Disney Leadership Keynote Speaker
Five daily blogs about life's 5 big choices on five interconnected sites.
Like jeff noel’s tagline at Mid Life Celebration’s – ReThink. RePrioritiize. ReCommit. – his blog about our physical responsibility, Lane 8, has a similar challenge – If your goal isn’t impossible, you’re not reaching high enough. The Herd offers insignificance and decline. The Movement offers legacy and growth.
PS. This is post 4,996, to read post 4,997 please click Next Blog
Sometimes all you can do is just stay in your lane, watch your speed and go through the tunnel to what lies on the other side. After speaking to my same age female friends, I am realizing that midlife for women can be just like leaving Manhattan en route to New Jersey. We’re entering The Holland Tunnel and there’s no turning back.
My friends and I used to have boundless energy. We would stay out until the city closed down, then go out for breakfast, and then sleep until well into the next day. Now we stay up all night, too. Only difference is we are home in our well-worn PJs, listening to our men snore the night away while we suffer yet another bout of hormone induced insomnia. Sleep deprivation does strange things to people. I wouldn’t say we are having mood swings, but just because I wouldn’t say it doesn’t mean there isn’t evidence to the contrary. One of my friends told of how she sobbed her heart out watching a documentary about salmon. Oh, how those fish struggle to spawn. Knowing just how she felt, I shared with her how I cried my eyes out because Dust finally found true love when the Swiffer Duster came by and swept her up into its fluffy, flexible fibers. I have also cried over Sandals Resorts commercials, SPCA ads featuring unwanted and abused animals and most recently commercial where, right before her father’s eyes, a little girl suddenly morphs into a teenager while sitting behind the wheel of a car.
Sometimes my husband looks at me with a mixture of amusement, worry and pure, raw fear. (Google Dr Oz: 4 signs of perimenopausal rage). Bless his heart, some nights he gets a four course gourmet meal and the next night he has to sort through the pile of take out menus that are thrown in his general direction. Easy for him to judge; he sleeps through the night and he doesn’t sweat profusely in the middle of a blizzard. My advice for him is to just stay in his own damned lane, not even think about hitting the horn, and keep looking straight ahead until he sees sunlight on the other side of the tunnel.
Chronic complainers don’t really want solutions to their problems. They seem to feel that life handed them lemons and they bask in their victim status. Make lemonade? Have you seen the price of sugar? And where would they find a pitcher? None of their knives are sharp enough to cut all of those lemons, and even if they were, their carpal tunnel/arthritis/chapped skin would make it impossible. Besides, they couldn’t drink lemonade anyway, as it would certainly give them heartburn; or worse yet, diarrhea. The chronic complainer can’t take those lemons and make anything out of them, because if they do then they are left with nothing to complain about.
Chronic complainers don’t KNOW they are chronic complainers. They truly feel that they are victims. Nobody has it worse than they do. If you try to make them see that there are others worse off than they are, they will just rattle off a longer list of woes they have to deal with every day. Clearly you must not have all the information. If you really understood how bad they had it, you wouldn’t try to convince them that there could possibly be someone who has a tougher life.
What can you do when you encounter these people? What if you have to work with them, or worse yet what if they are family? Rule #1 is, do NOT fix their problem. Do NOT try to give them advice, no matter how well intentioned. To do so would only enable them to continue to spin their wheels until someone pulls them out of their latest ditch.
This sounds harsh. It goes against our desire to help people. There really ARE people out there who need our help. There are folks who are overwhelmed, who may have hit bad times, or who just need a hand up. We’ve all been there. There ARE people who have been dealt a horribly bad hand.
Your neighbor just broke his leg. His wife is recovering from surgery. Their yard is full of leaves. You decide to get a few other neighbors to pitch in for an afternoon of raking. You never know when you may be the one who needs help. Then you go to your brother’s house. His yard is also full of leaves. He is sitting on his porch, clearly distressed by the situation.
