In the Disciple II Bible Study I’m taking, we recently read the familiar account of the Tower of Babel, in which God creates confusion in the languages of mankind. The lesson—a good one, no doubt—is not to be prideful or too trusting in mankind’s greatness. But when God throws mankind a metaphorical load of lemons like that one, I can’t help but look for the lemonade. Sure, miscommunication leads to war, conflict, hurt feelings, and humility, but hey, at times, it can be extraordinarily entertaining. So just for fun, let’s explore this upside to the Babel fall-out.
Before we start, please understand that I am incompetent in three languages. I know just enough Italian, Spanish, and Latin to embarrass myself utterly and completely in Florence, Madrid, and a medieval monastery. Frankly, it’s easy enough for me to sound like an idiot in my native tongue, and I have nothing but respect and admiration for those who struggle to learn another language since I have failed at it thrice.
This does not, however, keep me from laughing hysterically at the website Engrish, where people post pictures of badly translated English on packaging, signs, t-shirts, and airplane lavatories.
Have I said how much I LOVE the internet lately?
Because a picture is worth a thousand words, here are some links to pictures in Engrish that make me happy, in a warped and weird sort of way. They prove that if you don’t try to make sense of “life, the universe, and everything,” then “life, the universe, and everything” can be highly entertaining.
When Jesus Says Yes
Do Not What?
Mailman of Butterfly
Bread Butter Pudding Isn’t the rhyme scheme nice?
My favorite, because it’s just so thought-provoking, don’t you think?
Some Engrish translations actually make sense but make you laugh anyway.
Elevator
In or Out
A Lot?
Out of Control?
After you finish reading my essay, please, please go spend an hour perusing the other offerings.
We interrupt our regularly scheduled essay for a Public Service Announcement: Please note that some entries in Engrish are a bit (or more than a bit) vulgar. As of today, the first picture is particularly, um, rude. Viewer discretion is advised, and surfing Engrish when small children are around is not recommended by the Mommy Censorship Committee. Kids want to know what you’re laughing at…. You have been warned.
Back to our regular programming.
You can even make your own Engrish using Babel Fish’s free online translating site. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if Babel Fish is responsible for at least a few of the funny mistranslations on Engrish. In translation services—as in so much in life—you get what you pay for. But in this case, not paying anything can provide hours of entertainment.
First, I typed in “The world is too much with us; late and soon / Getting and spending we lay waste our powers…” (lines from a poem by William Wordsworth). Then I clicked to have this translated into Japanese, and then back into English. The result: “The world is our remainders; it is slow, and directly, profit, using, we our powers put in place wastefulness.”
I did the same with a quotation by Michael Pritchard: “Fear is that little darkroom where negatives are developed.” This time, I filtered it through Italian and back into English. It came out: “The fear is that small darkroom in which the negations they are developed.”
Next, I typed, “To change and to change for the better are two different things.” Filtered through German, it becomes “Too for the better to change and change are two different things.”
I could waste a lot of time playing this game. Or, filtered through Portuguese, I could “waste much time the game of this game.”
There’s a cosmic Babel Fish between men and women even when they speak the same language. Lots of books have been written trying to explain one sex to the other, but does anyone honestly think the communication gap has closed at all? What comes out of a woman’s mouth gets magically transformed into something completely different before it enters the ears of a man. “I want you to cook something light this weekend” becomes, in the ears of a man who shall remain nameless, “I want you to make a Bolognese sauce with a pound of bacon and ground pork shoulder over potato gnocchi topped with Parmesan cheese.” (Oh, my gosh…this was so good!)
Of course, the reverse is true as well. A man might say, “These steaks are thin” and the woman will hear, “You never buy the right meat and now you’re going to eat burnt offerings because you were too stupid to ask for thicker cuts.” This leads the woman, who shall remain nameless, to tell the man that he can go to the butcher himself from now on…a clear over-reaction given that the steaks ended up being perfectly medium rare and ever-so-tasty.
These are purely hypothetical examples, of course.
Language is a slippery thing, isn’t it? If people who speak the same language fluently can still have a hard time communicating, how much harder is it when other languages get dragged into the equation? Recent brain research has begun unraveling the mystery of language, but I seriously doubt that understanding more about how our brains generate language will help us overcome the communication barriers that afflict so many aspects of life on this wonderful planet. We just have to keep babbling around this life trying our best to understand and to be understood.
Perhaps a little fortune cookie wisdom from Engrish will help:
Q. What is contain it everything?
A. Wisdom
On the other hand, perhaps it won’t help at all.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Thursday, March 5, 2009
25 Things
This list, slightly modified for the blog, came from a tag I received from my cousin Kathy on FaceBook. It’s been a strange week full of symphonic coughing and aching heads, not at all conducive to coherent thought. I prefer to think of this post as a literary version of an atonal improvisational jazz piece…just because I need to feel smart right now and pretending to know something about music suits my very strange and heavily medicated mood.
If, perhaps, you were thinking I’m normal or something, this list may convince you otherwise.
1. In high school, I fully expected to be a scientist of some flavor, perhaps a biochemist or marine biologist.
2. Item 1 came to an end when I took Organic Chemistry my first semester at Duke. The Gross Chemistry Building, hidden by a screen of pine trees, was an ugly edifice of white concrete, black marble, cold lighting, and surly people walking around with hunched shoulders, glowering. The third floor of Allen Building, on the main quad of West Campus, housed the English department. Allen Building was an elegant campus-Gothic edifice of gray stone, pointed arches, fabulously warm lighting, and professors who smiled at you even if you weren’t in their classes. This friendly environment, combined with the fact that I almost flunked Organic Chemistry, led me to major in English.
