5 Tips for Success

Heh, heh. Gotcha again, didn't I? This post has nothing to do with success. I have things of import to report, but not yet. Instead, I offer highlights of my week.  Some of my readers might actually prefer this type of post to ones that purport to give information about success. 

1. I spent $13 on a chocolate bar. That's what I said. Thirteen dollars on a chocolate bar. Why did I spend so much money on a chocolate bar, you ask? Well.

• It was French. 
• The bar was made by a family business that specializes in small batch chocolate. 
• I was supporting the very great cheese store in Albany run by young cheese travelers. If you recall, in a previous post I mentioned eating candy that looked like olives. Also French. Also from The Cheese Traveler. 

The cost did give me pause. Thirteen dollars for a chocolate bar. I haven’t finished it yet. I’ve hidden it from my family. It’s meant to prove my worth. What I mean is that it’s my test of myself. My willpower. Can I eat it slowly and s-a-v-o-u-r it? Can I get really mindful about that chocolate and make a little go a long way? In other words: Am I a worthy human? That’s what this $13 chocolate bar is going to tell me.

Yes, I know the label reads backwards. I used PhotoBooth and that's what I got. 

Or maybe it’s telling me I’m an idiot for spending so much on one edible chocolate item.

2. I bought jeans. Yes, I know, this may not seem momentous to you, Readers. Unless you are female. If you are male, you likely stride into the jeans store, pick jeans with your measurements, pay for them, and leave. When you get home, and put them on, they fit. No big deal. But if you’re a woman, well, I think I can assume you know how momentous this is. Jeans. Jeans that fit. Jeans that look okay. Jeans from, of all places, The Gap. Never have I been so happy to learn that midrise and high rise jeans are back in style. And I didn’t have to pay $200 for them, either.

Not that I’m a style-obsessed person. Not at all. (It’s chocolate that obsesses me.)  It’s just that I happen to have a 16 year old, as I may have mentioned, and it hasn’t escaped me that while once she wore jeans that came up to just above her hip bone, now she is wearing jeans that end at her lower ribs.

Okay, I lied. I'm not really obsessed with chocolate. And I am interested in style. Perhaps more than I should be. But that's another story. 

This look, by the way, is one that only a 16 year old should try. For moi, it was midrise all the way. Locking in that muffin top, instead of watching it drip over the top of the jeans like a cake batter en route from mixing bowl to pan.

“How vivid,” as Auntie Mame might say.

Another reason to pass the $13 chocolate bar test. Square by square.

3. I bought a desk. Yes, I did. Me very own desk. In me very own study. No longer shall I take over the dining room table, because I have a nice, wide surface in me own study. This may not seem impressive to many of you, but I assure you, it’s a big step. Admitting I need a desk. You see, the desk and the need versus want thing is very complex in me. I mean, when it comes to having the basics covered, I do. I had a desk. It was just a very small desk. It was so small that I had to work on the dining room table if I wanted to have any reference materials or paper beside me in addition to my computer. And I have a dining room table. Well, technically, it’s an IKEA table with a plank of plywood on top, covered with a tablecloth. But it’s a table. So I had a desk AND a table. What possible reason could I have to justify a different desk?

See what I did there, Readers? I can bring myself down, way, way, down, by allowing that Superego voice in my head to say, “A desk. You think you need a desk. Somewhere in Africa (or India) someone is writing a masterpiece on a plank of petrified elephant hide. You don’t need a desk. You want a desk. And wanting is wrong.”

Shut up, Superego.

4. The husband went away to a conference, as is his wont every February. This is the signal to the universe to snow, to wreak some kind of havoc on the house, or to cause everyone left behind to come down with an intestinal illness. This time, it was snow, again. But I was ready. Or my plan was to be ready. Before he left, the husband gave me instructions on using the snowblower. 

Let me pause here to beg you, please, to refrain from telling me what wonderful exercise shoveling snow is, or how bad snowblowers are for the environment. I know. I know. But I have a bad back and a bad arm and, and, and. Lord, I sound defensive.

