Bad Patient

To this day I have an odd relationship with sick days. 

When I was a child, it would happen from time to time that I would awake feeling crummy. I would crawl into the kitchen, croaking, "Ma, I think I'm sick." Ma would take one look at my woebegone form and say, "Nah, you're fine. Go get dressed." 

Not the ending you were expecting, I'm sure. 

To this day, I never know if I am sick or if I am imagining it. I take polls if my forehead is hot. I experiment if my legs can support me. I peer into the mirror to analyze my skin hue—pale green, perhaps?

Luke had it differently. There were mornings he would cheerfully boom, "Ma, I think I'm sick." 

He would be bundled back into bed with a cup of hot cocoa. 

Ergo, my firm belief that I was adopted. 

I remember once leaving my bedroom, attired in the atrocious polyester uniform skirt, walking past Luke's room. He was merrily burrowing under the covers, thermometer leisurely swirled in his hot cocoa, sending me off with a smirk and a jaunty wave. 

Now, what was Ma's thought process? 

She knew that missing a day of school is no simple matter. The concepts taught in those few hours never take root the way it does if one is there to learn it firsthand. On some level, one just cannot catch up, especially when the whole class has had a shared joke about something that happened in one's absence and, well, "You had to be there." 

Since I was a good enough student, Ma thought it was worth it for me to be nudged. Whereas Luke . . . she had already kinda given up on him. He spent his class time spacing out, bringing home meh grades, so if he isn't paying attention anyway, what the heck, let the kid have a sick day. (He surprised everyone later on when he shot to the head of high school classes and became a pretty smart cookie.)

It was only in college when I comprehended Ma's logic. In those years, if ill, I made the choice to heave my diseased self on the subway, clinging to the pole for dear life as fellow commuters nervously edged away. I could never find a classmate whose notes were more than four words and doodles; mine, by comparison, were four pages of closely written script. I knew then what a difference a missed day makes, and I was adamant, even if I collapsed trying, to get there.

Now, I have a job when I can take a sick day. But I still hesitate to do so, associating it still with opportunities missed.        

TGIF

• Being an old maid is like death by drowning, a really delightful sensation after you cease to struggle. —Edna Ferber; 

• "Glare of Disdain"; and

My Modesty

I am currently reading Love in a Headscarf by Shelina Janmohamed (I'm not sure where I had heard about it, but I think it was on a frum blog). The book is less about the histrionics of an "older" single, more over-explanations of Islam. 

Nura Afia, one of the new faces of Covergirl

The author's repeated insistence that Islam advocates love, not hate, made me think of our often frantic reactions when an outsider asks questions about Judaism. Won't they just think we doth protest too much?

We shouldn't have to be on the defensive, even if approached with a flat statement, as opposed to a curious inquiry. Janmohamed is constantly accused of being brainwashed and subjugated by the religious men in her life; frum women have experienced the same. 

If someone has an unmovable opinion, my gushing will not change anything. Better to not engage. In the future, I think I will simply shrug and say, "If you say so." 

Roger Cohen explored this gap in "Olympians in Hijab and Bikini" (this article was printed during the Olympics, but I have a backlog of pieces to link). He shares two opinions, one of a girl who voluntarily donned the hijab, another a non-Muslim who is studying in Iran, and so must abide by the culture there. The latter is not happy.

In terms of Jews, mode of dress is a constant, tedious conversation—perhaps because there is no set rules. We don't sit around pontificating about kashrus, as those laws are clear. When it comes to clothing, it's all about subjective perspective.

Janmohamed emphatically insists that the hijab is her choice. If anything, one of her frustrations in dating is that many single Muslim men want her to take it off. 

We've all got bechira. As to all our choices, to everyone's choices, let it be assumed that it is their choice (whatever it may be). Then leave it at that.   

Singin' In the Rain

Singin' in the Rain is hailed as the most favored musical of all time. (I think it's pretty darn good, but it's not my favorite.)

The songs therein were repurposed from previous musicals, so I guess they stuck with tried-and-true favorites, guaranteeing success. 