3. In college, I knew how to use every single button on a scientific calculator. Within five years of graduating college, the only button I could remember how to use on the top half of a scientific calculator was the square root key. I still can use the bottom portion of a scientific calculator pretty well, though, which really isn’t saying much, is it?
4. I am legally blind in my right eye. Fortunately, it’s correctible to 20/20, so it’s really not a big deal. Besides, Christmas lights look especially beautiful to me without corrective lenses.
5. I am terrified of snakes. Even knowing this, George took me to the Sweetwater Rattlesnake Round-up in Texas many years ago because he wanted to run a race with some friends. I forgot my glasses (just brought prescription sunglasses that were too dark for inside), so the world looked fuzzy and indistinct, which heightened my fear enormously. It didn’t help when snake handlers put a couple of big rattlers ON A TABLE and annoyed them until they rattled, but of course I couldn’t see them until I was within striking distance, at which point I had a mini heart attack and ran screaming like a little girl. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get away from the sound of rattles because someone was selling rattles on sticks, and hundreds of kids and adult male rednecks were running around shaking the damn things. My ears kept hearing that terror-inducing rattle everywhere we went, and uncontrollable surges of adrenaline kept telling me to FLEE BECAUSE YOU ARE GOING TO DIE!!!!
6. During a recent “Come up with weird or gross band names” game at the dinner table, I came up with Toe Jam, which can’t possibly be original because it seems so obvious, but I swear I never heard it before and am really, really proud of myself for thinking it up. As you can tell, I live in a testosterone-rich environment that considers these sorts of topics polite table conversation.
7. If you stacked all the cardstock I have in my craft room, it would measure about 25 inches tall, which is not enough. I’ll let you know when I’ve reached enough. Don’t hold your breath.
8. I cannot tell you how many rubber stamps I have. The exact number is classified. In the case of rubber stamps, I utilize the following equation to determine the proper number to own: x + 1 = e, where x = the number of stamps I currently own and e = enough. George uses this equation for bicycles.
9. I rarely have “favorites.” There’s just too much in life to love and be enthusiastic about. So no favorite book, no favorite dessert (how do you choose between apple pie and brownies?), no favorite movie, no favorite color…. You get the picture.
10. Prayer is important to me.
11. I’m a first-born pleaser who wants everyone to play nicely and get along.
12. Hello, my name is Susan, and I’m a Coca-Cola addict. As of 3/5/09, it’s been six months and 26 days since my last drink. I really, really want one. Right now.
13. I hate my nose.
14. I am dangerously incompetent in three languages: Italian, Latin, and Spanish. I’m not entirely incompetent in Old English, but I read Middle English like I was born in 1360 in London. I wish I were as fluent in Italian and Latin, but this flaw in my education doesn’t keep me up at night.
15. When I received my first USAF Officers Club card in 1988, it showed my name as Mrs. George Raihala and sent me into my first true feminist snit. The memory of it still makes me mad.
16. My first work-study job was ordering and filing cards for the card catalog at Perkins library at Duke—a job which is now obsolete. This makes me feel really sad…and old.
17. I helped organize a graduate student conference at Wichita State for area universities so graduate students could get practice in presenting papers and participating in the profession. I also read a paper on Beowulf at another conference. A version of this paper received an A+ from my Anglo-Saxon Literature professor because it was really good and an A- from my poetry professor because it was “too long.” The poetry professor was annoyed he couldn’t grade it lower because he totally disagreed with my theoretical approach but knew the Anglo-Saxon lit professor had already given it an A+. I disliked the poetry professor intensely and enjoyed watching him squirm. I am not proud of this. But I am proud of the paper.
18. I hate to cook and love to eat. This combination has taught me a lot about putting up with necessity, whining about it only a little, and being really grateful for a husband who wishes he were a chef and for living in a country where food is good and plentiful.
19. When I taught at Troy University’s Ft. Benning campus, the Army Rangers referred to me as the Mussolini of the English department. Oddly, they meant this as a compliment, and, even more oddly, I took it as one.
20. During my twenties, I really despised children. Some of them feared me. I was happy about this.
21. One day in early 1999, at the age of 32, I was putting away laundry and spontaneously started humming the theme song to Winnie the Pooh. That’s when I knew I was pregnant. A week later, the pregnancy test confirmed it. Children no longer fear me. I am gloriously happy about this.
22. My first kiss happened on a dark beach on Kiawah Island when I was sweet sixteen. The boy’s name was Schuyler Sweet, and he was a gentleman.
23. I like the classical Greek philosophy of moderation in all things. I cannot always live that philosophy, especially when faced with chocolate or Coca-Cola, but I like it.
24. I’m generally comfortable with ambiguity, but only after I have looked for answers. If none pans out, I’m okay with not knowing something “for sure.” This contributed significantly to my success in literary studies, where ambiguity works like fertilizer for the mind. It also makes me relatively tolerant of religious and political views that differ from my own.
