Free To Be Me

I've already plowed through "My Crazy Ex-Girlfriend," although due to baby-induced sleep deprivation, I've forgotten pretty much most of it. I vaguely recall that it was highly enjoyable. 

Rebecca Bloom, the star and co-creator, came out with a memoir, and she was duly interviewed. This paragraph spoke to me. 

“I’ve never been able to be anyone but myself,” Bloom said in a video chat. “And when I’ve very vociferously attempted to not be myself — when I would come to school and be like, ‘I’ve had a makeover!’ — I’ve never been able to hide well. The conclusion I’ve come to in the past 10 years is, well, I might as well just lean hard into who I am.”

Yuuuuuuuuuup. 

In real (as opposed to the blogosphere) life, few people get me. Less than few comprehended me in school. The harder I would try to be likable, I was avoided even more. So, if the results are going to be the same, I might as well be me. 

The heilaga Brené speaks of the difference between "fitting in" and "belonging." In my view, it's still "belonging" even if you are on your own, in your own space. The price of fighting my own nature and personality was too high, and I was unwilling to pay it. 

Perhaps some thought (no, some definitely thought) that if I had been more willing to be "typical" (whatever that means) I would have married earlier, but . . . that's a negatory. Han and I aren't "atypical," we just like to abide to our own truths, like moisturizers, funky clothing, and lemon desserts (that's just a few of the things we have in common). 

As long as you are nice to others, there is nothing wrong with embracing yourself. I've become quite fond of goofy energy. 

Fearfully Blessed

I have always feared the worst. Even before Ma died, I was constantly aware that all that I cherish could be lost. 

"What are you worried about?" Han asks me from time to time. 

"I'm always worried," I reply. 

Logically, this is no way to live. Will "foreboding joy" (Brené reference) mean that tragedy will be kept at bay? No, obviously. 

Religiously, this is no way to live. Worry means a lack of bitachon. My worrying is not effective action. My job is to do the mitzvos, and place my energies into that, not fretting. 

Additionally, why do I have anything I cherish in the first place? He gave it to me; it is up to Him whether it remains or not. 

Physically, this is no way to live. Jacking up cortisol levels isn't good for health. 

Frank Bruni wrote of his deteriorating vision: 

Joseph Lovett, 72, a filmmaker whose 2010 documentary, “Going Blind,” chronicles the slow worsening of his vision from glaucoma, told me that his best counsel was that “you cannot spend your life preparing for future losses.” It disrespects the blessings of the here and now. Besides, everyone lives in a state of uncertainty. Mine just has funky initials and fancy medical jargon attached to it.

The irony is that there is a million ways to die. Ma's death was caused by a freakishly rare illness that no one saw coming (my go-to fantasy was always a car crash. No particular reason. She was a good driver). 

After her passing, I did experience gratitude that I had the best mother for a pretty good run. I think I was appreciative while she lived, too. I hope I was. 

But I haven't stopped fretting. Now I have Han-related anxiety. "If you die, I'll kill you," I say, much to his amusement. Yet of course I know it's not in his control, nor mine. 

I must breathe, learn to rewire my faulty programming, and simply . . . cherish. Without fear of loss. 

The Art of Friending

"You're awesome!" 

"You're awesome!" 

The two of us had a grand time chatting, even over the blaring wedding music. We really hit it off. 

At least I thought we did. 

Having succeeded in securing her cell number, I proceeded to text. Her replies were short and noncommittal. I braved her chilly responses for a few more rounds, then gave up. 

When I crossed paths with her again, she was downright frosty. I skittered away. 

Making friends, for some, can be a difficult enterprise (this post is brought to you by: TooYoungToTeach, who not only sent me the below article but inspired the rest of the content). I'm one of those annoying people who can't befriend anyone. I require a meeting of minds, a shared vocabulary, and most of all, loyalty. 

So when I meet someone new who seems to have, at least, the first two (near identical) qualities, I am awash in hope. But then, inexplicably, episode 2 flops after the pilot. 

I am not alone. Alex Williams blames it on being over 30 ("Why Is It Hard to Make Friends Over 30?"), but I find that age has little to do with it. You bump into a stranger, you have a glorious hour or two in their company, but there is no successful follow-up to that promising romance. 

Once upon a time, they would have just called it "ships passing in the night," or something. Maybe there was magic in the air, or hooch in the drinks, but whatever it is, it was not meant to be forever. It was meant to be for that moment in time.  

. . . it becomes tougher to meet the three conditions that sociologists since the 1950s have considered crucial to making close friends: proximity; repeated, unplanned interactions; and a setting that encourages people to let their guard down and confide in each other, said Rebecca G. Adams, a professor of sociology and gerontology at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro.

Proximity. Can't get away from that. Nor vulnerability. But it also takes two to tango. If one doesn't want to put in the work to maintaining a relationship, there is only so much the other can do.   

