Ouch

There are so many times in life we utter the words, "I'm sorry." We bump into someone as we're rushing out of the grocery store and say sorry as we hurry on our way, barely looking back; we forget to send in our kids' permission slips/snack-drink money/party treat for school and offer our apologies; we step on the dog's 6 months-post-surgery leg and even apologize to her. (Poor puppy. Baaaad Forty.)But you get the gist. We toss out those words probably on a daily basis and most likely we genuinely do mean them, but we often say them because it's just what you do; it's good social etiquette. When you say "I'm sorry" though, especially for larger, more significant wrong-doings, meaning those words is equally as important as uttering them.

I remember being a little kid and for whatever stupid, stupid reason, I made fun of one of my friends. Maybe I was trying to be funny, maybe I thought it was cool - I don't know. I just specifically remember feeling like a horrible person for being so mean to someone who didn't even deserve it. My little eight or nine year old self knew how wrong I was because I felt so damn awful. So I marched up to her, a little nervous to admit what a jerk I had been, and told her I was sorry. Thankfully, she accepted it. I learned that when you do something wrong, (and recognize it), you can be forgiven and given another chance. I'm going to guess and say that it was probably from then on that I never feared apologizing to anyone again whenever I was wrong. To this day, I still don't. And why should anyone, really? Smaller sorries, larger sorries - meaning them is what really matters. Meaning them and learning never to make the same mistake again that caused the need for apology in the first place. While I think small accidents or wrong-doings deserve an apology suited for the "crime,' I also believe it's the larger, more significant things where the sincerity behind the words "I'm sorry" need to carry more weight.

It's always been my belief that when you hurt or offend someone and you are aware of it, apologize. It doesn't make you weak or look foolish; it does just the opposite: it makes you stronger for recognizing that you're fallible and for letting others know that you are, too. Being wrong sometimes, (or even a lot of times), is part of being human. We'd have nothing to learn from if we never made mistakes, and quite frankly, if we were always right and perfect and smiling and happy, I think we'd be boring, too.

There's probably not a day that passes that I don't utter one of the smaller, "I'm sorries" to someone at work or one of my kiddies. Those are just part of daily living and part of respecting other people. But recently, I made an error in judgment that, at the time, I didn't think was wrong at all. But because of the other (offended) person's response (or lack thereof) to what I had said, it made me step back and think, What did I say that was so bad? Why would she be so upset?. Or maybe it was the idea behind my words. I went over what was said - at least 15 times - in my head. I knew the original point I'd been trying to make to her, but I decided from her reaction that maybe I went about it wrong. Or maybe it was just one of those things that should have never been mentioned to her at all as it wasn't even a big deal (in hindsight, anyway). I asked my friend to please tell me why and how I'd upset her, what was my mistake. I wanted to know her side so I could understand where I went wrong. But she didn't want to talk to me except for a few pointed words. I apologized anyway but still no response.

This wasn't an "I'm sorry" tossed-over-your-shoulder-in-the-supermarket type thing. I offended/irritated/hurt someone with my words which I never, ever meant to be hurtful. I was upset and hurt about something and voiced it but after all was said and done, I realized that maybe not every little thing has to be brought up front and center for discussion or analyzing. Maybe I read into something and made more of it than it was. Maybe I need to learn to censor my thoughts and feelings sometimes because everyone doesn't have to know them at all times. Maybe I was just...stupid.

I made a mistake and judging by the deafening silence that followed, an even bigger one than I realized. But I am still sorry even if I wasn't forgiven.

But I guess sometimes maybe being unforgiven has to teach us a lesson, too.

Thirty-Eight Plus TWO - Holy Shit - Now I'm F****** Forty

Wow. It's here. Today. The big one. The one I never thought I'd make it to. Forty. I can barely type it.