25. My house is a mess. At this moment, I truly don’t care. Maybe I will care tomorrow. Maybe not. All I know is that ten years ago, it would not have looked like it does right now.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Dove Promises and the Gender Divide
My girlfriend Deena gave me a bag of Dove Promises for Christmas. Until I bit into my first Promise, I thought Hershey’s Kisses were good. Dove, however, has spoiled me, and I won’t waste the effort of chewing a Hershey’s Kiss ever again. Each time you unwrap a Promise, you get to read a fun little saying on the inside of the wrapper; Hershey only has that white flag thingy, which is not nearly as interesting. Sucker that I am for anything inspirational, getting a saying in addition to deliciously creamy chocolate is like having icing on cake. My grandma’s icing. Which was actually fudge. Oh my goodness, ….
Sorry. I zoned for a minute. Fudge has that effect on me.
Deena’s Christmas gift put a brand new monkey on my back, and I’ve been stockpiling supplies of Dove Promises for the next hurricane. We have hurricanes in Ohio, you know. Really.
Not all the sentiments that grace the inside of Dove Promise wrappers are equally appealing. Occasionally, the sayings are thinly veiled advertisements. It’s such a disappointment to read “Enjoy a Dove Promise with a friend.” I don’t share a chocolate—I’ll share chocolates (plural) if there are enough to go around, but the message clearly uses the singular. These mini-ads make me toss the wrapper aside and reach for another Promise in hopes of finding a better saying: an example of marketing at its most insidiously delicious.
Some messages are sappy and should come with a side of insulin. These saccharine statements resemble what you might find in a bad self-help book written by someone on heavy prescription medication or really fun illegal drugs. Consider these examples:
Count your blessings not your worries. Does anyone really do this?
Make the most of today. The "most" what? Don’t you think Charles Manson probably “made the most of today,” at least from his point of view? This is too vague to be useful.
Life is all about making memories. I’ve made memories that I would like to forget. How are they inspiring? And is life “all about” any one thing? I prefer to think it’s much richer than that. Like dark chocolate. Or Grandma’s fudge icing.
Create peace for yourself. I wish the Dove wrapper would tell me how to do this.
Despite the obvious shortcomings of these examples, they still grab my attention because, sadly, I am a sappy girl. I’m also a former English composition teacher who stood in front of 28 freshman composition classes at four universities spouting the mantra “Be SPECIFIC!” The folks at Dove may have hired a stoned self-help guru to write some of their vague messages, but they must have also hired one of my former students to write these refreshingly specific and useful tidbits of advice:
Take 5 deep breaths. This is ALWAYS a good idea, especially for those of us who don’t handle stress well.
Buy yourself flowers. YES! We shouldn't need permission from a chocolate wrapper to do this for ourselves, but we do.
Learn to say “hello” in another language. (Why not? Hola, Buon Giorno, Bon Jour…add your own translations in the comments, please!
Chocolate therapy is oh, so good. YES! And it’s cheaper than psychotherapy.
Make a pledge to get 8 hours of shut eye. I so totally WISH I could do this.
I love these messages so much they make me SHOUT! Sorry about that.
Finally, some sayings have a bit—sometimes just a bit—of philosophical depth and sincerity:
Believe in and act on your dreams. This one works if your dreams are nice dreams and not Charles Manson’s dreams, but I generally agree with this.
Success is the sum of many small efforts. It’s hard to argue with this one, and I like how it makes all the small efforts of my life seem so much more important…because they are.
The more you praise and celebrate your life, the more there is in life to celebrate. This borders on psychobabble, but I’m starting to believe that, unless your brain chemistry is messed up by PMS or mental illness, you pretty much determine how happy you are.
Remind yourself that it’s okay not to be perfect. The people at Dove wrote this one for me, personally. How did they know?
You may be wondering by now what all this has to do with the gender divide. All of the above is pretty girly; Dove clearly markets its Promises to women, which makes sense seeing as we eat more chocolate than men. George, however, loves the Dove Promises as much as I do and reads his wrappers with an active Y chromosome that drains all the girly out of them. Consider this snippet of conversation over dessert:
Me: This one says, "Give of yourself to someone who needs you." Do you need me?
George: I need you, baby. For three to five minutes.
See what I mean? He sucked the girly right out of that sentiment and dragged it down into the gutter. He did this instinctively, too, with no need to pause and think about his response. He has also invented his own sayings to replace the girly stuff he can’t relate to. If Dove hired George, many more men would eat chocolate:
Go find somebody smaller than you to pick on. It’ll make you feel better about yourself.
Road rage is a virtue.
Crush your competition.
Believe the best in yourself. Assume the worst of others.
Success is the sum of many small efforts if you want your success to be small.
Of course this anti-motivational, Y-chromosome talk amuses me, but there are times when I long for the presence of double-X friends and relatives who will not turn road rage into a virtue and will experience the same blissed-out state of well being and oneness with the universe as they savor fine chocolates (plural) with me.
In our house, however, Y chromosomes dominate, as demonstrated by the following conversation over a dessert of Dove Promises last week:
Nick: Mom, Dad hit me!
George: Nu-uh.
Nick: Ya-huh.
George: Nu-uh.
Nick: Ya-huh.
George [to me]: How does it feel to be the only adult in a house with four boys?
Me: Please pass me another Promise.
Create peace for yourself…any way you can.
Sorry. I zoned for a minute. Fudge has that effect on me.
Deena’s Christmas gift put a brand new monkey on my back, and I’ve been stockpiling supplies of Dove Promises for the next hurricane. We have hurricanes in Ohio, you know. Really.