Reroute. Anyway, I was able to do everything necessary with the snowblower, except turn it on. There is a ripcord or something that you have to pull up and out really fast to get the engine to turn over. Well, I was too short to pull it out. Just a slight problem. Luckily, there is Facebook. I took my problem to FB. I believe this is called “crowdsourcing.” One of my Facebook friends suggested I stand on something. Genius! So, in the morning, which was a snowday, while the husband was tucked into his hotel in Nashville (This is a lot better than previous locations, such as Honolulu and San Diego. Talk about grounds for grudge-holding), I stood on a stepstool and got that machine going.

5. Got my 10,000 steps on Mrs. Withingston every day. 

Thank you for reading, readers. I have news for you soon. Also tips on success. Upcoming: Pomodoro Method. 

Notes from this Week

Monday

Implementing Dr. D’s suggestion to substitute herbal tea sipping for my afternoon snack habit. Though it hurts me to write this, it is true that my waistline is less svelte than it used to be. My eating habits haven’t changed, but my metabolism -- well, you know the deal. Every decade the metabolism slows a bit. Or every seven years. Or is it that you get itchy every seven years? Or is that every decade? Anyway. If you’re me, you are both itchy and metabolically declining. And by itchy, I am referring to my hive-prone skin, not to the cheat-on-the-spouse kind of itchy.

My attitude towards the metabolic shift swings back and forth. It, uh, shifts, depending on what kind of sweets or delicious carbs are in the house and on the menu. Something over which I, apparently, have a lot of control. Sometimes I’m, like, what the heck, who cares? I’m getting older and getting fatter and why should I give up my sweets and carbs in a false attempt to stave off the Inevitable? Death, etc., let’s call it. After all, Death, etc., comes to all of us.

But sometimes I’m, like, what the heck? I still feel like I’m thirty. Why shouldn’t I look that way as long as I can? Please, Readers, if you know what I look like, don’t disabuse me of this fanciful notion by telling me that I left thirty behind long ago, looks-wise. I know I left it behind, years-wise.

So today is a sip-the-herbal-tea instead of eating-the-chocolate-covered-almonds day. Today’s a hoick-the-waistband-over-the-waist-bulge day. A Pilates mat class day, (which was rawther humbling). I know I’ve got abs of steel somewhere. If I press into my belly far enough, I feel the steel. Take that Death, etc!

Tuesday

The kitchen faucet is magical.

There I was, typing away in the dining room, when I became aware of an insistent shwishing sound. Like a flood or something. The sound was coming from the kitchen. I rushed in and realized that the faucet was on, full-throttle. It had turned itself on.

How is that possible, you ask? The kitchen faucet is magical, I tell you. It is a wonderful looking faucet, all modern and sleek. We picked it out of thousands, lit’rilly. And for once, I broke with my usual caution and went for the fancy, newfangled option, the touch option. You know, so when your hands are gooey, you can turn the faucet on by tapping with the back of your hand anywhere on the neck or handle.  I couldn’t resist. Even though one should always resist. The more complicated mechanical things get, the more they involve batteries and bells and whistles, the more likely they are to break down.

But it was so pretty.

The husband installed it. And it works great. Usually. Except sometimes you need to pound it several times to get it to turn on, and then it won’t turn off, except when you use the handle. And sometimes when you want it to stay on it turns off abruptly; and sometimes it goes off and on like a choking chicken.

And sometimes it turns on when you are typing on your laptop in another room.

It’s great, except for that.

The husband says he’s going to fix it; but he has a full time job, so I’m thinking eventually we will have to call the plumber and take whatever mockery he dishes to us.

But it is so pretty.

