don't knock it till you try it: thinking positive, part 2

I think I'm going to have to re-do my "let's think positive" experiment. The very day after I declared the project, I found myself in a traffic jam directly in front of my house. I live on 36th Street in Minneapolis, which must be the busiest "on ramp to 35W street" in the entire city. Just getting out of my parking space and into the road is an arduous task every single day. 

In the last week or so, the traffic on my street has mysteriously gotten even worse. Now, after I manage to merge into traffic, it generally takes about 15 minutes to drive to the highway--even though the highway is half a block away. 

So the other day I was waiting at the light that one must get through to get onto the highway, and I was stuck. None of the other cars were moving, so it was impossible to cross. I waited through at least three cycles of lights. "This is out of your control," I thought to myself in a soothing tone. "Give thanks for your vigorous health. Think positive!" 

Then the girl in the car behind me (the one who almost wouldn't let me merge in front of her, but I forced it and I'm sure she was scared I'd scrape up her car, and obviously that's the only reason she relented) suddenly swerved to the right, speeding around me and racing across the intersection to take the (nonexistent) space in the opposite lane that was rightfully mine. I cursed her and dramatically gave her the finger. 

Of course there was nowhere for her to go, and her car jutted into oncoming traffic, inspiring much honking of horns. Eventually I managed to cross the street and ended up in the lane to her left. I glared at her openly, but in true Minnesota fashion she pretended not to notice. I plotted about how I could cut her off in the most inconvenient way, but eventually ran out of energy, realizing how idiotically juvenile I was being.

Then it occurred to me that I had completely abandoned my positivity project. I wish I could say this was my only slip-up, but sadly, that is not the case. It's not that I was really being noticeably negative about things, it's just that I wasn't really consciously remembering to "think positive." So even though I can't outline a bunch of examples, I'm pretty sure I easily fell into my usual pattern of obsessive negative thoughts. 

I think perhaps giving myself the directive to "think positive" was not the most useful way to address this little project. That is, it's kind of like telling yourself not to be jealous when your boyfriend runs off with your former best friend. You can tell yourself what you "should" do, but it's generally not going to have any actual effect on your real thoughts and actions. 

So I'm thinking it might be better for me to focus on acting positively. I have a couple examples of positive actions from the past week, so perhaps all is not lost. But I'll give it another week or so, and then, as a treat, I think I'll allow myself to wallow for awhile in my true, negative nature.  

don't knock it till you try it: thinking positive

I am not naturally inclined to "think positive." Even when I was a little kid, I remember approaching the world with a sense of impending doom. If something good happened--a starring role in the first grade Christmas pageant, for example--it was a foregone conclusion that something much more terrible would follow--a broken leg while processing up the theater aisle, the death of a beloved pet on opening night, etc. And if something horrible didn't happen, it was clear to me that "god" was up there in the sky, smirking and waiting for an even more impressive accomplishment to ruin with tragedy and pain. 

This negative, depressive mindset made my childhood somewhat difficult. Kids, I suppose, are meant to be curious, hopeful little cherubs. I was quiet, withdrawn, and gloomy. It wasn't a popular personality, but I remained true to myself, and eventually it all paid off when I went to arts high school, where the majority of other students had a worldview that at least was sympathetic to mine. Negativity was conducive to art stuff, apparently.  

But then I grew up, and started doing things like getting corporate suburban jobs to pay the rent on my studio apartment. At this point, I also starting making friends with some people who weren't sworn nihilists. They sensed my true personality, and started slipping me books about Buddhism. 

In the spirit of "open mindedness" I read (or at least skimmed) these books. The basic idea seemed to be this--stop obsessing about everything and being so ridiculously self-centered. Or in stupid-person terms--think positive! 

I would occasionally try to implement some of this cognitive therapy into my daily life. For example, when some catty type-A anorexic would insult my clothes or my shaky command of an eyeliner, I would try to breathe in the bad vibes and exhale positivity, like a plant converting carbon dioxide to oxygen. 

Although this seemed like the "right thing to do," I felt like an imposter. "Letting go" does not come easily to me. I'd prefer to narrow my eyes, make a snide comment and begin plotting my rival's complicated demise. 

