Marketing/communications pro and longtime feminist activist. On a journey. Striving to stretch, grow, question, and center. Replacing TV, wine, and self-doubt with writing, nature, and mindfulness. Working on a book about struggling with self doubt and distraction.
In my last blog post I compared a worn-out couch sitting in your living room to a bad habit taking up space in your life. Both the couch and the habit need to go, but you must make a plan for what to put in the spots that they occupy. Now I would like to propose a follow-up analogy—a cluttered house.
Let’s say you inherit a cabin in the woods from a distant relative. You didn’t even know someone in your family had a getaway house! You head out to the cabin, and you discover that the place is a mess. Apparently this relative was a bit of a hoarder.
Towering piles of books, newspapers, and magazines are everywhere. The kitchen is littered with empty jars, broken toasters, and abandoned cereal boxes. The bathroom is crowded with old towels, shampoo bottles, and loads of extra toilet paper. The bedroom is bursting with creepy dolls and other thrift store purchases.
Where do you start? Maybe you should just burn it all down you think, only half joking. You were so excited about spending long weekends and summer vacations at your very own cabin, so you reluctantly get cleaning.
You start with the biggest fire hazard—those ancient newspapers and magazines in the living room. It takes a lot of hard work, but you feel great once you’ve removed all that paper from the house. Then, you start to see an abundance of plastic grocery bags stuffed with trash that had been tucked in between the piles.
With the bags tossed, you move on to the other rooms. Room after room is the same: As you sweep away the junk that stands out the most, you uncover more stuff. There always seems to be more stuff.
This work takes time. You return to the cabin every weekend. Slowly, the floorboards, the bathroom tile, and the kitchen counters become visible. You can see the bones of the house. Now you must identify and address the structural issues that were hidden.
This house is us. The junk is all the unhealthy habits, coping mechanisms, and distractions that we’ve built up over our lives. The foundation, the walls, the windows, the roof—these represent our body, mind, heart, and soul. As we clear away the behaviors and beliefs that haven’t been serving us, we can pinpoint the issues underneath.
I’ve been cleaning out my metaphorical house for more than three years. I started with my drinking because it was the towering pile that was getting in the way of the life I wanted to lead. Without the drinking, it became obvious that my TV and social media habits needed tackling.
There was and is no shortage of crap in my house. I am a hoarder of personal issues: Shopping and money-related anxiety, fixating on my weight and body image, people-pleasing, ruminating and catastrophizing, body-focused repetitive behaviors, procrastination tendencies, and so on.
This assortment of diversions, short-term solutions, and numbing techniques kept me from peering below the surface. Without all the clutter, I was able to get a good look at my self-doubt. Then I had to acknowledged that unless I wanted to fill myself up all over again with a new set of counter-productive habits, I needed to face my pain and my fears.
Keeping your personal foundation solid is an ongoing task, but much like a real house, if you want a nice place in which to live, you have to do the work!
I love analogies and metaphors. By translating abstract concepts into relatable situations, analogies promote understanding. Analogies and metaphors typically work best when they use everyday examples. Like a worn-out couch.
Imagine you have a sofa in your living room that is faded and sagging. It’s uncomfortable to sit on and stuffing is poking out of the arms.
But this couch has sentimental value. You’ve had it for a long time—perhaps it’s the first nice sofa you ever bought, or maybe your grandparents gave it to you.
You know you need to replace this couch, so if you’re anything like me, you do one of two things…
A) After an embarrassing incident when a visiting relative struggled to extricate themselves from your sofa’s caved-in cushions, you banish it to an extra room or the garage. You now have one chair in your living room and a big empty space. You know you need to go buy a new couch, and you realize that if you keep putting off this task, you’ll be tempted to drag that dilapidated old thing back into the living room. Still, you procrastinate.
B) You go furniture shopping and fall in love with a snazzy new sofa. You purchase it, and the salesperson tells you it will be delivered in four weeks. You have plenty of time to make room for the new couch, right? But you put it off, and the next thing you know the furniture store is calling to set up a time to deliver your new sofa tomorrow, and your old one is still sitting right there.
In both cases, your shabby couch may be a reminder of good times, but it’s not doing its job anymore. At the same time, you have a living room with the appropriate amount of space for one couch. Zero couches will only work for so long, and two couches won’t work at all.
If you haven’t already guessed, the decrepit sofa in my story is a stand-in for any counter-productive behavior that is taking up space in your life. Like, say, social media scrolling, maxing out your credit cards, or gossiping. You may be well aware that you need to scale back or quit this habit entirely. But if you give it up without a plan for how to reallocate all the time and energy it’s been sucking up, you might find yourself right back where you started, like the couch-banisher in scenario A.
Or maybe you do have something you’ve been dreaming about—traveling the world, learning how to play the guitar, or starting a small business. Like the couch-shopper in scenario B, you have to make space in your life for this passion, otherwise where will you put it?
A little over three years ago I realized I was living in scenario B. My writing had been pushed aside while I drank wine and watched TV. I finally had to ditch alcohol and reduce my media consumption to make time for my writing and all the other things I wanted to do.