Wednesday

It’s time for me to take a break from all the menopause memoirs I’ve been reading. Yes, sure, they’re funny. Yes, sure, they’re written by women who are about my age – or were, when they wrote these humorous books. But the thing is, I’m starting to feel old. They keep telling me that my vagina is dry, or possibly collapsing, and that my emotions are overwrought; that I want to throw plates on the ground or whole turkeys out of windows; that my nasolabial folds – those are the creases around the mouth, for your information – are deep enough to plant shrubberies in. That I’m washed up and can’t get any roles in Hollywood. Not that I’m trying too get roles in Hollywood, but I like the idea that I could. Well, apparently, not anymore. Basically, I’m getting the message that I’m over the hill, that my looks are going – or are gone.

The thing is, I feel great. Except for the need for higher waisted jeans. And a few age spots. And a few chin hairs. And stuff like that. Over all, life is good. I baked bread, Readers. I told the husband a few years ago that if I ever baked bread again, it would be a sign that I felt good. And I baked bread.

Now that I typed that positive thought, I’m looking up and over my shoulder. Where’s the big boot from the sky? The one that stomps on me if I dare to feel positive? Before the boot appears, I’m going on the record to say things are good. I know that can go ass over teakettle at any moment – and will. But right now: Good.

Thursday

I can’t be arsed.

Taking a break from all those menopause memoirs to read Tana French’s newest book, The Secret Place. It’s a mystery set in a girls’ boarding school. I’m very into it. All that hard-boiled Irish copper slang has seeped into my language. I’ve been thinking in a lilt. I particularly like “I can’t be arsed,” which means, I believe, “I can’t be bothered.” I’m ashamed to admit I have had to stop myself from saying it aloud to one or another of the children. Although, why I bother to stop myself I don’t know. It’s not as if I’ve stopped myself saying other inappropriate things around them. Or to them, I confess. In fact, of late, I feel as if I’m just giving over to my baser – or perhaps more basic – tendencies. Ah, who am I kidding with this delicacy? It’s been out of the bag for eons that I enjoy a good scatological reference. I’d like to behave more better, as we say.  More parentally. I really would. But I just can’t be arsed.

Style and Beauty Tips for the Challenged - and Who Isn't, in Some Way?

It has come to my attention that some of my readers would like to know what I’ve learned in my travels among French and other style writers. Yes, indeed, certain conversations I’ve had lately with women of about my age, some older, some younger, have clued me in. I tend to roll with a very natural group - Earth mothers and such - so I’ve been rather circumspect about my dabblings in the land of fashion and beauty. Ok, maybe not so circumspect. I’m blogging about it, after all. My point is, there’s been interest. Eager interest, even. So. There you go. I aim to please.

 So. What have I learned? Well, everyone has his or her angle on style and beauty, and the whole French style thing has some amusing little published arguments going on. French women don’t get fat – well, they do. They don’t exercise at gyms – well, they do. They don’t get facelifts – well, they actually get a lot of work, maybe not classic facelifts, but then again, with all the available alternatives to surgery, lots of women don’t get facelifts and still end up looking, well, you know.

What do they agree on? 

Style

·      Posture. Style, the consensus seems to be, depends on posture. Stand up straight. Dancers  and Pilates folk know the drill. Pretend there’s a string running through your spine up through the top of your head. You’re a marionette. Create space. Tilt your pelvis & tailbone forward slightly. And draw your shoulders down and away from your ears.

·      But if you need more than posture – and anyone who doesn’t live in the nudist colony I saw signs for on our trip to Quebec last year does - if you need clothes, then go for well-fitting garments of the best quality you can afford, in neutral colors for the main pieces. 

My first exposure to this theory of wardrobe came via the French teacher at my high school. I didn’t take French, but my friend did, and she reported on lessons on style as taught by Mme. She also reported rumors that Mme wore no underwear, but they were unverified. Images of Mme later blended with images of Sharon Stone in that infamous scene in that infamous movie she made. Forgot what it’s called.

·      Scarves and other accessories for color and pizzazz. Scarves are very popular among the French. And the Italians. Italian men wear scarves, too.