But this is not the fashionable way to approach life these days. It isn't cool to hold a grudge, obsess about the way your first boyfriend totally precipitated your descent into clinical depression, or pass judgement on the convention of moms who congregate in the break room to talk about hockey tournaments. 

So in an attempt to be "normal" and also to possibly improve my mental health, I've decided to make a real effort to have positive thoughts for the next week. I will check in periodically to document how it's going. 

don't knock it till you try it: attempting to make a difference

This past Tuesday I courageously decided to skip my dance class so that I could attend a town hall meeting about Pawlenty's horrible state budget suggestions. Among his many ill-advised cuts was his proposal to destroy the Perpich Center for Arts Education, also know as the Arts High School, in Minnesota. 

The whole idea of this makes me sick and angry. I graduated from the Arts School in 1997, and I have only positive things to say about my experience there. How many people go around saying that kind of thing about their high school? Basically, Pawlenty wants to end the "outreach" part of the school (the agency that provides teacher training, arts programs in rural areas, etc.) and turn the school into a charter school. I could go on and on about why turning that school into a charter school is a horrible idea and why it would be as good as shutting the school down for good, but I will leave those thoughts for the legislative people I've been writing to. 

Anyway, so when I heard about this proposal, I felt like it was my "civic duty" to try to do something about it. So when I heard about the town hall meetings being held to address the proposed budget, I thought it would be a good idea for me to go and say some articulate, persuasive things about why the arts school has to stay the way it is. So I filled out the online form saying I wanted to "testify," and showed up at the meeting, full of purpose. 

The meeting was held at the Minneapolis Park Board building in north Minneapolis (within a few blocks of Stand Up Frank's). There were tons of people there. Probably hundreds--I think I have a learning disability when it comes to estimating anything, but the room was full. I lurked around, waiting for the meeting to start. 

Finally, some state representative kicked things off. He told us everyone would get one and half minutes to speak--no longer! Then some other representative type showed PowerPoint slides and read exactly what was on the slides. We all had copies of the slides, as well. I thought it was "interesting" that he glossed over the slide that showed the negative funding going to the arts school. 

The first representative guy got back on the microphone to kick off the "testament" part of the meeting. He reminded us of the time limit, and asked that we not clap or heckle. The first speaker was R.T. Rybak. 

Ryabak eventually got cut off, but they totally let him speak for over 1.5 minutes. But I guess maybe you've "earned" that, if you're the mayor. Then the unwashed masses began to speak, and the boredom really began to set in. But I stayed where I was, even though I really wanted to dash off to the bathroom. What if they called my name when I was gone, and I lost my turn? I couldn't risk that! 

I guess what I learned while listening to everyone speak is this--most people are pretty bad at public speaking. Sometimes the message is unclear. Sometimes embarrassing gimmicks are used to make a point ("Footprints" style stories, for example). But a lot of the time, you just can't focus on what someone is saying because they mumble or whisper or hold the microphone at their waist. 

I'm sure a lot of the speakers had good points, and I heard a handful of them. One articulate young woman who spoke about cutting funds for poor mentally ill people almost made me teary-eyed. Of course, I was super hungry when she got up to speak, so maybe it was just low blood sugar. Regardless, I wanted to make sure her funding wasn't cut. 

Hours passed, and my name was never called. During this time, two older gentleman got up to speak on behalf of PCAE. Both were current or former parents of arts school students. I was glad that someone was getting to talk about the school, but I wanted to hear from some students, too. 

Around 8:30, the moderator announced that the meeting was officially scheduled to end at 8:00, and warned us that the legislators might start leaving, but that at least a couple of them would stick around to hear everyone out. "Everyone" amounted to over 60 more people. 

I waited around for another 15 minutes or so, and finally just gave up. By the time my name was called, no one would be there and it would be an exercise in vanity, I figured. 

So that didn't really work out as planned. I was reduced to sending emails--when what I really wanted was to impress the legislative people with my exciting, easy-to-understand testimonial. I'm disappointed that I didn't get to make dramatic public statements like everyone else. Knock it: Poorly planned town hall meetings.  

don't knock it till you try it: loss of composure

My beloved and I celebrated Valentine's Day by having a brand-new oven delivered to our house. I was so excited--I hadn't had a functioning oven in over four years! For the week leading up to the delivery, I had domestic fantasies involving roasted vegetables and frozen pizzas. I knew the purchase was going to completely revolutionize my life. 

