What Bears and Latkes Taught Me About Fear

Hello, friends. Long time no chat. I can't believe it's been over a month since my last post. Of course, lots has been happening to fill my time — the major surgery of a friend (boo!), being hired for my first few gigs as a free agent (yay!) and oh yeah, the Holidays (the jury's still out but so far, so good).

Still, I've been feeling kinda lousy about not being able to write and post, especially because in my last post I declared (rather emphatically, as I recall) that I was, and always have been, a WRITER. Sigh.

In fact this morning I was sitting with my youngest daughter, Sofia, at my favorite coffee shop explaining to her that I've been feeling bummed out because I hadn't written in so long. I asked her what Mommy should write about. Without skipping a beat, she said: "Maybe you should say your daughter is doing a play."

That's all I needed to hear. Immediately I made what my second-grader's class calls a "connection" — that spark of an "a-ha" moment where you connect two seemingly disparate thoughts.

I smiled at Sofia and thanked her for providing Mommy with the sorely needed inspiration for her next blog post. So here goes...

My 7-year-old daughter is doing a play. While normally this wouldn't be front-page news, the fact that Sofia has agreed to do the play and, even more importantly, is excited to be doing the play, is. Let me explain.

This summer, when Sofia found out who her teacher was going to be, she got very anxious.  Apparently her new teacher had a reputation for doing an enormous amount of plays ("Like, five, Mommy!").

I sat Sofia down to talk about what was bothering her and to ease her fears, citing her independent and fearless nature and the joy she finds in singing Justin Bieber songs to anyone, anywhere, at any time. We also talked about how useful her naturally projecting voice would be on stage, since she probably wouldn't even need to use a microphone.

Though she nodded her head in agreement, she added: "But I'm a little bit scared, Mommy."

And there it was. Fear. Of the unknown. Of performing in front of people you don't know. Or people you do know. Fear of failing. Or fear of — gulp! — actually doing well.

But a funny thing happened.  Sofia started the school year with preconceived notions about her teacher and those plays, but over the course of a few months her fear has been replaced with excitement. Which is not surprising, since fear and excitement are often intertwined.

Also not surprising are the parallels I found to my own situation. When I first became a free agent, I was secretly giddy...and terrified. This was completely uncharted and scary territory. Like Sofia, I had to put myself out there, on stage, for all to see (and judge). I might fail to perform. Or I might do really well.

Preferring the latter, I chose to prepare and practice. I poured myself into research. I became an even bigger networker, infusing caffeinated beverages and lunches into my meetings with friends, colleagues and peers. I sought counsel from my trusted circle. I rehearsed, mentally and physically, to make this shift become more natural and second nature.

All this effort might seem futile to some, but for me there were (and continue to be) real rewards: I've maintained and expanded relationships within my professional and personal networks, discovered new trends and sources of information to stay fresh and current, and learned that most people already believed in me and my abilities — I just needed to believe it and get out of my own way. Hmm, nice.

In short, my confidence is back up where it belongs. Which is why I believe I've been able to land a few new gigs, actually found the courage to decline one opportunity that didn't jive with my skills, level of experience and abilities, and am currently evaluating two potential, long-term options. And, like Sofia, I hope to have rave reviews that will garner encores.

The first of Sofia's class plays is entitled "The Holiday Show," a lovely work celebrating a myriad of Winter holidays and traditions, with an exclusive performance the evening of December 15th. Sofia will be starring as "Bear," a lovable creature that finds herself being drawn out of her hibernating slumber by the call of the latkes ('"Bear," they're saying, "we're waiting...Bear, come get us while we're still really hot."'). And (spoiler alert!) Bear ends up overdoing it with the latkes ("I should have stopped at sixty-three!"), singing a seven-stanza song about it.

I know all this because Sofia's been rehearsing, every day.  Which of course makes me immensely proud. And inspired: if my little bear can continue to find and express herself, then so can I.