Not all the sentiments that grace the inside of Dove Promise wrappers are equally appealing. Occasionally, the sayings are thinly veiled advertisements. It’s such a disappointment to read “Enjoy a Dove Promise with a friend.” I don’t share a chocolate—I’ll share chocolates (plural) if there are enough to go around, but the message clearly uses the singular. These mini-ads make me toss the wrapper aside and reach for another Promise in hopes of finding a better saying: an example of marketing at its most insidiously delicious.
Some messages are sappy and should come with a side of insulin. These saccharine statements resemble what you might find in a bad self-help book written by someone on heavy prescription medication or really fun illegal drugs. Consider these examples:
Count your blessings not your worries. Does anyone really do this?
Make the most of today. The "most" what? Don’t you think Charles Manson probably “made the most of today,” at least from his point of view? This is too vague to be useful.
Life is all about making memories. I’ve made memories that I would like to forget. How are they inspiring? And is life “all about” any one thing? I prefer to think it’s much richer than that. Like dark chocolate. Or Grandma’s fudge icing.
Create peace for yourself. I wish the Dove wrapper would tell me how to do this.
Despite the obvious shortcomings of these examples, they still grab my attention because, sadly, I am a sappy girl. I’m also a former English composition teacher who stood in front of 28 freshman composition classes at four universities spouting the mantra “Be SPECIFIC!” The folks at Dove may have hired a stoned self-help guru to write some of their vague messages, but they must have also hired one of my former students to write these refreshingly specific and useful tidbits of advice:
Take 5 deep breaths. This is ALWAYS a good idea, especially for those of us who don’t handle stress well.
Buy yourself flowers. YES! We shouldn't need permission from a chocolate wrapper to do this for ourselves, but we do.
Learn to say “hello” in another language. (Why not? Hola, Buon Giorno, Bon Jour…add your own translations in the comments, please!
Chocolate therapy is oh, so good. YES! And it’s cheaper than psychotherapy.
Make a pledge to get 8 hours of shut eye. I so totally WISH I could do this.
I love these messages so much they make me SHOUT! Sorry about that.
Finally, some sayings have a bit—sometimes just a bit—of philosophical depth and sincerity:
Believe in and act on your dreams. This one works if your dreams are nice dreams and not Charles Manson’s dreams, but I generally agree with this.
Success is the sum of many small efforts. It’s hard to argue with this one, and I like how it makes all the small efforts of my life seem so much more important…because they are.
The more you praise and celebrate your life, the more there is in life to celebrate. This borders on psychobabble, but I’m starting to believe that, unless your brain chemistry is messed up by PMS or mental illness, you pretty much determine how happy you are.
Remind yourself that it’s okay not to be perfect. The people at Dove wrote this one for me, personally. How did they know?
You may be wondering by now what all this has to do with the gender divide. All of the above is pretty girly; Dove clearly markets its Promises to women, which makes sense seeing as we eat more chocolate than men. George, however, loves the Dove Promises as much as I do and reads his wrappers with an active Y chromosome that drains all the girly out of them. Consider this snippet of conversation over dessert:
Me: This one says, "Give of yourself to someone who needs you." Do you need me?
George: I need you, baby. For three to five minutes.
See what I mean? He sucked the girly right out of that sentiment and dragged it down into the gutter. He did this instinctively, too, with no need to pause and think about his response. He has also invented his own sayings to replace the girly stuff he can’t relate to. If Dove hired George, many more men would eat chocolate:
Go find somebody smaller than you to pick on. It’ll make you feel better about yourself.
Road rage is a virtue.
Crush your competition.
Believe the best in yourself. Assume the worst of others.
Success is the sum of many small efforts if you want your success to be small.
Of course this anti-motivational, Y-chromosome talk amuses me, but there are times when I long for the presence of double-X friends and relatives who will not turn road rage into a virtue and will experience the same blissed-out state of well being and oneness with the universe as they savor fine chocolates (plural) with me.
In our house, however, Y chromosomes dominate, as demonstrated by the following conversation over a dessert of Dove Promises last week:
Nick: Mom, Dad hit me!
George: Nu-uh.
Nick: Ya-huh.
George: Nu-uh.
Nick: Ya-huh.
George [to me]: How does it feel to be the only adult in a house with four boys?
Me: Please pass me another Promise.
Create peace for yourself…any way you can.
More Questioning
I have started a second blog about autism called (surprise!) Questioning Autism. For those who don't know, I am writing a book on autism, and this new blog is basically to help with that project. I would like Questioning Autism to evolve into a useful resource for other parents and family members of people with autism.
Each week, I will post a question asking people in the autism community to share their answers either in the comments or via email. Most of the questions will probably be aimed at parents but other relatives, teachers, doctors, and therapists are welcome to add their two cents anytime. As time goes on, I'll also add links to useful resources and information on other blogs and websites.
I know many of you will not be interested in subscribing to Questioning Autism, but if you know anyone who has or works with a child on the autism spectrum, please forward this link to them. Also, any ideas you have for promoting the blog online would really help, too. My online friend Joan B kindly promoted Questioning Autism and Autism Awareness Month on her blog, Paperlicious. I've linked to her blog before because it's so funny and her stamping is divine, so if you haven't checked it out, I highly recommend it!
For those of you who are part of the autism community, I am asking for constructive input, suggestions for things I can do to make the blog more helpful and interesting, sites I could link to, questions I could ask, etc. I really appreciate any help or suggestions anyone can give!