If you can relate to situation A or B, I’m pretty sure there’s an amazing new couch waiting for you. But you have to do the work of finding it and clearing the way.
Like many people, I fell in love with comedian Sarah Cooper earlier this year. I wanted to easily find all her Donald Trump lip-syncing videos, and I heard she was posting them on TikTok, so I downloaded the app onto my phone.
Coincidentally, I had put myself in a social media “time-out” right before taking the plunge into TikTok. In quick succession, I had removed Facebook, then Instagram, and then Twitter from my phone. Each time I deleted an app, I found myself spending more time scrolling on whatever remained. I even took to scrolling on LinkedIn for a brief period! So, I’m sure you can guess what happened next.
First, when you download TikTok, the app asks you to check off what topics interest you. The subjects I selected seemed innocent enough, but the outcome was an endless stream of girls in bikinis doing identical dance routines.
This should have scared me off, and yet it didn’t. Fascinated, I scrolled and scrolled through videos of young women with seemingly perfect bodies, beautiful hair, and not half-bad dance moves. I started to feel bad about my own appearance, which is pretty stupid given the vast age difference between me and these video stars. Even the moms showing off their youthful good looks were at least a decade younger than me.
Disconcerting thoughts popped up: I’m pretty sure we didn’t have butts like that when I was a teenager! Was I ever that flexible or sexy? Could I get away with wearing an outfit like that at my age? And how come everyone lives in such a fancy, pristine house?
I had to remind myself that I was seeing these specific videos because they were among the most popular content on TikTok. Not everyone posting on the app looks or moves like that or has a closet full of trendy clothes.
The videos started playing in my head even when I wasn’t scrolling. Thus, after only a few weeks, I banished TikTok from my phone. Perhaps it was just a weird phase I went through in a relentlessly awful year.
Still, I’m mad at myself for falling prey once again to the idea that being “hot” is the ultimate achievement for women of all ages. For goodness’ sake, I worked at a feminist organization for 18 years and helped create content for a campaign promoting positive body images. Maybe that’s why I loved working on that project—because I was intimately familiar with the how the media exploit and even cultivate our personal insecurities.
Well into middle age, I haven’t really recovered from the sense that life would be better if I were more attractive. Instead, my fixations have simply shifted. Rather than hating on my big nose, my stubby legs, or my frizzy hair, now I’m more obsessed with my saggy neck, my stomach cellulite, or the gray in my hair.
As I try to escape this feeling of beauty inadequacy, the practices that work the best are spending less time looking in the mirror and waaaay less time scrolling through social media. When I’m moving my body as opposed to focusing on its reflection, I forget about my self-doubt.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m still on social media—and Instagram is back on my phone. But these days I consciously concentrate on the accounts I have deemed worthy of my attention, and I do my best to avoid the content served up through ads or the search function.
My recommendation: Identify why and how you want to use social media and stay within those margins!
For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved making lists—particularly to-do lists. Those empty little boxes next to each task thrill me, and I can barely wait to fill them in with triumphant checkmarks.
Over the last couple years, my to-do list habit grew and morphed into something a bit more obsessive. The items multiplied and branched out into sub-categories. I experimented with keeping a Bullet Journal and settled on a variation that required me to rewrite the list over again every morning in a steno book.
Then I left my job and COVID hit, and suddenly I didn’t need such elaborate lists (if I ever did). And yet, I remained in thrall to those little suckers. They appeared on post-its and scraps of paper in my kitchen, in notebooks of all sizes, typed up in my phone notes, and in files on my laptop. I started to suspect that all this documenting and tracking of everything from trivial daily tasks to big life goals might be contributing to my anxiety.
Then, I got a brilliant idea, which I must credit in part to dancer, choreographer, and author Twyla Tharp. In her book “The Creative Habit: Learn It and Use It for Life,” Tharp shares her practice of temporarily removing the biggest distractions from her life in order to boost creativity and focus. For a week, she steers clear of multitasking, movies, numbers, and background music.
Tharp writes: “Subtracting your dependence on some of the things you take for granted increases your independence. It’s liberating, forcing you to rely on your own ability rather than your customary crutches.”
She’s right, of course. Quitting to-do lists for a short period of time felt so freeing that I’ve chosen to strike them indefinitely—maybe forever.
What am I getting out of it?
Once I stopped writing down all my tasks, I started to get a better idea of my true priorities. Apparently, in my haste to check off items on the list, I had been tackling the easy tasks first plus the ones I wanted to get out of the way. Consequently, the things I really wanted to do kept sliding to the bottom of the list and then on to the next day, and the next, and the next.
With no list taunting me, I’m able to ask myself, what do I want to do right now? And then I do it. It’s sounds ridiculous, but for someone like me, it seems to be working.
For important items, like doctor’s appointments, I schedule them in the calendar in my phone and set a digital reminder to make sure I don’t miss them. But I do this only for appointments that must not be missed. Everything else is up for grabs.
This hasn’t been easy. My hand wants to grab that pen and paper. My mind wants to see what all is on my plate. But I stop myself and move on. And it gets easier every day. My mind feels more spacious and fluid.
