Bright and Shiny Things

My name is yt and I am a shopoholic.

I never thought I had a shopping problem.
I never had enough money to do any real shopping.

But then there came a night, at the tail end of one of those frantic days, when 10:00pm saw me rushing out to the All-Night-Mart for some essential. Like maybe clean underwear.
Or something.

I burst through the store's door then stopped, right in the middle of the aisle, ostensibly to get my bearings. But as I breathed in that store air I could feel myself relaxing. I eased into the familiar rhythm of the shopping cart waltz and my jaw unclenched, my face softened, I even began to smile.

This was my world. This was the one place where I could feel competent. I know how to do this. And that was the night when I realized I had a problem.

I always told myself I could stop. Anytime I wanted.
But I didn't want to.

It was never about acquisition. It was the kinesthetic experience. The feeling of abundance, possibility, as the rows of carefully stacked and folded merchandise tugged at my senses.
See the colors!
Feel the textures!
What could I do with this? How would I like that?

It all started innocently enough with the catalogues. The Sears Christmas catalogue when I was just a little tyke. Sometimes I would score an FAO Schwarz catalogue. Oh, happy day! Then, later, I moved into the big time. Lillian Vernon. Hammacher Schlemmer. Page after page of carefully photographed, lovingly described merchandise. Stuff!

Soon, catalogues no longer satisfied me. Oh sure, they filled my visual sense. But I needed more.
I needed The Mall.

The Mall was not just sights. It had smells. It had sounds.
They played music at The Mall.
I could touch the Stuff. Feel it, rub it. Try it on.

Plus, The Mall had something even better to feed my addiction.
The Mall had Sales.

I would prowl the racks, alert to that siren song named Clearance.
Reduced
70% Off

I still remember the really great scores. $8 sweaters, the $12 raincoat. I keep them like artifacts, trophies, in my closet. Admire something I was wearing and I would recite its provenance. Oh, I got this at Madigan's when they were going out of business. Only $3. My pants? I found on the Clearance rack at the Land's End outlet. $5.

Oh, I know it's fashionable now to dis malls. To pretend you're really too far above those base and craven urges. But haven't all those former mall-walkers just switched their obsession to Ebay?
Exercising their fingers instead of their butts?

Now, the season of the shopping marathon is closing in on us. Like others struggling with recovery I will grasp at substitutions to keep myself busy. I will manage to stay off the hard stuff for weeks. Out of the malls. Away from the marts. When my sisters plan their annual Christmas shopping excursion I will excuse myself with some other obligation. Because, like a classic dysfunctional, I shop alone. If there are no witnesses, it doesn't really count. In the meantime, every trip to the grocery store will give me a buzz. A quick fix.

My name is yt and I am a shopaholic.

Winning and Losing

Football season is almost over around here and next Saturday is my nephew's last game for this year. His mother, my sister, resisted football for several years. Too violent, she said. I don't want him to get hurt, she said. That's really funny because we grew up with four brothers, all of whom played football and were never hurt.

Our father was modestly proud of his high school's record for the three years that he played. Undefeated. Untied. Unscored upon. All the more impressive because it was a really small school. They didn't have some deep bench to draw from. The whole team was on the field for the whole game. Because football was so defining in my father's life, all of our brothers were required to play football. They played, played well, and survived. My brothers all grew into good, responsible men but I think they would be that way even without football.

So, back to my nephew. The boy who might get hurt is in his fourth year of organized football. Now, my pacifist sister who abhors violence is standing in the bleachers yelling "block 'em, baby, block 'em". Even I know enough that good blocking usually results in someone falling on the ground.

My sister says her son has learned a lot from football. Last year, when he was the youngest starter on the team, part of every play and the team won every game, it was easy to see what those lessons were.

• Listen to your coach.
• Go to practice.
• Work hard.
• Play your position.
• Follow the rules.
• Keep score.

Last year, that point of view got them to their league's championship. This year, my nephew is still following those rules but now the outcome is different; this year the team has won only two games. Well, I asked my sister, is he still learning anything this year?