Donald O'Connor, to me, outshines everyone with his comic delivery. (Not long after I was introduced to Singin', he guest-starred on an episode of The Nanny. I was ecstatic.)

 

There's even something for the fashionista. 

 

The Oscar nomination went to Jean Hagen, who totally earned it as Lina Lamont, the shrill harpy of an actress. 

 

Singin' left me with an undying adoration of Debbie Reynolds (see The Unsinkable Molly Brown). 

 

Get a load of that footwork. Awesome, right? As a morning person, I'm up for tap dance in the a.m., but I get this clip may be offensive to night people.

I sing in the rain. Precipitation is a siman bracha.

     

The Way You Are

I blather about this topic enough: authenticity. I think that too many of us are frightened of expressing our actual interests and beliefs from fear of social ostracization, no matter how innocent those quirks may be. 

Adam Grant points out, however, that authenticity needs a better translation ("'Be Yourself' is Terrible Advice"). After all, we all harbor ugliness inside. 

If I can be authentic for a moment: Nobody wants to see your true self. We all have thoughts and feelings that we believe are fundamental to our lives, but that are better left unspoken.

A decade ago, the author A. J. Jacobs spent a few weeks trying to be totally authentic. He announced to an editor that he would try to sleep with her if he were single and informed his nanny that he would like to go on a date with her if his wife left him. He informed a friend’s 5-year-old daughter that the beetle in her hands was not napping but dead. He told his in-laws that their conversation was boring. You can imagine how his experiment worked out.

“Deceit makes our world go round,” he concluded. “Without lies, marriages would crumble, workers would be fired, egos would be shattered, governments would collapse.”

Obviously, being "authentic" does not mean being "sadistically honest." It shouldn't ever be translated that way.  

 

Nor should it mean "I'm wonderful the way I am." We all require some self-improvement, areas that can use some renovation to become better people. We aren't on Earth to remain static. 

If not our authentic selves, what should we be striving to reach? Decades ago, the literary critic Lionel Trilling gave us an answer that sounds very old-fashioned to our authentic ears: sincerity. Instead of searching for our inner selves and then making a concerted effort to express them, Trilling urged us to start with our outer selves. Pay attention to how we present ourselves to others, and then strive to be the people we claim to be.

Rather than changing from the inside out, you bring the outside in.

If I allowed myself to remain stuck in terms of what foods I don't like, I would have been really missing out. (I still avoid peanut butter and coconut, though.) 

As an introvert, I started my career terrified of public speaking so my authentic self wouldn’t have been giving a TED talk in the first place. But being passionate about sharing knowledge, I spent the next decade learning to do what Dr. Little, the psychologist, calls acting out of character. I decided to be the person I claimed to be, one who is comfortable in the spotlight.

It worked. Next time people say, “just be yourself,” stop them in their tracks. No one wants to hear everything that’s in your head. They just want you to live up to what comes out of your mouth.

"Gentle Giants"

I think I've decided on my spirit animal: the Giraffe. 

I kinda pilfered it from Ma, the animal-loather who admires only one four-legged creature on this earth. Her fondness is known even to the kinfauna; one niece painted a giraffe bud vase for her, Ma's most beloved gift from any of her descendants. (I'm not even insulted.)

My conclusion was precipitated by a Nature program; I usually avoid those, since the Circle of Life tends to roll over furry cuteness to astonishing degrees, but giraffes, of course, would be the exception. 

Giraffes are spectacular. They're refined, graceful, csinos (that's a Hungarian term regarding the svelteness of their figures), and stunning. 

They don't make scenes. They don't lose their heads. They raise their children with love and discipline. They are social beings, yet keep conversation to a minimum. They care for one another, taking turns to sleep while keeping watch. They have sick eyelashes.

Yet they aren't pushovers. They aren't meek and accepting. Since a casual kick can decapitate, lions are leery. Giraffes, for all their leggy beauty, are strong and capable. In other words: Don't mess.

These giraffes are the epitome of my personal expectations: Considerate dignity, calm competence, minding boundaries with kind strength. Plus, to carry off weirdness with panache and charm.