I also decided to stop mentally ticking off all my accomplishments for the day. I used to do this in bed at night, and though it sounds like a nice way to pat myself on the back, in practice it functioned too much like a nightly meeting with the judge who resides inside my head.
Maybe one day I will try making a simpler version of my to-do lists; or maybe, like alcohol, my life is better without them.
Sometimes when I struggle with making a decision or writing a blog post, I “interview” myself. When I have some time alone, I ask myself probing questions and answer them, often out loud to hear how they sound. Does this make me sound nutty? Don’t answer that.
Recently, I asked myself what I thought was the most influential thing that I’ve done to improve my confidence and peace of mind. If I could recommend one big life-changing step to others, what would it be? This was not a difficult question to tackle, except I kept changing my answer—maybe it was quitting drinking three years ago, or maybe it was quitting smoking 11 years ago, or maybe it was something else.
Picture a long line of dominoes standing on their ends. When you push one it knocks down the next domino and so on until the final domino falls. Which domino would you say is the single most important piece in getting the chain from the beginning to the end point? The first domino gets everything rolling, of course. And the last one completes the action. But every domino in the chain connects the domino before it to the domino after it—each one serves a purpose and keeps the momentum alive.
That’s how it’s been for me this past decade-plus. Each decision I made to improve my life was often impacted by the decision before it and then led to a subsequent positive choice. After I quit smoking, I started exercising more. Feeling better made me want to live in a place where I could get outside more. When my husband and I moved, being around nature made me want to improve my physical and mental health even more. I started meditating and eating mostly Paleo. This led me to quit drinking, which led me to take a writing workshop. Writing more led me to leave my marketing job in search of something more fulfilling.
Each step of this journey played its part, just like each domino plays its part in the chain reaction. When we get stuck on one step, the way a domino occasionally fails to push over the next one, we can miss out on all the other great steps that are waiting on the other side.
So, I can’t really say what is the best life-changing action someone could or should take. But I can say that the most important thing you can do is identify the next critical action—whether it’s finding a form of exercise you actually want to do, leaving a stressful job, getting into therapy, moving on from a bad relationship—and take it, so that the domino effect of your life never stops progressing.
Rag Doll livin’ in a movie, Hot tramp Daddy’s little cutie.
I can hear my friend Tami singing the song “Rag Doll” as if she were standing right in front of me. Her take was deliciously exaggerated—a cross between Mae West and an old-timey announcer. She loved Aerosmith. Lead singer Steven Tyler was high on her list of celebrity dudes she wanted to shag (the list also included John Cusack and Jeff Daniels).
Tami is gone now. She passed away suddenly on Feb. 23 of this year—just eight weeks ago, as I’m preparing to post this. I’ll never again hear her burst into song, which she did frequently, whenever the lyrics suited the occasion. We will never again sing any of the silly songs we both loved – like “Grab It!” and “Cars That Go Boom” by L’Trimm or “Girlfriend” by Avril Lavigne.
Laid out on my coffee table is an array of pictures of Tami and our close group of friends, taken mostly during our 20s and 30s. They tell the story of a woman who loved cats, often hoisting them high into the air for photos. You see a beautiful woman who looked great in a cowboy hat and once dressed up in a 1960s floor-length pink gown and shiny gold shoes for a small Thanksgiving dinner. A woman who loved going out with her friends. A woman who liked finger puppets, sunglasses, and the beach.
Because of our age, my friends and I made very few videos together—instead I have albums full of old-school Polaroids and pics developed at the drugstore. A couple weeks after Tami’s passing, I was scrolling through the more recent photos on my computer and happened upon a rare video of her from the weekend my husband and I got married.
Tami and I are cooking in the kitchen; my husband is standing outside on the deck, shooting video of us through the window. We are singing and dancing to “Word Up” by Cameo. Unaware that we’re being filmed, we aren’t playing for the camera. Our motions and voices are low-key and natural. Tami does, indeed, wave her hands in the air like she don’t care. At the end, she lightly slaps her hand on her chest, just below her collarbones. I probably saw Tami do that hundreds of times and never really thought about it. But when I saw it on the video, the familiarity of it made me gasp.
If only I had a few more videos of Tami—moving images full of life and sound and the ease we felt with each other.
Cat, hat. In French, chat, chapeau. In Spanish, he’s el gato in a sombrero.
I have no idea how or when Tami and I started saying this. It’s from a song in the 1971 Cat in the Hat TV special. One of us would randomly say, “Cat, hat,” and we would finish the rest in unison.
We had lots of running verbal jokes. In college, we relished torturing our friends with a weird game where we turned the lines of a song, any song, into a series of questions and answers.
“Tami, what is it?” “It’s all right” “When?” “Now!”
After a while, someone, usually Tracy, would ask us to knock it off.
“Hey Tami, ask me if we’re going to knock it off?” “Lisa, are we going to knock it off?” “I’m glad you asked, Tami. No!”
Tami would sit on the floor in the hallway of our dorm, talking to her mom or sister on the pay phone (another throwback!), and I would make it my mission to do a goofy dance for her until she cracked up.