How a Reunion Can Reunite You With Yourself

re·un·ion

[ree-yoon-yuh n]

 noun

1. the act of uniting again.
2. the state of being united again.
3. a gathering of relatives, friends, or associates at regular intervals or after separation

Last Saturday I went to my 25th high school reunion. (Yes, I'm that old. Stop snickering.)

When you go to these things, it's natural, of course, to ask your classmates about what they've been up to since you last saw each other. Which made me reminisce about what I was doing 25 years ago.

{Behold my '80s hair in all its glory.}

It was my senior year and I was busy being a well-rounded student.  Between AP classes, sports and maintaining really big hair I had my hands full. I had always been part of student government, but rather than go for a class officer position I interviewed for a coveted student body post: Activities Director. Sounds good, right? Not exactly.

Even my high school adviser knew something I didn't — that event planning wasn't my thing (and truth be told, never would be... but that's for another blog post). Instead, I was gently persuaded to be the Publicity Chairperson.  I wouldn't be planning the activities (that was left to my uber organized, detail-oriented friend, N.) but instead I would be writing about them. Promoting them.  Telling stories about them. In fact, my adviser thought I'd be perfect for this role because she felt I had a natural writing style that would easily lend itself to the prerequisite teen column published weekly in our area's local rag.

Hmm... a weekly column?  With my own byline? Where I could express myself? Cool! I accepted the gig and happily went along my way.

{One of my teen columns from the Tri-Valley Herald, circa 1986}

Each week I'd make the early-morning drive to hand deliver my typewritten columns (remember, this was 1986) and a few days later I would beam with published pride.

Funny how going to a reunion can reunite you with yourself.

As I chatted with my high school friends about what was next for me, I mentioned this blog and how I was thinking of (finally!) trying this writing thing. 

• M.J. loved the idea and thought it could be my own version of Eat, Pray Love (minus Julia Roberts — she hates Julia Roberts). 
• T. said that he remembered me as a girl who could do anything and to just go for it. 
• And (female) T. remarked on my amazing, positive energy — particularly when I was speaking about this project — and said it made her (someone who already has a lot of energy) feel electric.

Instead of leaving the reunion feeling like an unemployed loser, I came away even more determined to be true to my mantra and "make it so."

So allow me to say it publicly for the first time: I was, and am, a writer. 

It just took me 25 years to acknowledge it.  Thanks for the reminder, CHS '86. 

:-)

I'll Admit It: Last Friday Kinda Sucked... Until It Didn't

 
Most folks I meet consider me to be a happy, positive person. "Enthusiastic" is a frequent descriptor. But even the smiley-est of us can have an off day. And for me, that day was last Friday.

I was overwhelmed and headed for a meltdown. I despised feeling low, and actually chided myself for being negative and questioning my path. Sure, I extolled the power of positive thinking and that "happy" is a choice you make when you wake up. But sometimes you have a day that literally brings you to tears — of frustration, anger, impatience...whatever.

However, through my sobs and rants of "I feel so lost" I realized something: it was okay not to be perfect and feel 100% certain of where I was going 100% of the time. 

Of course, my impatient, future-focused, wants-to-lead-the-charge-and-be-in-control self had a hard time swallowing that pill.  Was I admitting weakness? Giving in to some unseen foe? Me no likey.

Still, in this creative journey I knew there would be times when I'd question what the hell I was doing (or not doing) and why I didn't have all the answers right now.  But I needed to accept it. Deal with it. Embrace it.  Sally Hogshead calls this stage sitting on "The Throne of Agony" and with good reason — it's not very fun.

But without an occasional valley, I could never appreciate nor recognize a peak. Which, miraculously, I also did last Friday.

Turns out that someone whom I admire for her smarts and creativity dug my blog.  So much so, that she even told her friends about it. (Yay, me!)

I may not have all the answers in this journey but I'm determined to have fun along the way — even if that means getting "lost" once and awhile.