But you know, so far, it's really not so bad. Eight made me "coffee-in-bed" (bless her little heart, the "on" button wasn't working on the coffee machine and she couldn't get the milk carton open. I didn't mind helpin' her one bit when she came up with the carton while I was all bleary-eyed in bed. God forbid Twelve help her.) Anyway, she also made pancakes (again, with my help as Twelve was too busy with his Playstation 3 head-set on and was in video-game bliss) and she answered the phone all morning taking birthday messages for me while I rested. What I am finding, though, is that with the journey to forty comes the culmination of at least some wisdom and a little bit more acceptance. Forty brings decisions, (some that are life-altering), realizations, (the ah-has! we all heard about from Oprah) and the Grand Puba of all... the "fuck its/yous/thats". Sometimes I like those the best. It means my skin is thickening and that I'm not running around with my tail between my legs all the time. Certain things and experiences are still a little frightening to face in some ways, but also exciting in others. I don't know - maybe forty is going to be better than twenty. Mentally at least. What follows are some observations, lessons and some things I've accepted up to this point in my life:


For starters:

- These days, I wait anxiously each month for the "beast" to come, NOT for fear that if it doesn't I could be pregnant, but out of fear that its absence could mean I might be experiencing those types of changes that indicate I will be growing hair in bad, more-visibly unacceptable places. When that shit happens, I'm just throwin' in the fucking towel.

- Gone are the days when I'd fling my bra off ASAP in order to free the girls. Now I sleep with said bra in hopes that I can re-train them to lay where the good Lord intended. But really, it's like trying to re-elasticize a rubber-band. Impossible.

- The allure of a thong is wearing off. All thongs and anything resembling a thong have somehow migrated to the bottom of the undies drawer. Not to say that I completely ignore them altogether, but lately I have more important concerns for my ass than whether I have panty-lines. The temptation of the three-pack of Hanes bikini undies hanging in Target's intimate apparel aisle won out one day: I circled around with my wagon and finally threw in the stupid pack. For a moment, I even considered going up a size AND to briefs just for the sheer promise of MORE comfort. Comfort over style is totally age-related, although it has yet to completely win. I am not ready to give in to panty lines AND the promise of total comfort and belly-coverage all in one shot.

- I have accepted I've reached that level of uncoolness we all dread as parents. Here I am, thinking I can kick ASS at Wii Just Dance, but all Twelve has to do is wiggle his hips and flick the Wii remote and he wins - every fucking time. And then there I am laying, on the couch, winded and sweaty and listening to chants of "DORK DORK DORK" coming from his wise-ass self. Is it wrong that I've come ::thisclose:: to saying "fuck you" to my child out of sheer frustration?

- Not to say I don't want to look nice when I leave the house, but I've found as I get older, I don't care so much about how awful I look sometimes, either. I mean, really... sometimes it's easier to fall asleep in what I'm already wearing and much easier not to have to get dressed again in the morning. What...? I have to be fashion conscious just for school drop off and a stop at 7-11? I don't know if throwing a sweatshirt over my recycled outfit really does constitute a brand new outfit or if it just means I'm old and lazy. (pause) Okay, so after re-reading that, 1) it sounds yucky, and 2) I've decided that yes, I AM old and lazy. But because I know for a fact SEVERAL people who've done that, too, (and there are a few people I can add to that list with some degree of certainty), I don't care that I actually wrote it. Some of you are nodding to yourselves saying, oh my god! I'm not the only one! Don't deny it.

- The fact that I don't care that I wrote that above means something BIG for me.

- As I get older, the more I enjoy saying really bad, offensive words. I can't help it. I LIKE it. I say them often, too. Even to my mom, Sixty-Seven. (Well, she says them, too, so.... we're even).

On a more serious note, I really have come to many things leading up to this decade of my life. I've realized that in my quest to please others, I've oftentimes made things harder for myself and allowed other people to hurt me. I know now that I can't always please everyone and it's okay. And those that have hurt me are long gone from my life and it no longer affects me negatively. They're in my past for a reason: lesson learned, moving on.

I've learned that the further I am from perfect, (or trying to be), the better off I am. My faults make me strive to better myself, they motivate me, and they keep my determination alive to fight for what I want and need. Perfect, truly, is overrated and I've come to like and accept my idiosyncracies.

Life really is a journey and sometimes our paths veer off to places we never knew existed or ever thought about taking. But, as Frost said:
"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."
So, if my life takes me onto a different path, well damn it, if it ends up making all the difference, then so be it.

And finally, I have met and I have known many people in these 40 years and while some have come and gone, they were probably there for some reason. Maybe I learned what I needed, (or didn't need, for that matter) from these people, or maybe they came and went because their paths took them another way. Whatever the reason, so be it.

Then there are those that came and went, who added nothing to my life but heartache. I've learned not to cry over experiences or people like that in life anymore - they're not worth the tears or the emotional exhaustion from crying them. I've learned how to weed out the good from the bad because of these types. While I say "good riddance," I'm still grateful for the lessons I've learned.