One day when we were broke and bored, we spent hours going through a fashion magazine, making snarky comments about the content of every single page. I cut out a chart from the magazine that explained the different types of hepatitis and stuck it on her refrigerator door—just cuz.
I wonder what she had on her refrigerator in her last months. I hope there was something there that made her smile.
Do you really want to wake up next to Ramone? “Why you jump ze bed so quickly on zis morning? Last night you were like wild beast. You must give yourself again to Ramone.”
This is from a comic strip called “Think Twice!” by cartoonist Lynda Barry. For years, Tami and I would recite it fairly regularly, complete with a corny French accent for Ramone.
We met around the age of 11 or 12. We were both late bloomers. For a few years, we were glorious dorks together. We loved the soap opera The Guiding Light and wrote many poems and spoofs about the characters on the show.
Tami would sketch a boy she named Junior, who was always getting into trouble and calling on his mom to rescue him. During our early high school years, I would beg her to draw new Juniors for me, and his predicaments grew more elaborate over time. After her passing, I unearthed a folder full of Juniors and the other artwork Tami would pass to me in class.
We ended up becoming high school cheerleaders. We left those dorky little girls behind. But we never forgot. Well into our 20s, after a few drinks, we might recollect how miserable it had been to be so far behind all the other girls.
We both majored in creative writing at college. Tami was a Hemingway gal, and I was Team Fitzgerald. We both read and re-read Ann Beattie’s “Chilly Scenes of Winter,” Lorrie Moore’s “Anagrams,” and Margaret Atwood’s “The Edible Woman.”
Not long ago I sent her the illustrated book “Hyperbole and a Half” by Allie Brosh because it reminded me so much of our Lynda Barry fangirl days. I only wish we had gotten the chance to sit down and read our favorite parts to each other.
One of the delights of life is eating with friends; second to that is talking about eating. And, for an unsurpassed double whammy, there is talking about eating while you are eating with friends.
Laurie Colwin wrote this in her foreword to “Home Cooking,” a book of cozy essays and recipes. Tami and I both adored “Home Cooking” and its follow up, “More Home Cooking.”
Many of the cookbooks on my shelf were purchased because Tami owned them first. Or because she picked up a yellowed 1970 copy of “The All New Fannie Farmer Boston Cooking School Cookbook” as a gift for me.
Tami was a whiz at cooking dishes all along the spectrum from simple to fancy. Terre recently reminded me how Tami introduced our group to Supremes de Volaille Printanier (chicken breasts with asparagus and carrots) from page 26 of The New York Times 60-Minute Gourmet cookbook.
Her macaroni & cheese was outstanding. And not only did Tami make great meals, but you could always assign her dessert for Thanksgiving or dinner parties, and she would produce something amazing. Her lemon cake—with white icing, not lemon or cream cheese—was one of Stacey’s favorites.
One of her prized skills was being able to tell exactly what size container was needed for any given amount of leftovers. Whenever I’m not sure if I should go with the larger or smaller container, I channel Tami’s supreme confidence in this realm.
Cooking with Tami was always fun. You might even get into a heated argument with her and Fred over whether a squirrel climbed up the side of the building and took a bite out of the chocolate cake that was cooling on the windowsill.
Speaking of squirrels, not so long ago Tami regularly carried a “nut sack” with her so that she could feed the squirrels in the park as she walked to the subway station. She swore some of those squirrels knew her and waited for her.
I don’t doubt it.
How much more can I take, Before I go crazy, oh yeah, Crazy, oh yeah, How much more heartache, Before I go crazy, oh yeah, Crazy, oh yeah
Tami and I were drawn to the Go-Go’s song “How Much More” in our senior year of high school because we were both going through a case of unrequited love. We bonded over how unfair it was that the boys we were infatuated with were unavailable.
To this day, I cannot hear “Total Eclipse of the Heart” without thinking of Tami playing it over and over after a bad break-up during freshman year of college.
For decades, we told each other everything about the crushes, hook-ups, and loves in our lives. We made up ridiculous nicknames for them and offered scathing re-evaluations of those who didn’t recognize what dazzling creatures we were.
In our 40s and early 50s, Tami was in a long-term relationship with my brother-in-law, which meant we got to see each other often, but it also made our penchant for sharing everything a bit awkward.
I feel honored and blessed to have shared so many moments with Tami over the course of four decades. Every decision, every milestone in my life was poured out to her in great detail. She was a best friend, a chosen sister, a steady presence—even when we were physically or emotionally distant.
Sadly, the last time I saw Tami in person was three years before her passing. We didn’t talk much on the phone anymore or text. But she was always in my heart and on my mind.
Looking for something to binge watch during your home quarantine, now that you’ve seen Tiger King and Love is Blind? Well, as some of you may know, I watch a lot of TV. It’s been that way since I was a wee child and our TV sat on a wheeled cart that we swiveled back and forth between the dining room and the living room.
I’ve struggled to tame my media over-consumption for years now, and considerable progress has been made. My eyeballs are no longer glued to the screen unless I’m watching something I consider “must see TV.” But there’s a lot of good stuff out there, folks, and thanks to my husband we have every pay channel and streaming service known to humankind.