My "Garanimals for Adults" Method of Dress — and Why I Don't Follow It Anymore

I used to have a foolproof method of getting dressed for work, which I affectionately referred to as "Garanimals for Adults."

{Garanimals tags today}

Laugh if you will (well, that is if you're over, say, the age of 35...if you're younger you probably have no idea what I'm talking about) but there's a method to my madness.

Garanimals was a children's clothing line that essentially coordinated tops and bottoms together simply by using different colored animal tags. If you were looking for a cool top to go with those groovy pants, you need only find another blue elephant (or red bear, or yellow monkey) tag and you were good to go.

{Man, I wore a lot of yellow in the '70s}

Granted, Garanimals was in its heyday in the '70s, when it shared the gimmick spotlight with pet rocks and the like. But at its essence, it was about making a decision easier (or eliminating it entirely) by providing you with several alternatives that were sure to match/fit.

For a harried Mom or Dad trying to outfit their kid, this was genius. It ensured that their kid would look acceptable (which was debatable, given the decade). And for at least one kid it made quite an impression.

But back to my "Garanimals for Adults" method of career dressing.

For at least the last decade, a suit served as my Garanimals. A jacket with matching pants or skirt was well-coordinated, professional and (some would say) boring and predictable. Once I had on those pieces I could basically take my "navy blue dolphin" or "charcoal gray panda" and change it up with a different blouse, interesting jewelry and killer heels. (Heck, even the photo of me on this blog follows my adult Garanimals methodology.) It gave me a great sense of comfort knowing I was dressing in a way that allowed me to "match" and fit in.

{What I used to dress like every day}

The funny thing is that I haven't followed this dressing strategy for the last 8 weeks or so. In fact, I've been forced outside my comfort zone of matchy-matchy to try to coordinate with - gasp! - separates and - double gasp! - flats.

Which of course has made me re-think my dressing theory, and create a new one: intentionally NOT matching, instead focusing on things going together and the overall gestalt of my ensemble. Call it my anti Garanimals for Adults, if you will.

Sure, it might take a little longer to get dressed, but it better aligns with this transitional period I'm in — by dressing "outside the lines" I'm forcing myself to be more resourceful and creative, which is exactly the direction I want to go with my life and career.

So why limit yourself to the obvious choices? Go ahead and pair a blue giraffe with an orange tiger. Life is about taking chances, and putting yourself out there for new experiences.

Remember that the unexpected can be a breath of fresh air.  And way more interesting.

Jump into the Dinghy!

Earlier this week I was having coffee with a friend, catching up and chatting about our lives.

My friend told me he had just returned from a weekend family getaway to Tahoe, where he had been eager to share a boating experience with his wife and their two kids. Unfortunately,  his young daughter was less than enthusiastic.  She was scared to get into the boat.

He tried reasoning with her, telling her there was nothing to be afraid of.  He pleaded with her — she'd love it once she just got in.  He practically bribed her, but to no avail.  She was stubborn, upset and stuck.  The fear of the unknown was paralyzing her and there was no budging her.

Or was there?

Exasperated, he confessed to me that he finally just picked her up and jumped into the dinghy, knowing that she would be happier once she was there. And you know what?  She was.  She relaxed, embraced her new surroundings and started to — gasp! — actually enjoy herself. In fact, she liked it so much she asked when they could do it again.

Funny thing is that my friend has been hemming and hawing about his own decision, and used this exact analogy to describe how his little apple didn't fall far from the tree. 

How often have you found yourself stuck in limbo, afraid to take a leap of faith and try something new?  You weigh the pros and cons, assess the risk and decide...to hold off on deciding. Oh, the agony!


If I've learned anything at this point in my life, it's to take the risk.  No, I'm not suggesting that you go willy nilly into the world without care, making haphazard decisions without thinking them through.  What I'm speaking of are the times when you've already had the hours of analysis in your head, with your spouse, your best friend, your dog, your toddler... anyone who'll listen.  You get to a point where you instinctively know what to do, but are just too scared of the unknown and not being able to control the outcome and all the possible "what ifs."