For those of you who subscribe to Questioning my Intelligence, thanks so much for your support and encouragement and comments and emails. You have no idea how grateful I am. Next essay coming soon...be prepared to laugh!
Each week, I will post a question asking people in the autism community to share their answers either in the comments or via email. Most of the questions will probably be aimed at parents but other relatives, teachers, doctors, and therapists are welcome to add their two cents anytime. As time goes on, I'll also add links to useful resources and information on other blogs and websites.
I know many of you will not be interested in subscribing to Questioning Autism, but if you know anyone who has or works with a child on the autism spectrum, please forward this link to them. Also, any ideas you have for promoting the blog online would really help, too. My online friend Joan B kindly promoted Questioning Autism and Autism Awareness Month on her blog, Paperlicious. I've linked to her blog before because it's so funny and her stamping is divine, so if you haven't checked it out, I highly recommend it!
For those of you who are part of the autism community, I am asking for constructive input, suggestions for things I can do to make the blog more helpful and interesting, sites I could link to, questions I could ask, etc. I really appreciate any help or suggestions anyone can give!
For those of you who subscribe to Questioning my Intelligence, thanks so much for your support and encouragement and comments and emails. You have no idea how grateful I am. Next essay coming soon...be prepared to laugh!
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Strange Adventures with the United States Air Force, Part 1
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Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Aging Gracefully
I’m going gray. I’ve been going gray since my late twenties. Every time I look in the mirror, more shiny silver hair sparkles back at me and reminds me how eating my own words leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
You see, my mother used to color her hair. Her gray hair was silver, shiny, and pretty, and the color she got out of bottles just looked wrong to me. Being the tactful child I was, I told her so. Repeatedly. She eventually gave up coloring and let nature take its course. Now, she has a gorgeous head of sparkling silver hair.
My gray is coming in just like Mom’s did, so if I colored it, I would be a hypocrite. Hoist with my own petard. What exactly is a “petard,” you ask? So did I. Turns out it’s an explosive charge for breaching a fortification. Well, the fortification of my vanity is certainly being breached. With gray hair. Lots of it.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not morally opposed to hair coloring at all. I see hair coloring as a fashion statement, and for a few people, it’s an essential means of correcting that which Mother Nature got wrong. If you want to color your own hair, go for it. But if your gray is really sparkly and compliments your complexion, what’s the point? Spend that money on a great purse, the perfect red lipstick, a classic pair of black pants, or a bunch of rubber stamps. I do.
I am not alone in this approach. At my son’s field day last year, I met a grandmother with a gorgeous head of white hair. She looked beautiful, so I told her how I admired her hair. She admitted to feeling the same way about coloring her hair as I did. “If it were some ugly shade of gray, I’d color it in a heartbeat,” she said. “But since it’s shiny and nice, I’m leaving it white. It’s so nice not having to worry about my roots like my daughter does.” What a smart woman. Just like my mom.
I’d like to age gracefully, and letting my hair go gray without a fight seems a good start. Unfortunately, Mother Nature does more than turn your hair gray as you age. Can someone please help me locate the graceful medium between pathetically giving in without a fight and pathetically fighting the inevitable?
Like pornography, ungraceful aging is easy to spot. The nipped and tucked of Hollywood’s red carpet very publicly demonstrate that, with their fat lips, stretched eyes, and stiff, plastic faces. Don’t you love the Geico commercial with Joan Rivers in which she pokes fun at having no feeling left in her face? Plastic surgery for purely cosmetic purposes is just a really dumb idea. It’s a wonderful blessing for people with deformities or injuries, but when it’s used to keep natural aging at bay, it’s sort of pathetic. Is it worth running the risk of looking all fake and plastic or—this may possibly be worse—dying to have fewer wrinkles or a skinnier butt? I don’t think so.
Then there’s the cost. I read an article years ago about plastic surgery and learned that rhinoplasty averaged $3,000. Do you know how many rubber stamps that would buy? Sheesh. I may not like my nose but I definitely have my priorities.
In fact, when it comes to anti-aging products, I’m sort of cheap. This should surprise no one who has read my China Policy. I use Neutrogena eye cream and moisturizer. When Target raised the price of the eye cream by $6 last year, I quit buying it, and within three months, I looked ten years older. Considering my gray hair and not-so-fine lines, I pretty much look my age of 42, so adding ten to that didn’t seem graceful at all. Now, I pay for the eye cream. A tube lasts me about three months, so I feel it’s a good investment even at $16.99. Some desperate people spend hundreds of dollars on tiny jars of fancy designer “crèmes.” I wonder if the pretentious, Frenchified spelling makes them work any better.
There’s a huge gap between plastic surgery and spending $16.99 every few months. I’m definitely a long way from what could be called a pathetic pursuit of the fountain of youth. On the other hand, perhaps I’m not trying hard enough. Does $16.99 buy me “graceful” wrinkles. I just don’t know.