So, I am kindly sharing hundreds (if not thousands) of hours of research with you. Due to the sheer volume, my recommendations will be offered in parts—a limited series, if you will. This first part covers my favorite half-hour shows that first premiered during the past decade. Each show listing contains no more than 280 characters—just the basics to help you decide if each show is for you.
Enjoy! Much more to follow during these cloistered times…
Half-Hour Shows (recent-ish—started in 2011 or later):
HBO; 2 seasons so far (2018-?)
From IMDB: “A hit man from the Midwest moves to Los Angeles and gets caught up in the city’s theatre arts scene.”
My opinion: Probably one of the funniest shows I’ve ever seen. Brilliant, quirky cast. Moody, wacky, bingeable. Alert: Very violent.
NBC/Hulu; 7 seasons so far (2013-?)
From IMDB: “…an immature but talented N.Y.P.D. detective comes into conflict with his serious and stern new commanding officer.”
My opinion: Gleefully goofy, charming cast, both broad and subtle jokes. Just try not to smile!
Amazon Prime; 4 seasons (2015-2019)
Summary: Rob (from the U.S.) and Sharon (living in London) try to turn a hook up into a committed relationship.
My opinion: Hilarious, raunchy, unexpected, and engaging. If you’ve ever been part of a couple, you can’t help but relate.
Dead to Me
Netflix; 1 season, second one coming soon (2019-?)
From IMDB: “A powerful friendship blossoms between a tightly wound widow and a free spirit with a shocking secret.”
My opinion: Darkly funny, adult, lots of great twists, immensely bingeable. Two fabulous leading women.
Dear White People
Netflix; 3 seasons, fourth coming soon (2017-?)
From IMDB: “At a predominantly white Ivy League college, a group of black students navigate various forms of racial and other types of discrimination.”
My opinion: Funny, compelling, hugely entertaining, winning cast.
HBO/Amazon Prime; 2 seasons (2011-2013)
Summary: After a breakdown followed by a spiritual awakening, a woman makes it her mission to enlighten others and reform her workplace.
My opinion: Overlooked gem! Funny, bizarre, suspenseful, awkward. Laura Dern is fearless.
Amazon Prime; 2 seasons (2016, 2019)
From IMDB: “…a young woman trying to cope with life in London whilst coming to terms with a recent tragedy.”
My opinion: LOVE! Brilliant, hilarious, saucy, and touching. Second season is darn near perfect. Alert: Fourth-wall breaking.
The Good Place
NBC; 4 seasons total (2016-2020)
Summary: An eclectic group of characters explore what happens after death.
My opinion: Amazing cast, incredible concept, funny, intelligent, big-hearted, and full of interesting twists—what more could you ask for? A+ series finale.
Hulu; 1 season so far (2020-?)
Summary: A record-store owner recounts her worst breakups while talking music w/friends.
My opinion: Zoe Kravitz is utterly cool AND relatable. Fun, hip, engaging, NYC-drenched. Alert: Lots of drinking/substance use, fourth-wall breaking.
Amazon Prime; 1 season, second one coming soon (2018-?)
From IMDB: “Heidi [Julia Roberts] works at Homecoming, a facility helping soldiers transition to civilian life.” Or are they?
My opinion: Intense, creepy, riveting, thought-provoking. A must for conspiracy fans.
The Last Man on Earth
Fox/Hulu; 4 seasons (2015-2018)
From IMDB: “…after a virus wiped out most of the human race, Phil wishes for some company, but soon gets more than he bargained for.”
My opinion: Hilarious, dark AND silly. Perhaps too timely? End of series leaves things hanging.
HBO; 1 season so far (2019-?)
From IMDB: “A single mom whose son moves out for college begins a new life on her own.”
My opinion: Fun, provocative, complicated, and surprisingly tender. Alert: If “unconventionally sexy” gives you pause, maybe skip this one.
Netflix; 1 season so far (2019-?)
Summary: A woman in Manhattan keeps reliving her same birthday party, trying to figure out how to break the time loop.
My opinion: Funny, edgy, mind-blowing, totally binge-worthy, top-notch cast, tight plot. A must for New Yorkers.
Apple TV+; 1 season so far (2019-?)
Summary: A husband tries a unique approach for dealing with a family tragedy while his wife hires a mysterious nanny.
My opinion: Super creepy, gothic, juicy performances, food fixation, keeps you guessing. Alert: Not for weak stomachs.
Hulu; 2 seasons (2019-2020)
Summary: A young woman seeks creative and professional fulfillment and a satisfying relationship.
My opinion: Aidy Bryant rules! The whole cast is incredible. Funny, touching, surprising, inspiring, unapologetically fat-positive. Don’t miss out!
Your feedback is welcome. Did my brief recommendations sufficiently steer you in the right direction? Got any recent half-hour shows you think I should watch?
A couple weeks ago I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t get back to sleep. I grabbed my Kindle from the nightstand and opened the book I had started a couple days earlier. I looked in the bottom left corner and saw I was at 24% complete. Ugh, I needed to pick up my pace and read about 20% per day if I wanted to finish the book by the middle of January.
