Bend Me, Shape Me

Many years ago I went to a seminar, titled ... I don't remember what. Some sort of self-help thing. The speaker's primary message was that to find true fulfillment we should get back in touch with the things that worked for us as children. Recall those things that earned you praise and if you aren't still doing those things, you should resurrect them. Put them back in your life because they represent the genuine you.

Dutifully I closed my eyes and thought back to when I was 10, 11, 12. I think 12 is about the last time I was praised for anything. Allright, let's see.....

• Good with children. I was praised for that. Perhaps so everyone would have a ready and willing babysitter?
• Cooking. I received a lot of praise for cooking. In fact, my mother hated cooking and the sooner I took that over she could move on to things more personally rewarding for her.
• Playing the piano. I received many compliments about that. Has sort of a Jane Austen ring to it, doesn't it? The womanly arts and all.

At the time of this seminar, I was still young enough and dumb enough, and desparate enough, to think maybe this was IT. Could it really be so simple? Without further ado I contemplated a career change to child care, started throwing more dinner parties, and tried to figure out how I could acquire a piano on my budget.

But something kept nagging at me. Mainly, that these weren't necessarily things I enjoyed. Sure, I liked the praise. And I kept doing these things in order to keep the kudos coming. But, without the reinforcement, I wouldn't, and didn't, do any of these things for the sheer joy of it.

Now, from my great advantage of experience, I would like to tell that speaker that she was waaay off base. Only doing things that elicit praise keeps you dependent on external validation...like you can't make up your own mind. And runs dangerously close to molding you into the shape that satisfies the praiser. (Gee, I think I have the ingredients for a Lifetime movie here.)

While feedback is nice, and useful, just as with other information you acquire you need to consider the source. From the first time our parents cooed "Gooood girrrrl!" we have been putting our crayons back in the box. We are shaped, by praise, to make everyone else happy. I challenge you to find something in your daily routine that is not praise-driven. Oh, vacuuming you say? C'mon. What is there about vacuuming that gives you joy? Yes, Mrs. Stepford, I appreciate that being able to provide a pleasant home for your family is satisfying. But I also know that people around here have many more dimensions than that.

If it doesn't put you any closer to your goals, or help you figure out what your goals are how valuable can it be? Maybe we should focus on the things we do in spite of whether or not we're praised. y'think?

"...if they were us they would be depressed"

I worked for several years in the mental health department of a managed care facility and a doctor friend told me that a doctor's least favorite patient is a middle-aged woman in pain. I swear they just prescribe anti-depressants rather than try to figure out what is really wrong because they think if they were us they would be depressed!

This is a quote from Rebecca that I couldn't resist blogging on. (Hope you don't mind?) She and I exchanged some comments about the medical profession's enthusiasm for medicating women of a certain age. But when she posted this it dove-tailed perfectly with my own thoughts.

See, I just finished reading A Long Way Down. I am was Maureen. While Maureen was not actually the recipient of any druggery (because of course she was invisible) if anyone had noticed her I am sure they would have fallen all over themselves stuffing her pockets with pills of every color.

Here are the next four reasons, after Rebecca's theory, for drugging middle-aged women.

1. No one wants to deal with erratic hormones.
2. So they'll shut up and be quiet.
3. Doctors actually have no people skills.
4. Men are intimidated by tears.

Several years ago I found myself in conversation with the husband of an acquaintance. He had a PhD in pharmacology, then decided he would be happier in direct patient care. So he invested the significant years required to become a psychiatrist. You realize, of course, that means obtaining an MD and completing a residency. This man was committed to his goal.

At the time of our conversation he had set up his private practice. And was promptly disillusioned. The medical insurance reimbursement system did not compensate him for doing what psychiatrists are trained to do: listening to patients. They reimburse a limited dollar amount for a limited number of visits. So there he sat in his new office, writing scrips all day.

He probably could have saved the years of school and done it just as well from the trunk of his car.
y'think?

Beauty Secret, Cheap

I just saw a commercial disguised as a faux talk show.
The product was some wrinkle filler.
The "hostess" was consoling her "guest" who had "wrinkles".
Her 33 year old guest.
Or so the caption said.
Poor woman, you think.
A wrinkle problem now?
What will she do when she gets to be, say, 37?
Here's a clue.
Gain 15 pounds.
Nothing fills out those hollows like an extra daily doughnut.
Or whatever.

Through the Ages

In any large group of humans, we tend to sort ourselves off into smaller pods. After reading comments to a previous post from Jess and BB I realized that age, however, is not the primary catalyst for glomming together. Most often, we group around shared interests.

Once it was easy to label some "interest" groups by age. You would think moms-with-kids might be one. But you would be wrong. My own mom was halfway through her 40's walking my youngest sib to pre-school. I know she sometimes felt the culture shock, discussing toddler-parenting with women 20 years her junior. Today, a generation later, I expect those recital audiences are even more peppered with salt 'n pepper hair as women delay the mom thing.

The Retired Man club used to be another mono-aged thing. At the mall, their cold weather clubhouse, I would see the cluster of golf capped heads, bobbing and nodding. Now I know men who retire in their fifties. Caught between senior manager and senior citizen, they don't have much in common with the chin-whisker crowd.

But there are lots of interests that cross all lines. At the video store, I check in with the guy who dresses emo style because he and I often have similar reactions to movies. After I've seen something unexpectedly good I like to compare notes with him.

At our village library the children's librarian (my age) is the go-to person for recommendations. If you need a book for a 12 year old, you can definitely trust her advice. Her suggestions don't come from the latest ALA Best of the Best pamphlet but pesonal experience. Her at-home reading choices are most often new releases for the junior high crowd. I bet her grandchildren get the best Christmas and birthday books!

And as for me, though I have neighbors whose lifestyle and age more closely match mine, my best friend in the neighborhood is young enough to be my...granddaughter (if we lived in another state). We walk and talk, and talk while we walk. We pick apart the same earthshaking topics you discuss with your age mates: what we're reading, watching, buying, cooking.

One of the reasons I feel more connected with her is that we have the same attitude about new ideas, trying new products, embracing the latest technology. Neither of us is shy about taking a controversial idea for a test drive. Our separate forays through society let us enhance each other's perspective.

We step carefully around the age differences. I curb my eagerness to dispense the wisdom of history but when I can't, she listens politely. She may complain about her parents, never hinting that they're almost my age. I may complain about younger co-workers but never attribute their shortcomings to yout'.

Even though we usually have similar opinions, still we provide each other with windows into different worlds. Hers is full of child-raising theories and husbandly foolishness. Mine is about doing something, just because I want to. "You're so lucky" she marvels.
y'think?
"I've paid my dues" I remind her.

A Place in the Hierarchy

I pulled up to the fast food restaurant's carry out window. The employee on duty was a man of my generation. After we completed our transaction, my four year old passenger piped up from the back seat "Why did that man call you young lady?"

Uh oh, I thought, here it comes. "What should he call me? Old lady?" I braced myself for the awful truth.

"No, nice lady" she shouted. "You're a nice lady."

Awwww. From the mouths of babes.