Then there are the clothes. Women of a certain age look silly when they dress themselves like teenagers or wear provocative necklines and navel-baring crop tops. I didn’t wear those things when I was young, and feel no desire to do so now. My personal fashion statement has always been best described as “safe and boring.” I can’t remember the word “graceful” ever applying to my wardrobe. Most of my clothes come from the casual departments at Eddie Bauer, LLBean, and Lands End. In the winter, I wear relaxed-fit jeans, turtlenecks, and big, bulky cardigans or fleece jackets. If it’s over 25 degrees Fahrenheit and relatively dry, I wear my Birkenstocks with fleece socks because they are the most comfortable footwear available to humankind. Perhaps wearing Birkenstocks with fleece socks is undignified. I just don’t know. In the summer, I wear Bermuda-length shorts or cropped pants, polo-style shirts or nice t-shirts in solid colors, and sandals. Sometimes I paint my toenails red. Would pink be more dignified?
A little more effort on my part might make me look graceful, but I’m not sure how to pull that off given the last few years’ fashion trends. It took me two days of rigorous searching to find a dress for my husband’s military retirement ceremony. Every dress I tried on made me look either a) like I was trying too hard to be hip, or b) like I was a grandmother going to a wedding. I finally located a simple black dress that I think looked graceful and appropriate, but I can’t be sure because it was on sale at a really good price, and I may just have been fooling myself.
Ultimately, will it matter one way or the other if I age gracefully? When we stop aging, we die. When that happens to me, if I’m blessed enough to go home to Jesus, I’ll be too filled with Amazing Grace to care what a graceless thing I was back on earth.
If I’m not in heaven, I’ll have much bigger problems to deal with than wrinkles and gray hair.
That sort of puts it in perspective, don’t you think?
You see, my mother used to color her hair. Her gray hair was silver, shiny, and pretty, and the color she got out of bottles just looked wrong to me. Being the tactful child I was, I told her so. Repeatedly. She eventually gave up coloring and let nature take its course. Now, she has a gorgeous head of sparkling silver hair.
My gray is coming in just like Mom’s did, so if I colored it, I would be a hypocrite. Hoist with my own petard. What exactly is a “petard,” you ask? So did I. Turns out it’s an explosive charge for breaching a fortification. Well, the fortification of my vanity is certainly being breached. With gray hair. Lots of it.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not morally opposed to hair coloring at all. I see hair coloring as a fashion statement, and for a few people, it’s an essential means of correcting that which Mother Nature got wrong. If you want to color your own hair, go for it. But if your gray is really sparkly and compliments your complexion, what’s the point? Spend that money on a great purse, the perfect red lipstick, a classic pair of black pants, or a bunch of rubber stamps. I do.
I am not alone in this approach. At my son’s field day last year, I met a grandmother with a gorgeous head of white hair. She looked beautiful, so I told her how I admired her hair. She admitted to feeling the same way about coloring her hair as I did. “If it were some ugly shade of gray, I’d color it in a heartbeat,” she said. “But since it’s shiny and nice, I’m leaving it white. It’s so nice not having to worry about my roots like my daughter does.” What a smart woman. Just like my mom.
I’d like to age gracefully, and letting my hair go gray without a fight seems a good start. Unfortunately, Mother Nature does more than turn your hair gray as you age. Can someone please help me locate the graceful medium between pathetically giving in without a fight and pathetically fighting the inevitable?
Like pornography, ungraceful aging is easy to spot. The nipped and tucked of Hollywood’s red carpet very publicly demonstrate that, with their fat lips, stretched eyes, and stiff, plastic faces. Don’t you love the Geico commercial with Joan Rivers in which she pokes fun at having no feeling left in her face? Plastic surgery for purely cosmetic purposes is just a really dumb idea. It’s a wonderful blessing for people with deformities or injuries, but when it’s used to keep natural aging at bay, it’s sort of pathetic. Is it worth running the risk of looking all fake and plastic or—this may possibly be worse—dying to have fewer wrinkles or a skinnier butt? I don’t think so.
Then there’s the cost. I read an article years ago about plastic surgery and learned that rhinoplasty averaged $3,000. Do you know how many rubber stamps that would buy? Sheesh. I may not like my nose but I definitely have my priorities.
In fact, when it comes to anti-aging products, I’m sort of cheap. This should surprise no one who has read my China Policy. I use Neutrogena eye cream and moisturizer. When Target raised the price of the eye cream by $6 last year, I quit buying it, and within three months, I looked ten years older. Considering my gray hair and not-so-fine lines, I pretty much look my age of 42, so adding ten to that didn’t seem graceful at all. Now, I pay for the eye cream. A tube lasts me about three months, so I feel it’s a good investment even at $16.99. Some desperate people spend hundreds of dollars on tiny jars of fancy designer “crèmes.” I wonder if the pretentious, Frenchified spelling makes them work any better.
There’s a huge gap between plastic surgery and spending $16.99 every few months. I’m definitely a long way from what could be called a pathetic pursuit of the fountain of youth. On the other hand, perhaps I’m not trying hard enough. Does $16.99 buy me “graceful” wrinkles. I just don’t know.
Then there are the clothes. Women of a certain age look silly when they dress themselves like teenagers or wear provocative necklines and navel-baring crop tops. I didn’t wear those things when I was young, and feel no desire to do so now. My personal fashion statement has always been best described as “safe and boring.” I can’t remember the word “graceful” ever applying to my wardrobe. Most of my clothes come from the casual departments at Eddie Bauer, LLBean, and Lands End. In the winter, I wear relaxed-fit jeans, turtlenecks, and big, bulky cardigans or fleece jackets. If it’s over 25 degrees Fahrenheit and relatively dry, I wear my Birkenstocks with fleece socks because they are the most comfortable footwear available to humankind. Perhaps wearing Birkenstocks with fleece socks is undignified. I just don’t know. In the summer, I wear Bermuda-length shorts or cropped pants, polo-style shirts or nice t-shirts in solid colors, and sandals. Sometimes I paint my toenails red. Would pink be more dignified?