What he's learning, she replied carefully, is to be more of a leader. He still doesn't realize how much one person can influence the rest of the team.

I pondered that. After all, in team sports one person doesn't win the game alone. In order to make a touchdown, the ball has to be snapped, passed, carried or punted. And 10 touchdowns are worthless if the other team isn't getting sacked, blocked or pushed back.

Sports are often used as a metaphor for life. But in life, things seldom end with a clear winner.

On the up side, we don't have to run laps.

It's the Principle

Earlier this summer the daddy blogs were all in a twist after a certain article appeared in the NY Times. The article, written by Amy Sutherland, described her success in applying the principles of animal training to reshaping her husband's behavior.

Sounds kinky, huh?

Any psych majors reading this are now nodding sagely and saying oh yeah, operant conditioning.

Having found the nagging routine enormously unsuccessful, Sutherland was inspired by the positive reinforcement techniques used by exotic (zoo) animal trainers. Under that protocol the trainer marks desired behavior with a reward system. Although usually food, it can be anything that is motivating to the trainee. For example, law enforcement and Search and Rescue dogs are typically rewarded with a few minutes of play with a favorite toy.

Once the behavior becomes consistent, the trainer can shape it by raising the ante. If Splash The Dolphin is reliably jumping three feet out of the water for a fish reward, the trainer begins withholding the fish unless Splash clears the water by five feet.

What about wrong behavior? If Splash ignores the Jump cue and decides to play with the hoops instead, well then, Game Over. No attention and certainly no fish.

Animals get this realllly fast. In fact the thing that most often screws up the animal's performance is bad timing or inconsistency by the trainer.

Well, so much for yt's ad hoc training seminar and back to Ms. Sutherland.

Whenever her husdand did anything close to the goal behavior, putting even one shirt in the laundry basket, she praised him. Thanks, Honey. I love you. Once putting the shirt in the laundry basket becomes rewarding the behavior is more apt to be repeated. And (for those who might be worried about the need to sustain such vigilance) once the behavior becomes consistent you don't have to reward it every single time. It's actually stronger if the reward is unpredictable.

When her husband displayed negative behavior, Sutherland ignored it. Husbands, like dogs and dolphins and all those other social creatures, crave attention more than anything. Unfortunately, since even negative attention can be very rewarding in a perverse way, the best method to extinguish unwanted behavior is...no reponse. A very alien concept for all of us "just do something" mainstreamers.

I am a HUGE proponent of positive reinforcement. I am a volunteer teacher for a 4H class. My class is all the beginners, even though they may range in age from 8 to 16. A few years ago, after my very first night, when I found myself reciting an endless litany no Justin, do it this way and use your other right hand, Tiffany I was exhausted and dejected. One week into a three-month term and I already felt like a failure.

The next week I went back with a new plan. I set a goal for myself to compliment each kid at least once every session. As the weeks went by, I found that I was concentrating so hard on looking for things to compliment that I no longer cringed at every mistake. Every time I saw a kid doing something right, it reinforced for me that I was making a difference. The kids were actually learning!

Each week I went home feeling energized and upbeat. I also found it carrying over into other activities. Now that I was training myself to be observant in a positive way I started noticing good behavior all around me. A kindness toward another commuter. A pleasant salesperson. A courteous driver.

I think the menfolks who were so offended by the implied manipulation in Sutherland's article probably over-reacted. The principles of positive reinforcement seem to have a greater impact on the trainer, reshaping the trainer's perception of, and reaction to, what's going on.
y'think?

The Reckoning

Once upon a time a friend declared it a "Year of Reckoning". Up until then her life had followed that same aimless road many of us travel: good times, bad jobs, good friends, bad choices. Finally, the day came when she decided hey! I'm in charge here. Her first order of business was to reckon with all those adult responsibilities that had somehow slipped away.