Our tour guide in Pompeii, Mario

Good old Tim Gunn in his tres drôll book, A Guide to Quality, Taste, and Style, told me to go through my clothes and get rid of stuff I don’t like, that doesn’t fit, that I don’t wear, and to identify the “soul-stirring” pieces I own. And then to wear them. Well, I don’t know about soul-stirring, but I do know about saving my favorite items for “someday.” I’m the queen of saving things for someday. Especially anything new. Only someday never comes, does it? And now I’m That Age. Fewer tomorrows ahead of me. So I’ve started wearing those saved things more often now.

Emboldened by the closet purge, I approached the owner of a boutique I really like and asked if she ever does style consultations. She said she does them all the time –for free. She said I can bring in a few of my things and show them to her and she can use them to make suggestions and so on. It turns out she’s just turned the golden age herself. And she looks fab – pixie cut, cute outfits, and best of all, a similar body shape to mine. I haven’t taken her up on her suggestion yet, because the boutique is a bit cher, as we French say. But I’m thinking about it.

·      Good haircut, good shoes.

Which morphs us into beauty.

Beauty

·      Good haircut being an essential here. My style writers devote much amusing print to creating “French” hair, which is, apparently, slightly scraggly, kind of dirty, and slept on. Thank God I’ve got that down. If I washed my hair every day, it would be so puffy you’d never see my face.

My good haircut is, however, in danger. My stylist, you see, has fallen out with his business partner, who happens to be his sister, and he has left his salon in a huff. I’ve followed him to a temporary place until he starts another one; but I’m worried.

·      Make-up of an enhancing rather than en-masking nature. This is apparently only possible once you’ve passed the teen years. Dramatic eyeliner is the style around these parts for the under 16 set. For those older than 30, it’s the unnaturally natural look, all the way.

Take it from me, a lot more women are wearing the unnaturally natural look than you think. I didn’t realize it, until I discovered Trish McEvoy. When we lived in NYC, I used to get my hair cut at Frederic Fekkai, which was upstairs at Bendel’s. One day, I strayed too close to one of the make-up counters, and before I knew it, a charming young fellow was working me over.

             “Listen,” I told him. “I’m from Boston. In Boston, women don’t wear make-up.”
             “Yes they do,” he said. “Half of them are wearing Trish.”

I left with a lovely kit of practically invisible stuff. I only needed about ten items for the natural look.

·      Facials and more. Here’s the sticking point for me. Apparently every female in France has an intimate relationship with a dermatologist-aesthetician and also, peut etre, with a pharmacist.  

Pharmacies in Italy, by the way, were nearly as fascinating as pharmacies in France apparently are. The 10^th grader and I experienced one when one of us, no need to mention which one, because she might be embarrassed, ran out of deodorant. The whole store was full of interesting bottles and tubes, and all the names and ingredients were in European, so we could barely understand half of them. I figured this meant they were automatically at least one standard deviation above the norm, quality-wise, compared to what we can find at home in CVS. We bought a deodorant, after resorting (on my part) to some ape-like gestures. Guess what? We love it. It smells great. And so, when we used it up, we went online, and were able to order some through that Hachette-murdering website (Amazon, for you unliterary types), for at least three times the price of drugstore deodorant.

·      Argan oil. I bought some at the local food co-op, so I know it’s pure, not laced with corn oil or little bits of titanium dioxide (see upsetting Mother Jones article). I’ve used it on my face, my neck, my, uh, sternum, and my scalp.

·      Retin-A. Really, this should go without saying. It’s one thing that actually works. And, oddly, insurance paid for it the last time I got a prescription!

Oh, the hours I’ve spent reading up on beauty treatments, cleansers, lotions, and other potions. It’s. Well, let’s just say I wish I could be paid for them all.

Other lessons I’ve absorbed for your edification, as well as mine, include the following.