A little more effort on my part might make me look graceful, but I’m not sure how to pull that off given the last few years’ fashion trends. It took me two days of rigorous searching to find a dress for my husband’s military retirement ceremony. Every dress I tried on made me look either a) like I was trying too hard to be hip, or b) like I was a grandmother going to a wedding. I finally located a simple black dress that I think looked graceful and appropriate, but I can’t be sure because it was on sale at a really good price, and I may just have been fooling myself.
Ultimately, will it matter one way or the other if I age gracefully? When we stop aging, we die. When that happens to me, if I’m blessed enough to go home to Jesus, I’ll be too filled with Amazing Grace to care what a graceless thing I was back on earth.
If I’m not in heaven, I’ll have much bigger problems to deal with than wrinkles and gray hair.
That sort of puts it in perspective, don’t you think?
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Perspectives on Happiness
I reconnected with an old college friend recently on Facebook, and our exchanged messages made me think about my youthful dreams for the future and how unfulfilled those dreams are now that the future is very much the present. In my twenties, I honestly believed only a PhD would make me happy. While I still think I would have been an excellent medieval literature professor and I’m fairly certain that path would have led me to happiness, it would not be the same happiness I have now. My perspective has changed a bit since my twenties. Having children will do that to a person.
When I turned 32, I experienced an intense yet short-term depression because I didn’t have a PhD yet and felt like my life was a complete failure. (Can you say “Drama Queen”?) Fortunately, I heard the siren’s call of my biological clock ticking at the same time and very shortly found myself blissfully pregnant.
My apologies for mixing metaphors. I can’t help myself sometimes. Really.
Gandhi said, “Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony.” My parents raised me with the saying “If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.” “Thinking, saying, and doing” this pithy little gem is why I always had stellar job evaluations, from the time I worked in fast food at age 17 to my last paid job as a writer/editor at a major computer memory manufacturer.
It’s also why last Thursday I went from just sweeping my floor to sweeping and then vacuuming the baseboards and then Swiffer WetJetting so hard I broke the handle on my Swiffer and was forced to bend over double using just the bottom half of the handle to finish the last third of the 2,000 square feet of hardwood floor in my house.
Okay, I exaggerate. We don’t have 2,000 square feet of hardwood, but it felt like 2,000 square feet, especially after shoveling all that snow and ice the day before. Oh, my aching back! When I told George about this, he asked why I didn’t quit mopping when the Swiffer broke.
Failure—quitting is just a form of failure—is generally not an option in my world. I see all the tiny details which need to be done and am incapable of stopping myself once I start a job until every little detail is finished…as perfectly as possible. And don’t try to interrupt me once I get started because I will punch you where the bruises don’t show. Just ask George.
This monomaniacal focus is a curse that has led me not to clean something until I have six hours and plenty of hormones built up to carry me through the ordeal, which explains why my house is generally so messy that I won’t invite friends over because I’m too embarrassed for them to see the chaos. Karen, I hope you’re paying attention here.
Gandhi was right. Harmonious “thinking, saying, and doing” does make me happy. Not necessarily while I’m “doing,” mind you, but once I am done, an amazing sense of accomplishment fills my heart to bursting with joy. This joy motivates me in all areas of life, but as you might imagine, it’s exhausting. If I had a job in academia, my brain would constantly be working on papers, syllabus, conferences, lectures, tests, committee meetings, planning, grading, and so forth, striving to do its best to cover all those details. I would hardly be able to cope with the infinite details of motherhood such as clipping fingernails, or wiping bottoms, or doctor appointments and snotty noses and chapped lips and barf buckets, or shopping for clothes for kids who grow overnight, or preschool Valentine’s parties, or school paperwork and homework, or corralling the 1.6 billion toys that appear by spontaneous generation in my home, or limiting computer time despite the whining and begging, or arbitrating disputes, or cooking, or doing 20 loads of laundry a week….
I could go on, but you probably need to breathe. Besides, if I keep going, I’ll realize that my current feeling of being on top of all these details is actually an illusion.
I cherish this illusion.
My dreams of a tenured position at a major university and a curriculum vitae ten pages long are dead, and instead of filling me with grief, the memory of those unfulfilled dreams leaves me with a fond smile. You see, if I had gone back to an academic career after Jack was born, I would have been forced to leave that career when he was diagnosed anyway. The wacky schedule of a special-needs mother is often incompatible with a paying job, but it does allow the over-achiever in me to volunteer in Jack’s school as an early literacy tutor, to volunteer at Nick’s school library and book fair fundraisers, to take a Disciple Bible Study class, to write a blog and a book, and to make a bunch of cards for the troops.
I sure do a lot for someone who doesn’t get paid, but can you imagine what I would be like if I were paid to do these things? Don’t you think that an obsessive-compulsive perfectionist who can’t stop mopping her own wood floor after the mop breaks would go crazy trying to get stellar job reviews from both family and an employer? Don’t you think, given this strong evidence of mental instability, that all the pressure I put on myself would be incompatible with happiness? I thank God above and George below that I have a choice and don’t have to find out the answers to these questions for myself.