Then the day of the delivery came, and we uh, like totally missed the arrival of the delivery drivers. Although someone from Appliance Smart told Nick the oven would arrive between 8:30 and 9 am, evidently the delivery guys showed up at around 7:45 and didn't knock very hard on the door or something. Nick received a voicemail message a little after 8 am from a dispatcher, informing him that the delivery people had showed up, waited around for "45 minutes," and eventually left, taking the oven with them. 

Nick placed several phone calls, attempting to convince someone to have the delivery dudes come back to our house later in the day. Everyone he spoke with told him this was absolutely impossible--we had our chance to get the oven, and we messed up. We would simply have to reschedule, probably for Tuesday, but maybe not for over a week. They were not interested in hearing that the delivery guys showed up way before schedule, and made valiant attempts to pin the blame squarely on us.  

Although Nick is very persuasive, I could tell that the situation called for a woman's touch. He admitted that there was some weird "dude energy" with Patrick, the dispatcher. So I gathered a variety of phone numbers and started making some calls. 

Before I continue, I should mention that I kind of hate making phone calls. Just ringing up a store to ask about the availability of an item can send me into a spiral of anxiety, as if I am also required to ask the salesperson on a date. Also, I dislike confrontation and am rarely very forceful about making my case. I think I'm so guilty from years of Catholicism that, deep down, I don't really think I deserve anything good, and that if the oven didn't get delivered it's really pretty much exactly what I deserve. 

Anyway, so the phone calls were an effort. I started with Patrick, the dispatcher. I attempted to sound sweet and reasonable as I asked him if he could maybe just possibly give his delivery drivers just the quickest little call to see if just maybe they could swing by our house again that day. But Patrick wouldn't have anything to do with my charms, and he coldly informed me that he could give them a call, but he'd just be going through the motions because there was NO WAY anyone would be delivering anything to our house today. So I got a little irritable, and went all type A, asking to talk to his boss. He said he'd ask him to give me a call. I said I'd be expecting a call within half an hour, or I'd be calling Patrick again to see what was going on. 

Meanwhile, I called Appliance Smart and got on the phone with some sales guy. I told him I had an issue with my delivery, and he told me that was unfortunate, because the delivery department was closed that day. Although he thought the case was closed, I went on to explain what had happened, and asked if there was anything he or someone else at the store could do. He said no, and then launched into a lengthy description of why the delivery schedule is made the way it is, and why there are no exceptions even when the delivery people show up at the wrong time, and basically he was hinting very strongly that the whole thing was our fault. 

So I suggested that we might simply have to cancel the order and stop payment on the credit card, to which he responded, "Well, that's too bad." I asked him if he'd rather lose a sale than make even the tiniest effort to even act a little bit sympathetic. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but rules are rules and you can reschedule your delivery and this is just our policy and it isn't my fault that that's how it is..." And on and on. So I kind of lost it (in the way I lose it, which is mainly by getting flushed and adopting a bitchy tone), accusing him of terrible customer service, telling him that his reaction to the situation had caused me to become "hell-bent on ruining the reputation of Appliance Smart" which I was going to accomplish by sending out messages to my "500 friends on Facebook" (that last part was a lie--I only have about 52 friends on Facebook). 

In other words, I pulled a hysterical female act. I rarely use this approach (I generally think it's detestable), and when I have, it has usually failed to achieve the desired results. But not this time! After unleashing my rage on several by-the-book phone-answering men, the delivery guys showed up within half an hour. I felt a little bad about my behavior on the phone, but not as bad as I would've felt if I'd had to wait another week for the oven!!!!!!! Don't knock it till you try it: rampant selfishness.   

don't knock it till you try it: a job

In an earlier post I wrote about being unemployed. Those were the days--I got to sleep in, wander aimlessly around the house for hours and take mid-morning exercise classes at the gym with all the stay-at-home moms. 

However, all good things must come to an end, and even though we're in the middle of an "economic crisis" with record levels of unemployment, I somehow managed to acquire a job. No rest for the wicked, huh?  