Then there are those friendships that have sustained throughout the years; those that have been unsinkable through the good times and the stormy ones. These are the friends that are considered as part of my family. These are the people I know who love me.

So, tonight as I celebrate this milestone, I raise my chocolate martini glass to these people:

-To those who have touched my life, whether in the past or present, I am nothing but thankful.
-To the people who make me cry from laughing so hard, and you all know who you are, laughter is most def the best medicine for anything that ails a person.
-To the people who move me to tears simply because of the admiration I have for them, or for sharing their struggles, and for demonstrating their strength during these struggles. How wonderful and generous that you've invited me into your lives and allowed me to stay and share with you.
- To the people who bring out the parts of me that I never knew were there,(or the parts of me that were there but were afraid to come out), and who allow me to be exactly the person I've come to be at this ripe ol' age. Throughout my life, I've often wondered who I was and what I was all about because I've never had the confidence or courage to see things in myself and allow them to just "be." Then unexpectedly, this person who's always struggled with herself finally does come out and does so quite naturally and without much fanfare. I see the same face in the mirror, but I see a different person behind the visage. People who have come into my life and who have helped me, even unknowingly, with this type of self-discovery and acceptance are the types of friends everyone needs. I'm grateful to have them because the gift they've given me is priceless. I do hope and pray they know who they are, and if they don't, well... there will come a day I will make certain they do.

So, as Thirty-Eight Plus Two (a.k.a "Forty"), I finally seem to be learning things in life, -things about people, things about myself -that have great significance and staying power. While I count my blessings of what I have and what I once had, I am looking forward to what else lies before me, what path my life may take, and the people I may encounter. And along the way, I hope that I, too, can touch people's lives in a positive, memorable way.

Love and cheers from Ol' Forty.

Fear Factor....

(Note: This isn't really my blog... This is just an assignment I had to write for my class in school. When writing for magazines, word-count is of the utmost importance, so it's important to be aware of it as you write. But how do you get across a feeling, an idea, or an experience when you have to do it in 1,500 words or less? It's hard...really, really hard, and word choice is crucial. So, because I am unable to blog the silliness I sporadically blog about, I figured I would post this. Hopefully, if anyone reads this, everything, or at least some of the things, I was trying to convey in this piece will come across the way they were meant to. (And if the message you get by the ending is that I'm a freak... wrong message!) Anyway, this is my Fear Factor...