Helen Keller said, “Many persons have the wrong idea of what constitutes true happiness. It is not achieved through gratification but through fidelity to a worthy purpose.” If we are to be happy, each and every one of us has to figure out our worthy purpose. No two purposes are the same, just as no two people are the same. Furthermore, our purpose is not a constant; it changes over time, which means we need to reassess our priorities frequently and sometimes may even surprise ourselves with a new and worthy purpose we hadn’t expected. No one is more surprised than I am that my worthy purpose has changed so much and that the PhD means so little to me now.
Right now, my worthy purpose is being the best mom I can be for my boys, and in our particular situation, that means not working at a paying job. As the boys get older, I imagine this will change. But for now, my plan for a dissertation on the significance of sacramental symbolism in medieval romance can wait. I doubt many people are heartbroken over this.
I certainly am not.
When I turned 32, I experienced an intense yet short-term depression because I didn’t have a PhD yet and felt like my life was a complete failure. (Can you say “Drama Queen”?) Fortunately, I heard the siren’s call of my biological clock ticking at the same time and very shortly found myself blissfully pregnant.
My apologies for mixing metaphors. I can’t help myself sometimes. Really.
Gandhi said, “Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony.” My parents raised me with the saying “If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.” “Thinking, saying, and doing” this pithy little gem is why I always had stellar job evaluations, from the time I worked in fast food at age 17 to my last paid job as a writer/editor at a major computer memory manufacturer.
It’s also why last Thursday I went from just sweeping my floor to sweeping and then vacuuming the baseboards and then Swiffer WetJetting so hard I broke the handle on my Swiffer and was forced to bend over double using just the bottom half of the handle to finish the last third of the 2,000 square feet of hardwood floor in my house.
Okay, I exaggerate. We don’t have 2,000 square feet of hardwood, but it felt like 2,000 square feet, especially after shoveling all that snow and ice the day before. Oh, my aching back! When I told George about this, he asked why I didn’t quit mopping when the Swiffer broke.
Failure—quitting is just a form of failure—is generally not an option in my world. I see all the tiny details which need to be done and am incapable of stopping myself once I start a job until every little detail is finished…as perfectly as possible. And don’t try to interrupt me once I get started because I will punch you where the bruises don’t show. Just ask George.
This monomaniacal focus is a curse that has led me not to clean something until I have six hours and plenty of hormones built up to carry me through the ordeal, which explains why my house is generally so messy that I won’t invite friends over because I’m too embarrassed for them to see the chaos. Karen, I hope you’re paying attention here.
Gandhi was right. Harmonious “thinking, saying, and doing” does make me happy. Not necessarily while I’m “doing,” mind you, but once I am done, an amazing sense of accomplishment fills my heart to bursting with joy. This joy motivates me in all areas of life, but as you might imagine, it’s exhausting. If I had a job in academia, my brain would constantly be working on papers, syllabus, conferences, lectures, tests, committee meetings, planning, grading, and so forth, striving to do its best to cover all those details. I would hardly be able to cope with the infinite details of motherhood such as clipping fingernails, or wiping bottoms, or doctor appointments and snotty noses and chapped lips and barf buckets, or shopping for clothes for kids who grow overnight, or preschool Valentine’s parties, or school paperwork and homework, or corralling the 1.6 billion toys that appear by spontaneous generation in my home, or limiting computer time despite the whining and begging, or arbitrating disputes, or cooking, or doing 20 loads of laundry a week….
I could go on, but you probably need to breathe. Besides, if I keep going, I’ll realize that my current feeling of being on top of all these details is actually an illusion.
I cherish this illusion.
My dreams of a tenured position at a major university and a curriculum vitae ten pages long are dead, and instead of filling me with grief, the memory of those unfulfilled dreams leaves me with a fond smile. You see, if I had gone back to an academic career after Jack was born, I would have been forced to leave that career when he was diagnosed anyway. The wacky schedule of a special-needs mother is often incompatible with a paying job, but it does allow the over-achiever in me to volunteer in Jack’s school as an early literacy tutor, to volunteer at Nick’s school library and book fair fundraisers, to take a Disciple Bible Study class, to write a blog and a book, and to make a bunch of cards for the troops.
I sure do a lot for someone who doesn’t get paid, but can you imagine what I would be like if I were paid to do these things? Don’t you think that an obsessive-compulsive perfectionist who can’t stop mopping her own wood floor after the mop breaks would go crazy trying to get stellar job reviews from both family and an employer? Don’t you think, given this strong evidence of mental instability, that all the pressure I put on myself would be incompatible with happiness? I thank God above and George below that I have a choice and don’t have to find out the answers to these questions for myself.
Helen Keller said, “Many persons have the wrong idea of what constitutes true happiness. It is not achieved through gratification but through fidelity to a worthy purpose.” If we are to be happy, each and every one of us has to figure out our worthy purpose. No two purposes are the same, just as no two people are the same. Furthermore, our purpose is not a constant; it changes over time, which means we need to reassess our priorities frequently and sometimes may even surprise ourselves with a new and worthy purpose we hadn’t expected. No one is more surprised than I am that my worthy purpose has changed so much and that the PhD means so little to me now.
Right now, my worthy purpose is being the best mom I can be for my boys, and in our particular situation, that means not working at a paying job. As the boys get older, I imagine this will change. But for now, my plan for a dissertation on the significance of sacramental symbolism in medieval romance can wait. I doubt many people are heartbroken over this.
I certainly am not.
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