I'll let you in on a little secret: you can't control everything. And you can't possibly anticipate life's every nuance.  But what you can control is your own action (or inaction).

Rather than worry about what will happen 5 years from now if you make that decision today (pssst: you'll be 5 years older, same as it would be if you didn't make that decision), or base your decisions on the past experiences of others, remember this is your life, and for better or worse, you make the decisions.


My advice? Jump into the dinghy!

(And yes, I'm talking to you, K.)

It's A Process: After the Before, But Still Before the After

Have you ever had a crazy dream and looked up its symbology online? Or is that only me?

Anyway, one of the most common elements of my dreams, especially during times of change, is a house.  And according to dream dictionaries, a house always represents you, and its condition is very telling of how you are feeling at the time.

So it should come as no surprise, then, when my husband casually mentioned that my house tweaking verve was symbolic of my own desire to makeover my life, myself and what was next for me.

"You're working through the creative process, Aim," he told me.

Funny that I never made that conscious correlation but he was actually spot on.

Here I was envisioning a brand new kitchen (the heart of the home, aka me), with a bright freshness.  Sure, the bones stayed the same, but the outward appearance and how it was presenting itself would be more in line with the real me and my tastes. It was slowly being transformed into something even better.

{Before. Note the '80s-chic, heavily-grained oak cabinets. Nice, no?}

{During. Note 7-year-old whirling dervish in left corner.}

{Still during. Note non-7-year-old whirling dervish in left corner.}

Hmmm....interesting.

What I find more astonishing is how this transformative process has bled into other areas of my "house" — the adjacent "rooms" are following suit, getting their own facelifts and upgrades, receiving the much-needed love and attention they deserve.  And in doing so, every part of my house will (eventually) be acknowledged, integrated and unified.

Of course this process can't — and won't — happen overnight, despite my enthusiastic fervor and my desire to make it so.  I fully admit upfront that along the way some decisions will seem perfect at the time only to later be found to be not quite right.

But that's okay, because there's always room for growth and change.  And "home" renovation is a never-ending process.

Dude, Where's My Spaceship?

This week I swapped cars with my Dad.  
Not because I wanted to, but because my minivan (aka "the spaceship") can seat seven comfortably and we had aunts and uncles in town.

{My 2004 Nissan Quest's doppelgänger. Stop drooling.}

Maybe it's the years gaining on me, but I swear I find myself still looking for my silver spaceship in a parking lot when I logically know that the keys in my hand clearly are linked to Dad's blue Ford Escape.

{My Dad's Ford Escape's twin}

The truth of the matter is, we're all creatures of habit and if left to our own devices, would probably keep our same routines.You simply get used to doing things the same way because they bring stability and a certain level of comfort (or said another way, control) to your life. In fact, isn't that why they say to establish routines with kids? So they know what to anticipate next and feel more comfortable and in control of their surroundings?

This little car-swapping experience really made me think about other routines in life. And how we can unknowingly and unintentionally slowly get sucked into a rut, believing that we have control because we keep doing something the same way, over and over again.

This is where you run into danger, because by always sticking with the tried and true, never deviating from the norm nor coloring outside the lines you cheat yourself, little by little, of having a richer experience, gaining a new perspective and broadening your horizons.

Sometimes that new perspective is everything. Driving my Dad's car gave me a new vantage point — I'm literally sitting up higher, seeing things from a different point of view. Sure, the ride is a little bumpier, and I have to be aware of finessing my speed and direction to get to where I want to go, but isn't that what life's all about?

This experience has inspired to move outside my comfort zone to try new lots of new things. Heck, I may even take a new route home.  Just as soon as I find my car.

{P.S. — Don't think the irony of the cars' model names didn't (forgive the pun) escape me, given my personal transformative journey.}

I'm No Jan Brady...and That's Okay

Let's get something straight: I've never identified with Jan Brady.