·      Water. Drink it. A lot. First thing in the morning. I already do this. Check. I’m a thirsty gal. Half the time, I’m worried I have sudden onset diabetes. So far, no. BTW, years ago I read that Donna Karan does this, too. Drinks a glass of water first thing, that is. I don’t know about the hypochondria. I felt validated, for absolutely no reason, by this information. But I never forgot it.

This reminds me of the saddest thing I’ve learned. French women don’t drink much wine. They sip a little. But they’re not teetering around sozzled.  And they don’t do cocktails. Too many calories. Too drying to the skin. Which brings us to….

·      Moisturize. Again, I’m already on it. I have dry skin and a history of eczema, so I’ve been moisturizing for years.

I feel I must end this post with one of my favorite jokes. It pretty much sums up this whole style thing. Ready?

Q: Why are you sophisticated when you’re going to the bathroom?

A: ‘Cuz European.

Get it? Say it slowly. Break it down. “Eur-o-pe-an.” Get it?

Okay. Good. Have a good weekend!

Bibliography

Giuliano, Mereille. French Women Don't Get Facelifts & French Women Don't Get Fat.
Gunn, Tim. A Guide to Quality, Taste and Style.
Jett, Tish. Forever Chic.

Annals of Successful Acceptance of Aging

 For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn? 

– Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

It’s been an interesting week. First off, put a little hatch mark under There is a Higher Order in the Universe. I know, what? What am I saying? Me the atheist/agnostic? I’m saying that you can just put one notch in the belt of those who buy all that abundance theory and stuff. Wha? Wha? Hardened East Coast cynic – moi – getting all woo-hoo now?

My point is, Readers, that no sooner did I write that I wanted paying work than I got some. Yes. I sent my message out There, into the Universe, and something came back to me. Okay, sure, it involved networking, a very earthly pursuit, not at all woo-woo. But whatever. That’s the fine print, and let’s just not read it. I’m lilting upwards. I have a short writing project, and if I do it well, I might get more from this company. Meanwhile, I also got a tip from a friend about a great networking contact and I’ve sent out a message to him. So.

Okay, second of all, in pursuit of French style – and, let’s be frank, eternal youth – I’ve gone part way down a strange rabbit hole. The rabbit hole of cosmetic enhancement. Actually, I’m not after eternal youth. Truly. I’m more interested in eternal 40. You know, just basically looking about 40 for the next, oh, thirty years.

Don’t worry, I’m not planning any surgery. All I was thinking of was getting a facial. However, I wanted to find out about getting a couple of little dark spots removed. So I went to a new dermatologist, one who does cosmetic stuff as well as medical, one who has an esthetician on staff. I had my moles checked. You should do that every year, especially if, like I did, you grew up when sunscreen was suntan lotion, and the numbers on the bottle indicated how much more the lotion intensified the effects of the sun. Moles all fine, so far. So I was free to go for the main draw, a free consultation with this esthetician. She pulled the old trick of pausing just long enough that you start talking. You know, I started by asking about facials, but then she asked, “Anything else you’re concerned about?” Pause. Pause, pause, pause. And before I knew it we were talking lasers and she was recommending chemical peels for “premature aging.”

Premature aging. Premature aging? I stared at this esthetician with unblemished skin, part of me crushed. I hadn’t thought I had premature aging, just regular old run-of-the-mill aging. Maybe even a little behind schedule, if I’m honest about how I felt before I went in there. I went in thinking about maintaining what I have now – thus, facials, and maybe a cream or two – and now I’m wondering how I’ve managed to hold my head up with any pride at all, due to my PREMATURE AGING.

So part of me was crushed, but part of me realized that, of course, this free consultation is a sales pitch. Therefore, triggering my insecurities was a necessary part of the deal.

I did not succumb. I made an appointment for a facial. She was booked into early June, which is good. I have time to reconsider. I left with several samples of lovely French cleansers and creams and eye gels. The French may not get facelifts, but let me tell you, they use a lot of creams, and they get a lot of injections. I know. I’ve done a lot of reading on the subject.