So I'm back at what I do best, apparently--doing "writing-related" stuff at a suburban corporation. I'm not complaining--I'm getting some money to pay off my unemployment/wedding/honeymoon debt, I get to work with a friend from a former job, and my boss is really low-key and not "managerial" at all. 

I've only been at my office for a few weeks, and so far it's just fine. Generally I plunge into a pit of depressive anxiety whenever I start a new job. "Here we go again," I think, resigning myself to the existential nightmare of being an associate project manager for an educational assessment company in Maple Grove. 

However, this time around it's not so bad. For one thing, I actually felt like the people really wanted to hire me, for once. Usually when I get a new job I get this sense that they think they're doing me a big favor by offering me three days of vacation after a six-month waiting period. But in this case, it seemed like they were actually interested in getting me to work there! 

But despite all the positive things about my new gig, it is impossible not to take note of some of the "quirks" of having a corporate job. For example, I was blown away when I opened the freezer door in the break room. The selection of Lean Cuisines was incredible! "How do people find their lunches?"I wondered. Then I noticed that most people had written their names on the boxes. 

And speaking of food, there is always the intense pressure to eat many sugary treats while on the job. I think I consumed a cookie, a piece of cake, and one or two "bars" during just my first week, all in enforced socializing situations. I would mill around for a few minutes at the birthday party or "recognition" event or "status" meeting and would attempt to avoid the snack foods. However, someone was always on hand who would begin pushing the treats, saying, "Come on, just have one, it's okay, one won't kill you," and you know how it is, you just have to do it or risk being labeled as a dieter or anorexic. 

Another troubling part of having a "normal" job is the fact that you have to hang around the office all day. Seriously, how does anyone do this? At my last job, we were allowed to work from home if we wanted to, and even if I went into the office, it was a rare day that I was in for a full eight hours. I'd usually cut out early and finish up my work at the dining room table while listening to records. 

But that's not an option now. Everyone gets into work obscenely early (8 am) and works until 5. Based on the Lean Cuisines and all the people I've observed eating at their desks, it seems that no one even takes a proper lunch break, either. I guess I'm just lazy, but there is something so grueling and awful about sitting around an office for nine nonstop hours. To keep things interesting, I drink boatloads of water so I'll have an excuse to get up and wander to the bathroom about thirty times a day. Hey, follow your bliss, right?

modern dance

I recently ran into a former boyfriend at a bar. We chatted for awhile, and although he didn't ask me anything like, "What's new with you?" or "Any new hobbies?" I somehow felt the need to share. During a lull in the conversation, I suddenly blurted out, "I want to tell you something." He looked wary. "I've been taking modern dance classes!" Then he looked perturbed. "That doesn't sound like you at all," he said, turning away and heading back to the bar. 

I have mixed feelings about this response. On the one hand, it's a sad fact that I shunned exercise of any form for about ten years because I was loathe to be anything like the coarse, ignorant, homophobic jocks that populated my Catholic high school. But I guess I got it out of my system after a decade. Realizing that if I didn't change my ways I would end up obese and arthritic, I happily began biking and walking around a lot. 

And then one day, out of nowhere, I suddenly had this idea that I should be taking dance classes. It seemed strange, because it wasn't something I'd ever considered doing. Unlike my shattered "theater star" dreams, there was no squelched dance ambition lurking in my past. 

But I wasn't sure where to start. Since my mysterious dance "thing" was probably at least partially inspired by a Live Action Set performance, I went ahead and emailed Megan, who I decided was the most approachable Live Action company member. I asked her if there was any place in town where an "old" (e.g. not a 12-year-old ballerina) person could take beginning dance classes. She referred to me to Zenon.  

So I started taking beginning modern dance classes on Saturday mornings. I was impressed with the range of ages in class--I'd been terrified that I would be the oldest person, surrounded by a bunch of nubile 21-year-olds. I was pleased to discover that plenty of other people decide at say, age 55, that taking up dance is a good idea. 

The classes were fun, but humbling. Basic things like walking four steps forward, and then turning around, were exceptionally daunting. I fumbled around while everyone else seemed to execute every move perfectly. But despite feeling awkward and uncoordinated, I kept coming back, and week by week, I started to improve, ever so slowly.    