Yes, we're both the middle of three sisters, had blond hair and questionable eyesight (thanks to Lasik, my is no longer questionable, thank you very much).  But that's where the similarities end.

{That's me on the right, next to my big sis and helping hold our younger sis. Aren't we cute?}

I say this because growing up in the '70s there was very little in the way of relatable and aspiration-worthy icons for a middle sister. Especially if you thought Jan Brady was kinda whiny. ("Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!" anyone?)  Even Jan didn't want to be Jan.

Sure, there were some badass females during that era — The Bionic Woman, Charlie's Angels, Pinky Tuscadero — but all of these women seemed a bit cliché, over the top and not like someone I wanted to be. (Well, I did really did like pink as a child but that's for another post.)

Think back to when you were a little kid — who did you want to be?

It may surprise you to learn that I was an extremely shy child.  Like hiding-behind-my-Mom's-leg-when-our-parents-had-adults-over-the-house shy. This was in stark contrast to my older sis, who, as a first-born and all-around superstar, preferred to use the opportunity of having a new audience in the house to demonstrate her latest gymnastic moves. And to her credit, my sister's leotards did come in handy when constructing our 1976 Halloween costumes — Electra Woman and Dyna Girl (guess who was who?):

{Halloween 1976: Raggedy Ann, gypsies and hobos, oh my!}

But as it is with siblings, when one goes one way, the other goes another.  In the end every child is just trying to find his or her own place in the world, especially as it relates to getting attention and discovering his or her unique gifts and talents.  If you have siblings (especially if you hit the proverbial sibling jackpot and have awesome, rock star older and younger sisters like I do) you know what I mean.

My Dad would always tell my sisters and me (with PC apologies, as this was the '70s): "Be the pilot, not the stewardess. Be the lawyer, not the secretary."  His point was to never limit ourselves or let others dictate what our destiny would be.  And you know what?  He was right.

So who do I want to be?  That answer keeps evolving.  And that's okay.

That said, I can definitively say there will be no Afro wigs in my future.  But you already knew that.

An Unexpected Sting

It was the first day of our family's July 4th vacation and we were walking on the beach — what could be better? Waves crashing, sand between my toes…bee stinger in my foot.

Suddenly I felt a sharp, stinging pain. And it lingered. Ouch.

When I stopped to examine my instep, amidst the sand was a small, but painful, stinger stuck in the most vunerable part of my foot. I wiped away the residual sand and then plucked the offending stinger out.

I was expecting the pain to immediately subside (I had removed the threat) but to my dismay the pain continued and intensified, making it hard to continue walking.

Of course at this point I was at the farthest point from my dwelling. Great. I could stop and wallow in my pain, or keep walking, suffering with every step.

As I winced in pain it occurred to me that there was another option.

I hobbled down to the water and allowed the frigid surf to wash over my wound. This accomplished two things: 1) the chill of the water temporarily numbed the pain and 2) the salt in the water drew out the toxin.

This meant I could walk again without pain. Amazing.

Was I wounded? Sure. But was I out? No way.

Funny the way life works. This incident happened following an extremely stressful time at work and I couldn’t help but find the parallels of the situation.

Days before I had received an unexpected sting from my boss, something “serious” but unfair and political, potentially damaging to my reputation. Not a fun place to find yourself.

At first, I was stunned. Hurt. Could barely move. But I had to. I dealt with the pain, trying to suck it up.

This wasn’t really working as a long-term solution. I needed some help.

Lucky for me, I have a strong network of trusted family and friends. And talking about the situation helped lessen its power over me. It also helped me think through next steps and how I could move away from other potential “stingers.”

You may be minding your own business at work or in life, strolling along when a sudden threat catches you off guard. At first the pain is so intense you don’t know what to do. You struggle to keep moving, but the hurt paralyzes you.

But by allowing yourself to move through the pain to use your resources (sometimes the ones literally right in front of you, whether that be a salty ocean or a network of trusted people to talk you through the “sting”) you can not only bounce back but come out stronger.