My long-form reading has been pretty unimpressive of late. To be honest, I’ve only read a handful of books each year since the late 1990s.
So, I promised myself that in 2020 I would try to read two books a month. Goals like this bring out my insecurities and compulsive tendencies. There I was, huddled under my covers with the soft glow of the Kindle in front of me, obsessing about my reading progress rather than enjoying the book itself.
Anything you can count or weigh or otherwise quantify has the potential to make me anxious. Last fall I read Twyla Tharp’s “The Creative Habit” (ummm, most of it). In the book, Tharp recommends taking a break for one week from looking at anything that involves numbers, like checking the time or monitoring your bank balance. When I read that, I was aghast—how in the heck would I do that for even half a day let alone a week.
Here are just a few examples of how tracking and measuring infect my daily life:
– If I have to be somewhere at a certain time, I will write out the tasks I have to do before leaving the house, scheduling them down to the minute—I’m talking showering, eating, getting dressed, and so forth. Veering off the timeline makes my jittery.
– I often review my personal growth, recounting the month and year when I quit smoking, the month and year when I started eating healthier, the month and year I originated my blog, and on and on. This might lead me to congratulate myself, but it can also trigger thoughts that I’m not moving fast enough. What exactly have I done for me lately?
– My brain is frequently in the process of making a deal with itself. I may look normal on the outside, but on the inside, I am calculating how many cookies I’m allowed to eat based on whether I had dessert last night. Or assessing my recent expenses and promising to do better. Or thinking about all the chores I need to do and bargaining for some free time with the hard-nosed project manager living in my head.
– I step on the scale every morning. I might weigh myself three or four times until I finally accept the best number. In the app linked with my scale, I often delete numbers I don’t like, so long as the overall trend isn’t compromised. The line chart that displays my weight over the past couple years is a frequent source of consternation.
– When I divide up the lunches that my husband and I make for the week, I weigh each container of food (in grams, of course, because it’s more precise) to make sure they are as close as possible to being equal (his portions weighing more than mine but equal to each other). I’ve gotten better about not doing this, but I haven’t completely abandoned the habit just yet.
This kind of thinking and activity has kept me in an almost constant state of agitation for ages. I set lofty (or even reasonable) goals and then make myself queasy because I’m afraid I’ll come up short. Then I distract myself from the steps necessary to achieve such goals, thus fulfilling my fear of failure.
But…I’m breaking this cycle, which I acknowledge will be a lifelong undertaking. For example: My previous blog post before this one was July of last year. What?! When I realized this fact in December, my heart sank. I should hurry and get a piece posted before the end of 2019, I told myself. When that didn’t happen, I decided I should definitely get a piece posted during the first week of January. All of this negotiating with myself had my stomach in knots.
I took a deep breath and conceded, “I’ll get to it when I get to it.” Why set unnecessary deadlines for myself? Life has plenty of time limits that we have little to no control over. Why create more of them?
Balance is key here. On the one hand, I spent many years procrastinating and not following my dreams—it’s good that I’m expanding my horizons and trying new things. On the other hand, I have to be patient with myself and ease up on the internal pressure.
My plan to start a kombucha business is fertile testing ground for promoting this kind of harmony in my life. Recently, I gave myself permission to back off from the original launch date I set for the business. I’m still proceeding with the numerous tasks that need to be checked off to get up and running. But I’m moving at a pace that suits me right now. I’m not going to worry about all the other people who launch businesses in less time or how old I’m getting (aargh, another number!) or any other measurements that suggest I’m not a “winner.”
When I was a kid, my mother was often running late, which meant I was often late to school events, dates with friends, etc. I remember feeling panicked and humiliated at keeping other people waiting or being the last person to walk into a room. This dread followed me into adulthood.
These days, I tell my 80-year-old mom not to hurry. No sense in putting her safety at risk by rushing around. People can wait. Being a little late is not the end of the world.
I’m taking my own advice and finding a way to advance without all the angst. Rather than dashing toward some contrived finish line in my mind, I’m focusing on being calm, living in the moment, and savoring every step.
As Laura McKowen says in the book that I did finish this month at my own speed: “The process has been the gift.”
My unfurling is at its best when I slow down and stop counting.
Have you ever seen a movie that takes place over the course of one long and eventful day? And did you notice that the main character does more in that single day than you typically do in a whole week?
You may have rolled your eyes at movies like this, as I did, scoffing at the likelihood of accomplishing so much in 24 hours or less.
I used to experience “movie days” maybe once a year, proudly completing a ridiculous number of tasks and visiting numerous locations. Now I have them all the time. Well, maybe not all the time, but far more frequently.
What kind of Hollywood magic caused this shift to happen?
I gave alcohol the boot. Showed it the door and waved bye-bye.
A Quick Flashback Montage
Two years ago, I quit drinking because I wanted more from my life. And I got it! My life has opened up, expanded, and wandered onto strange new paths. Clearing alcohol out of my life created time, space, and energy I didn’t know I had.