I also met a bunch of great people. Lots of the people who take dance classes are super smart and funny and interesting! Not like the people I met at my tennis lessons. (No offense to tennis people, but I just didn't have much luck making friends at the tennis bubble.) 

I don't have a neat little conclusion for this story. I'm still taking the Saturday classes; still trying to make my weight equal on both feet. I've promoted myself to some harder classes, just so I can feel awkward and out of place again. It's addictive!

square dancing in Gays Mills, Wisconsin

This past weekend Nick was scheduled to play a rock show in rural Wisconsin with his friend Phil. Phil, his girlfriend Laura, and their baby daughter Elva all live on a farm-like property in Soldiers Grove, Wisconsin. 

The show was scheduled to take place on Saturday evening in the natural foods co-op in a little nearby town called Gays Mills. When we arrived at the back door of the co-op, a sign on the door informed us that "NO ALCOHOL CONSUMPTION [was] ALLOWED." Nick and I lingered in the parking lot for a few more minutes, sharing a Hamm's. As Nick's band was "headlining," I could tell we were in for a long night. 

We entered the co-op community room. An employee tried to charge us $5, but we explained that we were "with the band." A variety of comfortable arm chairs and church pews lined the walls, and there was a table set up on the opposite wall selling baked goods (50 cents to $1) and natural canned sodas ($1). Nick and I splurged on a fruit-flavored soda, which we then shared. 

Meanwhile, a male and female musical duo entertained the crowd of about 10 to 15 people (there was a travel advisory in effect that night due to the ice storm that was taking place, so apparently there normally would have been way more people in attendance). They played guitar, fiddle (despite not being a musician, I am pretty sure that was a "fiddle" and not a "violin"), and also sang. 

This went on for awhile, and although they were fine musicians, I began to get fatigued. Normally in these situations one can just start downing drinks to keep things interesting, but every time we wanted some cheap beer we had to go outside and hang around in the sleet. 

The resulting restlessness is probably what led to our participation in the square dance. After a lengthy set, the fiddle duo took a momentary break to allow a tall guy with a bullhorn to announce an imminent square dance. Many eager hippie couples bounded into the middle of the room. 

Nick asked me if I wanted to square dance, but for some reason, I balked. I enjoy all kinds of dancing, and usually don't care too much about not really knowing the steps or looking stupid, but these people looked like they knew what they were doing. They really seemed to be into square dancing. I was vaguely worried that they'd be mad if I went in there and screwed up the promenading. 

But it turned out that the dance was one couple short, so we felt obligated to join the group. We quickly launched into the dance. I've square danced once--in second grade, at the "father-daughter square dance" that was sponsored by my Catholic school brownie troupe. The "moves" (calls?) I remember from that were the following--"now swing your PART-ner," "do an Allemande left on your corner," and "now do-si-do your PART-ner."     

Unlike at the dance in second grade, there was no lengthy overview of what all the "steps" are. Luckily, most of the "calls" are fairly distinctive ("you swing mine and I'll swing yours," "yours is fine, I'll go back to mine"), so we were able to fake it alright. 

There were no major catastrophes. At first, we weren't sure what it meant to "promenade," but watching all the other couples linking arms and prancing around in a circle pretty much explained it. 

There were definitely some couples who took the dance very seriously. Giggling like a fool, at one point I was thrown in the arms of Davy, one of Nick's temporary bandmates. Expecting him to lurch around like everyone else, I suddenly realized that he had me a Nazi grip and was leading me with precision around the floor until it was time to fling me back to Nick. Later, while watching him with Sarah, his regular square dancing partner, I noticed they were both dead serious about the dance. With unsmiling concentration, they perfectly put each other "back in the pound" during a later round of dancing.

Nick and I emerged from the dance fairly successfully, as far as I could tell. No matter how confused we were at a given moment, we always kept moving, which seems to be a key factor in all kinds of dance. And later, a fellow square dancer applauded the fact that we "kept smiling" throughout the ordeal, despite any possible confusion. Maniacal smiling, apparently, is a key part of being a real, professional square dancer.