The basis of this episode was about giraffe relocation from a dubious area to a safe preserve. Capturing the giraffes is a daunting process. Tranquilizers cannot be left in their system for long, so they are awake when herded aboard. But when these wild animals were guided onto the truck, they regally ascended the plank. Their gaze remained curious but unpanicked. No frantic whites of the eyeballs showed. As the truck trundled along, they tranquilly observing the passing scenery—for hours—elegantly accepting the snacks offered.

When I was a kid, we once went to the Bronx Zoo (we always pass out before we hit the Asia section, so I never saw the pandas) and there actually was a giraffe in the Giraffe House. It stood tall, straight, proud, legs tucked in neatly, as still as a statue. (We actually thought it was a statue, except that it was placidly chewing its cud: "There it goes up! . . . There it goes down! . . .") 

We were glued. We probably wasted a whole roll of film. (It was unfazed by the repeated flash.)

Few other species are the same. They are prone to unwarranted hysteria. They plod like peasants. They know themselves to be prey, with no other aspirations. The herbivore giraffe, whilst split of hooves, is no pushover. 

Okay, so the giraffe is MINE. Anyone got a spirit animal to share?  

TGIF

This clock change is very inconsiderate. For weeks (probably until it springs forward) I'll be awakening (against my will) at 4:30. If I hop out of bed then my internal alarm will remain fused to that schedule, so I must remain under the covers until my brain catches up with the rest of the world. 

Yet what to do under there? Perfect opportunity to focus on a shiur. 

Earlier this week, I tuned into this fascinating one by Rabbi Daniel Glatstein (I had heard it last year, but my recall isn't as sharp as it used to be). It's a fun listen, but for those (singles) who are short on time, the last few minutes (at the 50 min mark) are a pleasant boost.   

One at a Time

On the his first episode on M*A*S*H, Major Charles Emerson Winchester III pompously intones, "I do one thing at a time, I do it very well, and then I move on." 

 

It turns out, the fathead was right. If I supposedly "multi-task," incompetency reigns. 

I can't listen to a shiur and surf Facebook. I can't text and maintain a conversation. Preparing too many dishes at one time rarely ends well. 

There are many who claim they can multi-task. Note that they claim. Try reading this story without distraction. Can you? Will you recall what you have read? Will you have processed it?

Earlier research out of Stanford revealed that self-identified “high media multitaskers” are actually more easily distracted than those who limit their time toggling.

So, in layman’s terms, by doing more you’re getting less done.

Perhaps you are familiar with the person who is always busy, yet doesn't seem to accomplish anything? 

But monotasking, also referred to as single-tasking or unitasking, isn’t just about getting things done.

Not the same as mindfulness, which focuses on emotional awareness, monotasking is a 21st-century term for what your high school English teacher probably just called “paying attention.”

I have learned, at my work, to complete each task one by one. Then I don't come back, spend a minute remembering where I left off, then forget that one vital action necessary to prevent my having to start it all over again. 

As much as people would like to believe otherwise, humans have finite neural resources that are depleted every time we switch between tasks, which, especially for those who work online, Ms. Zomorodi said, can happen upward of 400 times a day, according to a 2016 University of California, Irvine study. “That’s why you feel tired at the end of the day,” she said. “You’ve used them all up.”

The term “brain dead” suddenly takes on a whole new meaning.

Multi-tasking is not productive at all, because not only are the jobs not done right, one is rendered unproductive in the process. 

There is pleasant satisfaction in a job well done and complete, von Pfetten writes. That reminded me of the "debt snowball method," paying off the smallest debt first even though that seems contradictory to financial savvy. When those in hock are able to cross off an item from their list, they tend to be so galvanized by that signal of progress that they throw themselves wholeheartedly into further headway. 

Kids, of course, tend to interrupt mono-tasking. In cases where tackling one job at a time is difficult, just try to do it whenever possible, like reading offspring a book while the phone is elsewhere, the article recommends. 