Well that, and you’ll have a great story to tell around the bonfire.

Owning It

The other morning my Mom stopped by to swap cars with me (she needed the "spaceship" aka the minivan to pickup a kayak...but that's another story). When she entered the house she was carrying a shopping bag, and eager to tell me about its contents.

"I was at McCracken's (store's name changed to protect the accused)," she started. Upon seeing the expression on my face she continued: "I know you think of it as an 'old lady' store but you know what? I *am* an old lady!"

Now anyone who knows my Mom knows she is most definitely *not* an old lady, at least not by my definition: staid in their ways, has an affinity for appliqué sweatshirts and "cute" Holiday sweaters, and somewhere along the way forgets that she can be a mature woman without looking like, well, a "mature woman."

By contrast, my Mom takes pride in her appearance and takes good care of herself. She has an adventurous spirit, a dry sense of humor and looks decades younger than her chronological age. But here, in my entryway, she was describing herself, unequivocally, as (gasp!) an old lady.

Which got me to thinking.  When my Mom made that declaration, she wasn't talking about appliqué sweatshirts, she was being be true to herself.  Authentic.  She was owning it.

And I thought, maybe there's a lesson here. Instead of worrying about what other people (or even your own daughter) think of you, perhaps you could just shed all that excess baggage and those expectations and just be your unique and most fabulous, confident self.  

I guess that must come with being a mature woman.  Or, you know, an "old lady."

My Doppelgänger

This morning for the first time since my, ahem, transition I actually allowed myself to sit in a coffee shop to enjoy my nonfat latte and write. As I was doing so, my Peet's barista approached.

"Amy," she said. "I have something to tell you."

Of course this immediately piqued my interest (and scared me a bit, truth be told). Had I violated some unspoken coffee house protocol? Had I forgotten to pay? Was there foam on my nose?

Thankfully, it was none of the above.

"There's a woman that comes in nearly every day -- at least on every day you come in -- and she looks exactly like you but with slightly shorter hair. She's here about a half hour to an hour before you and I've been calling her 'Amy' but she keeps telling me her name is 'Colleen.'"

Ah, the elusive doppelgänger. We've all heard tales (okay, urban myths) about how each of us supposedly has a twin out there, in a parallel universe. And if you should ever run across this other half your mind would be blown and dimensions would be shattered, sending the universe and all that we know into a tailspin (or maybe I'm just embellishing here).

Anyway, the gist of it is that meeting your doppelgänger would undoubtedly change the course of history, and certainly the trajectory of your life.

Which got me to thinking: maybe this is the universe telling me that my path is about to change (yippee!), and that meeting up with Colleen would be a really good thing.

Making a mental note to try and grab that latte earlier.  Oh, and to get a haircut.  Just to make it, you know, interesting.

The Evolution of RBP

I know, I know.  It seems like I never write anymore. Well, that's not entirely true. I've been doing a lot of writing of late, just not a lot of publishing.

This blog originally started out as a resource to quickly and easily plan an amazing family getaway.  And while that's still fine and good, it came time to evolve and transition...something that RBP's owner knows all too much about.

Having recently separated from my travel industry job of almost a decade, I've decided to make this blog more about me and my personal evolution and journey (see the connection to travel?) through life...the struggles of being a working (or non-working!) parent of two tween daughters, half of a happily married, live-to-travel couple, a successful business person longing to flex her repressed creative and expressive muscles, a makeover/transformation aficionado and a 40-something woman looking to actively build and blog about a pretty cool life and set of experiences.

As the proud owner of a really big purse, I’ve always been the go-to gal with the goods. I like to think I help people by being a great resource on a lot of little things; my really big purse is chock full of observations, tidbits and info that I'm eager to share. I invite you to follow my journey — the successes, pitfalls and everything in between — and hopefully learn something, laugh and smile along the way.

If this sounds interesting to you, read on.  And if not, try it...you might like it and find something that resonates with you. Besides, you're already here so you might as well stay awhile.  :-)