2 hours of spinning and stretching later and my stomach is KILLING me …from laughing so hard.  Best. Workout. Ever.

If I can just stop laughing long enough, I’ll text my son.