For the record: Starting in the fall of 2017, I took an intensive six-month writing workshop that helped me develop a book proposal and encouraged me to start using my Instagram account as a mini blog. I followed that up with some freelance writing on sobriety for which I got paid.
About a year ago, I left my full-time job and am currently exploring a new chapter in my career, working at a local fitness studio. My husband and I just started our own communications business, and we hope to launch our own kombucha brand in 2020. Over the last two years, I’ve managed several large home improvement projects at our house, with another one just about to start.
Pilates, yoga, and meditation are now regular practices in my life, and I’ve tried all sorts of new activities, including indoor rock climbing, zip lining, flotation therapy, tai chi, and indoor skydiving.
During this “unfurling” (as I like to call it), I’ve accumulated many insights. Two big ones keep reverberating in my head, my heart, and my bones, and I’d like to share them in honor of my second anniversary of sobriety.
One: You don’t have to be on the brink of disaster to quit drinking.
For decades, I drank the way lots of people drink—to unwind, to celebrate, to connect. I loved the warm space that alcohol created inside and around me. It was a place where I felt safe and accepted. Where I knew the terrain.
I turned to alcohol for fun, escape, and relaxation. But it made my life repetitious and hazy. Like driving home from work only to realize that you barely recall the drive because you’ve done it so many times.
Abandoning an action that I knew so well, that I relied on, was going to be difficult. Not because I was physically addicted, but because I was emotionally addicted. Since I was a teen, alcohol had provided me with a go-to set of emotions, like a special box of crayons with colors more vivid and muted at the same time.
All those years my life was pretty darn good: I loved, and I laughed, and I did some awesome stuff. But the drinking, oddly enough, was like a cork on my very essence—keeping my spirit bottled up.
With the cork removed, so much more energy, so much more life flows out. I want to explore and try and dare. I’m doing it, but I’m still fearful sometimes. In sudden moments, my jittery, exposed nerves cry out for the dull plug of alcohol.
I imagine what it would be like to once again sit down in a comfortable bar with good friends and down glass after glass of white wine. To let the minutes and hours slip away. To blur the edges. To collapse into myself.
The urge usually goes away pretty quickly, and I’m left wondering if this feeling will keep popping up out of nowhere for the rest of my life.
If it does, it’s a small price to pay for the life I’m living now.
In our society, people don’t typically quit drinking unless alcohol consumption is really messing with their lives. If your livelihood, health, or life is on the line, it’s acceptable and even expected that you do whatever it takes to sober up.
But we don’t talk much about choosing to give up booze the same way you might decide to join a gym, take vitamins, study a new language, or start traveling more—as a way to get healthier and expand your horizons.
Well, I’m here to tell you that it can be an amazing decision that you make for yourself without having to teeter on the edge first.
But to get the most out of the experience, you do have to “do the work” as they say. Which brings me to the second important lesson I’ve learned…
Two: It’s not really about alcohol.
Since I was a girl, I’ve had a basket full of personal issues. None of them ever exploded into full-blown disorders or addictions or whatever you want to call them. But they all worked together to keep me consistently distracted from the self-doubt and anxiety that haunted me.
When you eliminate alcohol, you’ll likely discover, as I did, that there are lots of other bad habits waiting in the wings ready and willing to take the place of drinking. You must be willing to uncover and interrogate the thoughts and emotions behind these behaviors.
Getting sober is about so much more than gritting your teeth as you pass by the liquor store. It’s an opportunity, and I would argue a privilege, to get to know yourself better. To figure out how to live a different kind of life—a more mindful and intentional life.
I should note that I did not go to Alcoholics Anonymous or any other program (I attended exactly one Refuge Recovery meeting). Each one of us should find the support system that works best for us. I did turn to a number of websites, blogs, podcasts, and books to help me with my journey, and I still read and listen to a number of them. The sober community on Instagram also offers great encouragement.
Here are just a few of the additional obstacles that I’ve been addressing:
Television was my first true love before drinking came along. Someone else’s life was always more funny, glamorous, or admirable than my own. Then the internet, social media, and smartphones came along to gobble up even more of my attention. I’ve made huge strides in this area recently because I’ve finally accepted that if I want to achieve my goals, the screens must fade into the background.
Body image, food, and weight also dominated my mind from an early age. My weight has gone up and down, up and down—and it has the power to bring me to tears. I’ve finally found a way of eating and a form of exercise that together keep me healthy. But I still step on the scale religiously every morning and fret about going over some completely arbitrary number.
Shopping because I’m bored or I need a quick hit of gratification is a deep-rooted habit. Then, after spending too much money, I obsess about the financial ruin I’m certain is right around the corner. This issue requires firm boundaries and tight policing and will probably always be a struggle.
There’s more. So much more. Apparently, I spent the first 50 years of my life accumulating a lengthy list of short-term coping mechanisms and unhealthy attachments. Now, I plan to spend the rest of my years keeping ineffective diversions at bay while focusing on long-term, constructive answers to my angst.
Leading a sober life doesn’t have to be a punishment or an ending. If you see it as a beginning, as just the first step in an amazing journey, so much can unfold.