TGIF

Rabbi Ephraim Stauber quotes Brené!

• How her research applies to personal relationships; and 

• How the same applies to humankind's relationship with the Eibishter. 

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.

Faces of Bravery

"You'll feel better if you talk about it." Then they lean in eagerly, proffering an inquisitive ear. 

But we are not all the same. Not everyone desires to upchuck their emotional guts. Some find such withholding to be unnatural, unhealthy. If only they knew what the other side thought of them . . .  

In Betsy Lerner's memoir, she recalls her misunderstanding of her mother's staid, dignified bridge group, chafing and clashing against their expectations while yearning for their approval.

But in 2013, as her mother, Roz, was recovering from an operation, the author resolved to make peace. She began her campaign by infiltrating the bridge circle, intending to break through the ladies’ polished surfaces and gain a deeper understanding of their inner lives, and, she hoped, her mother’s.

Sitting with Roz, Bette, Bea, Jackie and Rhoda (the club had five members, in case one had a conflict), she eavesdropped as they bid, passed and took tricks. For years, she had imagined that during card play, the women let down their guards, spilled secrets, groused about their spouses and worried about their children.

Instead, she found, to her disappointment, they did not ever “trash anyone” or “share a deep feeling.” Their commandments were: “Thou shalt not pry. Thou shalt not reveal. Thou shalt not share.”

To her surprise, this was no wine-fueled contemporary "book club." 

Week after week, these women met, played bridge, and kept conversation way above the depths.

With Bette, she brought up a tragedy that her mother had always refused to discuss: the death of Ms. Lerner’s baby sister, Barbara, in 1964, from pneumonia.

Had the ladies known about it? the author asked. “Everyone knew,” Bette replies. Had her mother spoken of it, during all those bridge Mondays? “Not once,” Bette says.

Ms. Lerner found such reticence callous. Yet, gradually, grudgingly, she came to accept that TLC did in fact exist in the pre-TMI world. Just because a bridge luncheon didn’t operate like a therapy session didn’t mean it wasn’t therapeutic, she saw. For the ladies, it was a safe, neutral zone where they went to recharge as they weathered life’s blows, keeping up appearances and their spirits as they trumped, finessed and ate kugel from china plates.

She writes, “I never thought I would say this, but I think the Bridge Ladies are brave.”

"Talking it out," I have found, is not always magically cathartic. For a number of issues, hashing them to death will not help. These women craved stability and structure; when life threatened their balance, they were able to re-attain their equilibrium with a weekly ritual amongst their comrades.

Yes, in an ideal world, we could be vulnerable with one another without fear. Brené Brown has started the revolution; perhaps a wholehearted future awaits us. But we should respect the previous generations' means of perseverance, when presence was needed more than words.    

When You're Smiling

I'm Princess Lea, right? Even so, I did not initially "get" the video with Chewbacca Mom. She's just laughing. Prefaced, yes, by a cute although not knee-slapping soliloquy about the joys of toy-ownership (to which I heartily concur), but enough to get her own Wiki entry? 

But then I "got" it.

She's laughing—un-self-consciously and wholeheartedly. She's not worried what she looks like to confused passerby. She's not obsessing if others will see her as ridiculous. She is not at all concerned that her kids (or husband) will be embarrassed to be seen with her in public. 

Candace Payne bought a Chewbacca sound-effect mask. She's delighted with her purchase. Without reserve. 

She's happy.

This is the stuff of Brené.

Payne entitled the video, "It's the simple joys in life . . ." and darn-tooting, it is. 

This article by Amanda Hess comments on the phenomenon, but laughing videos in general get a lot of buzz. 

“This grown woman is using a mask that’s supposed to be for kids,” Mr. Warren said. But when we see the pure, childlike joy it produces in Ms. Payne, a stay-at-home mother from Grand Prairie, Tex., the event feels gloriously silly instead of pathetic. When laughter itself is the transgression, the videos pack a one-two punch. It’s not normal for a woman to laugh to herself at length in a crowded subway car, but it’s harmless, so as her laughing fit continues, others can’t help joining her. . . 

Online videos feel particularly intimate because they largely feature amateurs, are unscripted and are filmed up close and by hand. Ms. Payne “is a pleasant and attractive person to whom we freely lend our sympathies,” said Carl Plantinga, a professor of film and media at Calvin College who studies the psychology of cinema. “Her enthusiasm seems to be genuine and kind.”

And because she’s filming herself in close-up, her emotions are front and center — even once she puts on the mask, you can see her eyes glistening in delight. “Sympathetic viewers will involuntarily mimic her facial expressions, leading to emotional contagion,” Mr. Plantinga said. The use of Facebook Live — which streams live video instantly, with no opportunity to edit or scratch a take — only draws the viewer in closer.

Being happy—or even acting happy—is deliciously freeing. Not caring about "looking stupid" means one never does.