This was more than the perennial, sure-to-fail resolution. This was an entire year of retaliation on the forces of failure. Most of her reckoning focused on financial and personal care goals: paying off credit cards, getting a new computer, having her first mammogram, resolving an old relationship. She set her goals then proceeded to stride through the calender, ticking things off her list with the satisfaction of the just. And I, the master of task avoidance, stood back in awe.

She accomplished all her goals then moved out of state (also on her list) while my life continued to spin around in circles. Periodically I would remind myself, I need a Year of Reckoning. But I remained mired in the swamp of just-barely-keeping-up. It wasn't until I was pushed to the brink on every front, when I had nowhere to stand but turn and face the enemy, that I tentatively brandished my sword of accomplishment. I dealt with some health things, I took charge of some financial things. I ended a relationship, rebuilt another.

I thought about who I want to be,
where I want to go,
what I need to conquer to get there.

I learned to say no.

While I lack the attention span to march purposefully through an entire year, each time I tackle one of those overdue duties I give myself credit for the Reckoning.

It makes me feel strong. In control.

I've learned that Reckoning is never over. New things crop up. But each success generates a little more ammunition for next time. Most of the time now I think of myself as someone who can Reckon with life.

Learning to Play Nice with Others at the Dinner Table

Leland mentioned former NYT food critic Ruth Reichl recently and that reference sent me to reading an interview with her by Psychology Today. One of the topics the interview touched on was family meals. Reichl posited that today's decline of family dinnertime will produce children who grow into poorly socialized adults.

When I was growing up dinner was always a family meal. The food may have been plain at our house but even the simplest dinner was a highly ritualized affair that assumed it would be carried out properly; according to "best practices" as we like to say in my line of work. Being a kid was not an excuse to take shortcuts. As soon as we were tall enough to reach the cutlery drawer, we were instructed in the proper way to set a table, use utensils, pass and serve food and clear the table.

There is no doubt that family dinner was a major forum for developing important social skills.

• We learned basic etiquette: no elbows, close your mouth when you chew, swallow your food before you take a drink, use your napkin.
• We learned how to plan, which ranged from clearing homework off the table in enough time to set it for the meal to anticipating which condiments would be needed.
• We learned coordination. Since there were so many of us, orchestrating ourselves around the table to accommodate left-handed eaters was critical. No one wanted a collision with a flying left elbow.
• We learned consideration by watching out for the littlest ones and making sure they had someone alongside to assist with meat cutting or spaghetti twirling.
• We learned to take turns while the serving platters made their slow progress around the big wooden table. (Unless the entree was liver. Ugh!)
• We learned tolerance. Since our family had a mandatory no-thank-you helping rule, we had to eat at least a tablespoon of everything no matter what it looked like.
• We learned patience because no one was excused until everyone was finished.

Dinner conversation covered a lot of ground, as expected with so many people and interests. Announcements from school, upcoming plans, acknowledging achievements; sometimes Dad would offer up a riddle or drill us on our knowledge of the city. There was always plenty to say. But our very favorite conversations were the stories. Something - maybe a menu item, maybe a news item - would usually trigger the reminiscence and we would linger, entranced, listening to stories of when our parents were young.

Body and soul nurtured at the same meal.

By the time we hit our teens, the dinner schedule was more difficult to maintain and sometimes the group around the table numbered as few as three, but the rituals never changed. Even into my 30's, reconnecting with my roots was as simple as slipping back into my place at the dinner table . Conversations may have taken an irreverent turn, but the Emily Post habits remained solid.

Several years ago I was at an associate's home working on a project. As we started to wrap up our books and papers for the day, her husband invited me to stay for dinner. I accepted. One of their college-age sons was also present for the meal. I knew these people to be somewhat sophisticated about food and eating out. But I was nothing less than shaken by the scene around their dining table. It was a blur of flashing forks and grabbing hands. People stabbed salad directly from the serving bowl and brutally tore off hunks of bread. As they raced each other to the meal's conclusion I wondered why they even bothered to eat as a group.

I don't think they were a happy family.

And so, Ms. Reichl, as evidenced by my own experience, the family that eats together better have good manners if they're going to stay together.
y'think?

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?