I’ll admit to feeling a bit wooly and dilapidated for a couple of hours after that consultation. And to searching the interwebs for other local medical spa type facilities. (There are a surprising number of them around here, considering the population density.) And to weighing the costs of college for the children against facial maintenance for myself and considering the benefits of a full time job. And to applying argan oil to my cuticles. And to ordering a rather expensive serum and doing a bunch of Pilates mini-workouts.* And then to going to lunch with an elegant friend who is a bit older than I, who told me I have good skin and that you can’t see much grey in my hair. And that she found the little brown spots I mentioned “cute.”  

And to spending too much time staring at my face.

Third of all - and may this prove that I pay attention to things outside of my own psyche, at least on

occasion - the eggs hatched in the nest on our little side porch, and the bird babies flew away. The tenth grader took some pictures, because she has a few inches on me and could get a better angle. I feel inordinately proud of this natural unfolding, although it had nothing to do with me. I was all too happy to forgo using the broom. I guess I’ll get to that this weekend. I don’t have any procedures planned.


*By the way, the Pilates workouts are available on The Balanced Life. 

Dress for Success

"What’s this focus on French chic?” The husband asked the other day. I was embarrassed he’d noticed. Although, really, how could he not have? Instead of reading our book club book for our upcoming meeting, I’d read three books on fashion and style. Plus, I'd been spending a lot of time reading style blogs by women over forty. 

How to articulate? The vision of a simple, elegant low-heeled shoe, the capstone (foundation stone?) of a simple, elegant outfit came to mind. Something dressier than, say, yoga pants and sneakers. I’ve had this vision since we were in the Rome airport. An older woman walked by, dressed a standard deviation or two above the norm for travel. We were surrounded by a large group of American college athletes, so you know what the dress code was. Sweats and jeans, leggings and sweats. This older woman was obviously not American. So maybe it’s not fair to compare. But I thought, I’m halfway between that – the schlumpy students – and that – the elegant older lady, and I want to be more like her when I grow up, than like the older version of these college kids.

But my interest predated that. Packing for the trip triggered a lot of thoughts about clothes and style. Some of it is certainly related to the ongoing trauma of turning fifty. It’s not like I want to start wearing couture. That’s boring and stuffy. But there is certainly an aspect of this interest that has to do with last ditch efforts before my face falls into my neck. As I told my sister the psychoanalyst, I’m not giving up without a fight.

And then a couple of women I know, about my age, returned to work, part time or full time, and that triggered thoughts, about my connection with the outside world of commerce and responsibility, about financial freedom, and about - for lack of a better word - “lifestyle.” I felt envious of these women. Their need to dress up a bit. Their need to exercise different parts of their brains and to have colleagues and eat at lunch trucks and wear shoes that click-clack when they walk. I found myself actually kind of yearning for that.

And I thought, well, am I sick of my book? Am I giving up on my book? Am I doing what I’ve usually done when I get sick of and despairing about my writing: focusing on something that seems easier, like getting a “real” job and earning some actual money?

Maybe the solution is to do both. The kids don’t need me in the same way. I can work while they are around. But I need to earn money. I want to. Not just for more, but to save for retirement and so on. I feel afraid of the future, for sure, and I want to do something about it. Also, I want the mental and social engagement with the world.  Sure, in my dreams, I’m traveling around giving readings and appearing on talk shows and so on, but let’s be real. The book has come along discouragingly slowly, and I’ve been playing the whole, I’ll wait until I get the proposal done and out before looking for work thing for a couple of years now. That's getting old.

Another thing this dressing and style thing-o reminds me of is that old saying to “dress for the job you want.” This worked for me right out of college, when I was a receptionist at a law firm. Quickly, the boss promoted me to paralegal. It turned out that neither of those jobs were jobs I wanted, but that’s another drumbeat. After that it was thrift-store finds, jeans, t-shirts, and pretty soon I was doing data entry, writing novels, and eventually, unemployed. In short, it worked.  Anyhoo, now I’m feeling like being more part of the world, and so I’m dressing for that and hoping to create opportunities.