These days, I’m not just having “movie days.” The overall plot of my life is going through a welcome reboot. Directed by me, not alcohol.
Saturation Point – My first post about sobriety; includes links to lots of great resources
As I was scrolling through Facebook recently, I came upon a post from a former co-worker I like and admire very much. She was announcing that she had accepted an impressive new job. This was not the first colleague or friend to share similar news within the last several months.
Each time, I was truly happy to learn that someone for whom I have mad respect earned a major promotion, decided to start their own business, or otherwise achieved something extraordinary career-wise.
But I also felt a chilly wind blowing through my chest. Someone else’s success often leads me to panic that I am flailing about in life, and it’s particularly tough when I’m going through an iffy transition period.
Currently, I am making a shift in my career, and I guess you could say I’m playing a long game—though that phrasing would imply that a clear plan is in effect. In reality, there’s no telling how this move will pan out. Given my pessimistic and impatient nature, it’s pretty amazing that I’ve taken such a leap without knowing exactly how or where I’ll land.
The Self-Motivation Spectrum
On a long drive the other day, I did a little self coaching to process my fear of being an underachiever. As I have many times before, I pictured a spectrum that measures a potent mix of ambition, drive, and perseverance.
At one end of this spectrum are people like Oprah who started out their lives with very few advantages yet became wildly successful. These people shine bright in their chosen field, take on daring new projects, and lead the way for others. They are respected and reliable. Inspired and inspiring.
The kind of person who resides at the other end of the spectrum isn’t necessarily unimaginative or lazy, but for whatever reason they are not inclined to step outside their comfort zone, to take risks, to push ahead.
By my own estimation, I sit somewhere in the middle of that spectrum—maybe a bit above the center marker, or maybe just below (depending on the day, month, or year). Where you fall on the spectrum doesn’t matter so much, as long as you are happy and fulfilled.
For those of us who wish we were a little higher on the spectrum, an important question emerges: Why do folks land at various points along the spectrum? I’ve formed a theory that might help answer that question.
When I am faced with uncharted territory—something new, challenging, different—I typically convert much of the accompanying uncertainty and excitement into stress.
In situations like this, I would define stress as a toxic combination of three tendencies:
1. Catastrophizing: Conjuring up all the things that could go wrong, from the small to the spectacular.
2. Self-doubt: Assuming I will fail because I’m really not that talented, skilled, or industrious.
3. Martyrdom: Reminding myself that I have terrible luck, and life is so unfair.
Once stress takes form, I grab onto it like it’s a life raft in choppy water. But stress is not a lifesaver—its an identity that I cling to out of fear. I’m afraid to let go of that anxious person I’ve always been. It’s a habit as strong and automatic as any addiction.
People like Oprah, I believe, convert the same uncertainty and excitement into positive energy or fuel. They thrive on pushing themselves to reach higher, build new skills, and cross new thresholds. I’m sure they experience stress and doubt, too. But they might end up with 20 percent stress and 80 percent motivation, while I end up with 80 percent stress and 20 percent motivation.
Where Oprah sees opportunity, I see obstacles.
Jessie Graff is one of the top competitors on the show American Ninja Warrior. In the final seconds of an amazing run a couple years ago, Graff fell off the last obstacle, thus eliminating herself from the competition. She was interviewed on the sidelines afterward, and Graff said she was ok with falling—that discovering the limit of her abilities showed her where she needed to do the work. What a fabulous outlook to have!
So…I’ve hypothesized that some of us on the spectrum are stressing ourselves out far more than we should, and that is leading to discomfort and inertia. Now what?
Lately I’ve been listening more closely to the words that come out of my mouth—specifically the off-the-cuff answers I give to unexpected questions.
Just the other day, my mother’s therapist suggested something I could do to help her, and I was full of reasons why it wouldn’t work. As the words left my lips, I could hear the negativity, and I wanted to suck them back in. Too late. As the counselor urged me to focus on the potential positives, I sat there feeling ashamed of my pessimistic mindset.
A recent commenter on this very blog suggested that I “stop being so over critical.” Oh, how I would love to!
But that’s just it—no one can do this but me. Like Graff, my limits are pointing to where I need to do the work. If I want to move up a few notches on the motivation spectrum, I need to convert some of that excess stress to excitement, hope, and optimism.
Here are a few simple strategies I’m employing:
– When I read posts from or about inspiring people, rather than focus on how much I envy them or differ from them, I will try to focus on what I can learn from them.
– Instead of noting all the times I’ve faltered, I will recall the times I’ve succeeded. This will come more naturally if I practice telling myself over and over: You have what it takes!
– I will remind myself that even hugely accomplished people fail at various points in their lives. No one can win all the time, and failure is actually critical to success.
– I have committed that my next three blog posts will be more positive. Period.
Shaking off my longtime stress monkey isn’t going to happen overnight. Years of conditioning have etched unease into my nervous system.
But progress will come, if I embrace this attitude adjustment as a key part of my ongoing journey.
In the meantime, keep those announcements coming, my friends! I’m so proud of you all.