“I hate these trees”, he says. “Well, they sure are nice in the summertime, when you want shade from the sun,” you reply.
“They keep the breeze from blowing through.”
“Have you considered having at least some of them cut down?”
“Do you know what those tree companies charge?!”
“Why don’t you mulch the leaves with your mower?”
“There are too many for that! It would kill the grass.”
“Guess you’ll have to rake them, then.”
“That should be great for my back! I can’t sleep at night from back pain so as it is.”
“Maybe you need to move to a house with less yard…..”
“In this market I wouldn’t be able to get what the house is worth. Besides, I hate those condos.”
“Well, what about hiring a few neighbor kids to rake it for you?”
“KIDS! Kids don’t want to work these days.”
At the end of the conversation, you are worn out and your brother can’t understand how you could be so selfish. After all, he’s tried everything to solve his problem.
Dear Son, as your learning accelerates in fifth grade, you know how challenging it can be to score well in every subject. It’s far easier to excel in what you love.
While you are cognizant of Life’s Big Choices because of who your dad is, mostly, these ideas are what 11-year olds could care less about. Remember who you are and what, and why, you’ve been taught.
Next Blog
Nothing screams “You’re middle aged!” like the week I’ve had. As I type these words, I do so with an ice pack on my lower back. Why? Because I lifted a few boxes and carried them to the trunk of my car. My two friends, women who are almost my exact same age and who helped me in my endeavor, are popping ibuprofen and taking it easy for a few days. One of us is awaiting hip replacement surgery. Yes, kids, we’re There now. Our fun day out was cleaning out my deceased friends house in preparation for a public auction.
As a woman, pathetic as it sounds- as shallow and pre-feminism as the idea is- I used to appreciate the occasional glance from the males of the species. Nothing gross or crude, but just that lingering glance that meant I was still somewhat attractive to the opposite sex. Well, my friends and I got just that as we walked into a Hardees for what we now refer to as a “pee break”. It seems that I am not the only woman of a certain age who knows the location of every single public restroom with a 100-mile radius of her home. On this day, it had been raining. Not a soft drizzle mind you, but a cloud-draining downpour. Because the terms “brain fart” and “menopause” seem to be one in the same, SOMEONE forgot to close the car windows. We realized this after all sitting, simultaneously, on the saturated car seats. We walked into the fast food joint, hands to our lower backs, bent at the waist and grimacing in pain from lifting such heavy objects as old magazines and winter coats. Our hair had either flattened horribly or frizzed from the rain, and our wet behinds made it looks as if we were about 5 minutes too late for that pee break. We decided that while we were there, we might as well get a cold drink. And maybe split an order of fries. And perhaps some chicken fingers, because when you work that hard protein is important. And then IT happened. The confirmation of our eternal youth awaited us! There was a man sitting alone in a booth, eating a cheeseburger. He was at least 85 years old, and bless his heart he had apparently left his teeth in the glass by his bed. He stopped mid chew and pivoted in his seat to get a better view of us. Then he smiled. “Well, Hell-OOOOOO, ladies!” he said, looking us up and down. So much for our dreams of Cougardom with a man like Gilles Marini, for now it’s official: the only men who appreciate our aged-like-fine-wine appeal are men who can no longer drive after dark.
When I got home I took a long hot shower. Didn’t even bother to shave my legs. Does it really matter anymore? I was going to blow dry my hair, but I decided not to bother wasting the electricity. I wasn’t going anywhere but to the couch. As my husband and I sat down to the dinner I had made, he told me that he loves my cooking. He poured me a glass of wine and gave me a smile. I noticed how much I love the silver that is taking over his dark brown hair. Later that night I sat down to watch my favorite TV show, and sure enough the guest star was none other than Gilles Marini. Sure, he’s impossibly handsome, but there’s not a single silver hair on his head. Personally, I think he’ll look even better in about 25 years. If I happen to run into him at Hardees, I’ll be sure to let him know.