While I felt called out by the husband, it was only because I felt some shame. All this focus on appearance felt important, but also really, really shallow. Really, it's both symbolic and literal. Part of the interest is about upgrading my wardrobe; however, part of my style obsession definitely has to do with shoring myself up from the outside, since I’ve been feeling discouraged inside. One of the themes of these books is that building a good façade helps us feel good inside. Taking time to care for self, health, diet, skin, and wardrobe cultivates feeling “bien dans votre peau” or something – happy in your own skin, roughly translated. If I can build confidence in one area, it bleeds into other areas, too. So.

That’s what’s with the focus on French chic.

Target Size, Progress, and Jeggings

Readers, I think I may have bought jeggings.

Before you condemn me for trying to dress like my daughters, let me assure you that I bought them from a store the fifteen year old would never shop in.  In fact, I’m pretty sure her gag reflex would trigger just looking at the window display. So even though they are denim, and have some stretch, and skinny legs, and a wide waistband – read “girdle” waist - I think maybe they wouldn’t actually qualify as jeggings, more as skinny jeans for the, uh, mature woman.

But I’m not entirely sure. I was trying to be a little French, and I may have gone astray. You see, I just read French Women Don’t Get Facelifts, which dispenses many hints on how to be stylish, and I’m in the middle of French Women Don’t Get Fat. In attempting to implement the secrets of those French women I may have been very hungry when I entered the store. Luckily, I have such body dysmorphia I’ll simply pull on this item of sartorial distinction and have no real idea whether I look good or bad. Those who love me will support me. As, indeed, will my jeggings.

Two steps forward, one step back. Still, that’s progress. And in comfortable shoes. That’s right. Since last I wrote, I have managed to focus on my upcoming Italian “vacation” and buy shoes. The shoes are definitely comfortable. And age appropriate. I know this because the fifteen year old wouldn’t even look at, much less try on anything in the shoe store.

Here is more progress. Despite being down in the dumps, I managed to revise my proposal. Hurrah. I’ve sent it off to a couple of trusted readers, and now I await comments.

I happened to pick up a new book on success and happiness at the library called Before Happiness, by Shawn Achor. He is, according to the book jacket, an expert on happiness, a TED talker, and world famous, though I’d never heard of him. He also has a connection to Harvard, which he mentions on almost every page of his book. He went there, he advised students there, something or other. Harvard, Harvard, Harvard. I get it.

I offer that tidbit as proof of his expertise – since so does Shawn Achor, apparently.

Anyhoo. There was an element of serendipity to the timing of my discovery of this book. In it I did come across a section that seems applicable to my current state of feeling failed. To wit, amidst the exhortations to be positive and to combat anxiety with counter-waves of positive statements and so forth, Achor talks about increasing your likelihood of success at something by increasing the size of the target at which you are aiming. The bigger the target, the easier it is to reach it.

However, if you can’t actually make your target bigger, what can you do to make it seem bigger? Achor refers to a famous experiment with golf holes that proved that golfers performed better when the hole they were putting for was surrounded by several holes smaller than it. The smaller holes made the real one seem bigger. I’ve written about this before.

I really started paying attention when Achor started talking about a related study involving the SATs. This study has shown that the fewer people in the room, the higher their SAT scores were. My first thought on reading this was, Oh, great. My child goes to an industrial strength public high school. Just the other week she took a national French exam and she said the room was so crowed her desk was jammed up against the wall. How’m I going to find her a small room to take that SAT next year?

Bridges to cross, bridges to cross.

The idea behind this SAT phenomenon, according to Shawn Achor, is that when students take the exam surrounded by billions of their competitors, they feel discouraged by the number of them, and their scores reflect that. If they have fewer obvious competitors, they are fooled into feeling less outnumbered, and that confidence helps them perform better. It's like smaller versus bigger golf holes.