“Practice how you listen to people,” Ms. McGonigal said. “Put down anything that’s in your hands and turn all of your attentional channels to the person who is talking. You should be looking at them, listening to them, and your body should be turned to them. If you want to see a benefit from monotasking, if you want to have any kind of social rapport or influence on someone, that’s the place to start. That’s where you’ll see the biggest payoff.” 

Dressing for Men: The Combover

I am going to get shot for this post. 

[Deep exhale]. Okay, here goes: 

Hair loss is, for obvious reasons, a touchy subject. I'm quite sure Luke has been shoved and tripped on the street because his genetically blessed mane has rubbed salt into many a wound. He also obnoxiously lets it grow to point he looks like the Rogatchaver.

To begin: It is not your fault. It sucks. You have my complete a total sympathy. Even Elaine's boyfriend Kurt, who shaved his head, took to his bed when he realized he had gone bald in the interim.

However, there is no going back. It's like when a teenager feverishly attempts to shield a zit—they simply succeed in amplifying its presence. 

The first step is acceptance. Perhaps one tried all the remedies—daily, gentle scalp massage with castor oil, for instance—to no avail. It must be acknowledged: the time one had with one's hair is gone, never to return. 

My boss, Jack, is devoid of hair. When his son began to show signs of hair thinning when entering his 20s, Jack told him that he had two choices: 1) Toupé. 2) Cutting it off. (The former actually was an option once for frum men who didn't want to wear yarmulkas in their secular workplaces. It has fallen out of style in recent years.)

It seems counterintuitive, yet even this Leah agrees: where hair remains, it must be trimmed short. Going the sleek Yul is not an option for the frum boys, so this applies to you. 

I've always thought chassidishe men who buzz down most of their hair to highlight the payos rock their 'do with panache. They own it.

 

Jason Kearns says that baldness is a way for modern men to make their lives simple and to deal with hair loss with grace. He offers other alternatives to comb-overs and bald insecurity: "Instead of hiding your bare pate," he says, "try to work with it and add accessories like interesting eye glasses or a neatly trimmed beard."

I mean, c'mon, Jason Statham is still cool and everything, and he's gone distinctly bald. He, like, dares you to not be in awe of his coolness.

And please, do not use an awkwardly angled kapul as ineffectual camouflage. We all know what's going on under there.

Now I shall duck to avoid the fusillade of bullets.  

The Gift of Sight

There is seeing, and there is seeing.

Mild example: Eewok is (finally!) a reader, and she is eager to curl up in bed with a book, which then necessitates a nightstand and lamp. In my error, I got her the Kosher Lamp first, before it had an official base; it took a crack-inducing tumble. 

Now she requires a new lamp, but I was adamant about a nightstand first. Orgiana repeatedly emerged from Homegoods empty-handed and frustrated. I considered possible obsolete pieces about the house that I could lend until the ideal was discovered. 

Whilst cleaning my room on Sunday (more like "half-heartedly hanging up tossed aside skirts") my glance fell on a dark corner. Tucked away, under a desk, was my sister's old white wicker nightstand, complete with shelf. 

You MORON. 

See what I mean about seeing and seeing? 

Sometimes it is based on a frame of mind—there are moments when we are so fakocht that even though our eyes are open, we are so caught up in the fog of our own mind that our vision is fuzzy. 

Sam Anderson, in "Letter of Recommendation," suggests the joys of looking out the window. (From my serious kinfauna-sitting days, taking a baby to a window was a lifesaver; they were usually entranced by the outdoor view.)

As Anderson explains, outside is out of our control, unlike selecting images or video from the internet. As a Jew, I still need to be reminded of that: We've got no control. 

The second message he imparts is this: After witnessing a car crash into a fence, he took a dislike to the driver, neatly boxing and labeling him. Yet what he saw showed something completely different. 

Rear Window

I judge even while trying not to judge. Dan l'kaf zechus is so bloody hard. Yet one day, one gets to a point where assuming the worst of people is more of an effort than assuming the best. One feels better too. 

Then one wonders why she would have opted for bitterness and wrinkles, when the alternative is so much easier on the skin.