Every Sunday night when I was around nine years old, I would start crying as soon as I went to bed. To this day, my mother still tells me how frustrated she was whenever she heard the whimpering coming from my room.
“What is it?” she’d ask when I’d peek through her bedroom door minutes later, rubbing the tears from my eyes.
“I don’t wanna go to school.”
“You have to.”
“It just comes into my mind that I do not want to go to school.”
And that’s what I said, verbatim, every week. I didn’t know why the thought of going to school on Monday mornings caused me so much grief and anxiety. But halfway through my favorite Sunday evening television show, The Jeffersons, I’d start feeling sad, and by the time Alice came on afterwards, I’d start monitoring the clock, counting the minutes until it would be over. When I finally turned off the T.V. to go to sleep, my eyes would get scratchy and begin to water.
It was only when I became an adult that my mother finally figured out the reason for my weekly crying jags. I had lost two relatively young grandparents when I was around five, the only uncle I ever knew when I was around eight, and the family dog (who’d been with my parents longer than I had), when I was nine. My mom’s theory that I was scared she might die while I was in school made sense and manifested in my Sunday night crying jags. Even if I couldn’t articulate it, the seed of fear had been sown in my mind. I somehow knew that a person didn’t have to be old and wrinkled in order to die, and that once you were dead, that was it. My uncle could never make me one of his toasted-bread-tuna-fish-and-lettuce sandwiches again; I’d never hear my dog, Kelly, howl from the sound of a passing police car’s blaring siren; and because I rarely saw them to begin with, I’d never remember what my grandparents’ voices sounded like.
That cluster of loss unfortunately was not the only one like that in my life. When enough years had finally passed to at least mellow my fears about death and loss, a friend of mine was killed while crossing the street on her bicycle, and a few years later, a boy from my high school died in a car crash. As all bad things happen in threes, or so it’s been said, my mother’s fifty-two year old best friend died right after I turned sixteen. What he figured was minor heartburn had actually been the beginning of a heart attack and he died that night. Death was neither choosy about age, nor its method, as I was learning, and its unpredictability was unnerving. How would these families ever survive?
In November 1989, my friend’s father, who was a cop, was killed on the job. I couldn’t imagine how he’d be able to go through life knowing his dad died by someone else’s hands until a month later when my own father never came home for dinner. He’d been late many times before, but my mother had never gone looking for him, until that night. My one sister had gone with her while my oldest sister and I remained home. The tension in the air between us while we waited wasn’t because of her usual disdain for my presence; it was caused by an unfamiliar worry. They seemed to be gone for a long time, as the store my father owned was only about seven minutes away, but for all I know now, it might have only been a few minutes since the anticipation of anything invariably makes time go by slower. When they finally did return, my mother must have been shocked into an eerie sense of calm when she rather neutrally announced, “Your father’s been murdered.”
We had no solid reason to think anything was wrong that night; we never received a phone call, nor had a grim-looking officer shown up at our doorstep informing us of bad news. The friendships the Freeport police had cultivated with my parents over the twenty-plus years they’d known them had indeed been in conflict with their duties as officers. It was only our mom’s sixth sense that something had happened to our dad that spurred her out the door that night. Her fears were confirmed when she saw police swarming the parking lot where my dad’s car was parked. My mother’s last vision of my father was his body slumped over the steering wheel in his car. We were later informed that after he had closed his store for the night and sat in his car waiting for it to warm up, someone shot him at close range. From what we were told, he must have seen the person, lifted his arm instinctively, yet uselessly, to protect himself, and the bullet hit the main artery to his heart, killing him instantly.
There was scarcely time to absorb what had happened as funeral arrangements had to be made within twenty-four hours, according to Jewish law. The funeral, however, was two days later, and I can only guess it had to do with the nature of his death. His extended family made all of the arrangements as best as they could to conform to the religious procedures of a faith we barely practiced because, “that’s what he would have wanted.” We were driven to an Orthodox Jewish synagogue in Brooklyn where the women huddled together on one side, while the men prayed on the opposite side. We watched as an unadorned pine box was carried in by some of his cousins and his deceased brother’s sons, his body naked inside and wrapped in a religious shroud. The entire service was done in Hebrew, none of which we understood, and without emotion or consolation. When it concluded, we left the temple and stood in the middle of some street in an unfamiliar city. Because of a ridiculous rule that didn’t allow women at the cemetery, we were only allowed to watch as his body was driven away in a hearse. We never saw him; we never threw dirt on the grave after it had been lowered into the ground; we never said goodbye.
We grieved by instruction, not by individual need. Jews sit Shiva for a week and that’s what we did. We were told when to eat, how to accept visitors, where to sit, and not to answer phones or doors. The dictates of a religion I cared nothing about superseded how I needed to mourn. It was my loss; our loss; I wanted to be angry and hateful, eat when, or even if, I wanted to; I wanted to smoke a carton of cigarettes and crawl into bed. But even at nineteen, I knew life outside of my house on Ann Road still continued, and that I had no choice but to continue living, as well. I went back to my same job and my same college classes, although a slightly different person. I knew his death not only signified physical loss, but abstract loss: no cheesy father-daughter wedding dances; no more fishing trips; he’d never know his future grandchildren. I knew I’d be forced to grow up quicker by being forced into the working world, and out of the security of my former family life.
But there are more than just those losses. Although I’m no longer that child with normal fears about death, I’m now an adult with irrational ones. The first, most vivid memory of my life is when my mother told us my father was murdered. The second is the coverage from Channel 12 News. “Freeport Business Man Murdered,” some newsperson said, as cameras panned the image of my father’s dead body hanging out of his car, the Reebox on his feet my Chanukah gift to him a few days before. For a while after he was killed, I was scared and looked over my shoulder wherever I went; I became fearful of everything.
I attach extraordinary amounts of danger to the most ordinary things, and it not only applies to me, but to my children. I worry if they stand by a railing on the second floor at the mall because they could topple over and fall into the Koi pond below; a low-flying airplane means a crash is imminent and makes me wonder if I’m close enough that I’ll get hit with part of the wing; a jog over the Southern State parkway incites a panic that I might somehow stumble and fall over the surrounding fence and die a splattering death on the hood of a speeding Honda. I had never considered the possibility of a murder happening in my family, but because it did, it makes me believe something just as horrific is equally likely, and I unfortunately live my life waiting for it.