How does this apply to my life, and not just to the life I’m living through my children? Thankfully, I do not have to take the SAT myself. Perish the thought.

Well, it does relate. It relates to my down-in-the-dumps-ness. I am feeling like the target for my proposal is very small. There are so many writers out there, so many proposals, that mine seems like a minnow in the ocean. A minnow looking for an agent. This sort of thinking is discouraging. It’s almost enough to make one give up and look for a real job where one could accrue a paycheck and thereby some self-respect.

But I didn’t give up, did I, Readers? No. I revised my proposal. So what I need to do is find a way to make that target look bigger. I’m not really sure what that way is. If you have any ideas, let me know.

Or if you have a good idea for a job, I’d love to hear about that, too.

Fifty

Fifty. Readers, this number has rung up on the cash register of my life. In ten days I’ll be 50. In celebration of this event, our family is planning a vacation to Italy. It’s our first vacation, just the four of us, ever. It’s the first time I’ve been to Europe since 1988. I am scared. Yes, I am scared. In fact, the trip, while being a great idea, in theory, has totally stressed me out. I can barely bring myself to read the guide books. I can’t bring myself to shop for things I need like comfortable shoes.

Is it the trip? Or turning 50? Or both?

50 is of course a highly symbolic birthday. On the other hand, as others remind me, it’s just a day. It’s not as if I’m going to change radically on that day. In fact, in anticipation of it, I’m having my breakdown ahead of time. I already feel fifty, if fifty has a feeling, in that I think of myself as fifty already. Then I realize I’m cheating myself out of the last dregs of forty-nine. My forties. As if they were so great. They started out well, but oy, the muffin top. Among other problems. 

On the plus side, in my overeagerness I got that right-of-passage colonoscopy out of the way. As many told me, the worst part was the anticipation and the prep for the procedure. That didn't stop me from practically hyperventilating until they put the nice medicine in my arm and I went into zombieland. Afterwards, I felt great, and I left with photos of my healthy colon and proceeded to tell several people that all was well and then to tell them again the next day, not remembering that I'd already told them. This had nothing to do with age, and everything to do with that nice medicine.

So what about fifty is so scary? Well, it reeks of mortality. It seems like a big doorway to another phase of life – real, incontrovertible adulthood. Fifty is the place where things can start to go wrong physically and be terminal. At least that’s how my brain is playing it. I realize that’s kind of silly. Things can go wrong at any time. Indeed, in my own life, things went wrong once at 29. I survived. But I have the sense that things don’t usually really go terribly wrong, physically, until the fifties. It’s no longer easy for me to magically think, Oh, that won’t happen to me, when I hear of some illness or tragedy befalling someone else. I personally have always managed to have a sense that I’m going to be fine until I grow very, very old; at which time I will drop off peacefully in my sleep one night. This may surprise some of you who know what a hypochondriac I am; but these two strains, the hypochondria and the inner conviction of being protected from early death, have kept me in balance for quite a while.

The balance is skewed right now. Fifty is pushing the fact in my face that there is a lot of randomness to life and that is frankly scaring me. I suppose that’s just me having the typical midlife crisis. Indeed, as I think about it, I see it. Fifty arrives, and fear of death comes to the fore. Along with that, comes the reappraisal of one’s life. Inevitable regrets.

I feel kinda bad writing glumly about reappraising my life. After all, for quite a long time now, I’ve been all about success, success, success. I have to admit that at this moment, the success feels buried by these other worries. Also, I have been struggling with a book proposal, and as the husband astutely pointed out, the struggle has undermined my sense of achievement over the last umpteen months. It's hard to write about overcoming a sense of failure when once again I'm feeling like one. So the cycle continues. I’ve mentioned it before. System breakdown being part of the system. There are periods of frustration and fallowness even for the most productive, positive, go-getting types – so I’ve heard.

I’m continuing to write the proposal, albeit at a painfully slow pace, and I’m trusting the cycle will turn again, from frustration, from winter, to new creativity, to spring.