As I said in my previous post, I have my own place for the first time in my life. As I also said in my previous post, this is not the bright carefree venture that I imagined it would be. I can't blame Disney for this one. Disney movies may have misled me about romance, but they never said anything about what a joy it would be to live on my own as a single mom with a head full of things to sort out. Princesses live in castles (or occasionally a quaint country cottage), and Princess life doesn't involve a rent check due by 5 pm on the 5th of each month. I live in a townhouse in Clarksville - and "by 5 on the 5th" most definitely applies to me. I guess I'm not a princess.
There have been other clues that I am not royal. One of the most evident is that I am not assertive. Everyone knows that royal people are assertive - their first word is actually a finger snap, loosely translated as, "Bottle, now." I, on the other hand, only snap my fingers to indicate that I just remembered something I should have done earlier - like pay the rent. I'm pretty sure this is where the phrase, "Oh, snap!" originated - created by fingerless people who also forget things. But I digress.
My mother will tell you that one of things she likes best about me is that when there is something I want to know about, I just go learn about it. It's one of my super powers, this ability to become so familiar with any subject in so little time that I can be prepared to liven up a cocktail party hosted by a champion duck breeder with only a few hours' notice. Naturally, when I realized that assertiveness was something I lacked, I went online to figure out where I could get some. As it turns out, it's one of the few things you can't buy on eBay or Amazon. It's something you have to develop.
I really dislike it when I'm told that I need to develop something, though that has nothing to do with why I am not a photographer. You see, in order to develop a skill or a habit, you need to have a whole host of other skills and habits already developed, like will power, commitment, consistency, and a firm belief that the thing you are trying to master is worth mastering. I don't have those other skills and habits, so I've hit a bit of a wall in the self-improvement process. The phrase I tend to employ in situations like this is, "Drat! Foiled again!" The comfort food I tend to employ in situations like this is Ben and Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream.
So what does one do when one has to build a birdhouse, but one lacks all the necessary tools? Obviously, I need to acquire some tools. Ordinarily I would try to borrow the tools from someone else, or if I absolutely had to buy them I would try to get them at Goodwill or maybe Harbor Freight (if I didn't need them to last for more than a couple of small jobs). But I'm building a birdhouse here...wait...okay, yeah, I'm building a birdhouse, but it's for an emu, so it needs to be built pretty well. I need to go to Sears and buy Craftsman tools - because if they break later I can get new ones for free. Or maybe since I am working on self-improvement, I should go for the obvious home-improvement joke and buy my tools at Home Depot. Or Lowe's - I'm not getting paid by either of them (though I would like to state that I am open to sponsorship proposals, advertising contracts, and book deals). Oh, forget it - I've chosen instead to go with my Anton Chekov impression as I say, "Abandoning analogy now, Captain."
Before I can learn to be assertive, I need to decide if becoming assertive is something worth doing. Then I need to learn how to follow through on things I start. In other words, I need to develop consistency, and for that I'm going to need to develop some will power - the ability to choose the harder right over the easier wrong. And the thing that will motivate me to keep doing the right thing even when I really don't want to is going to be my firm commitment to this process. It's a good thing I don't have anything else going on in my life, because this is going to take a while. I'll take these on one by one starting tomorrow, but before I do...
*snap* Ice cream, now.
Regards,
Allison
Friday, January 28, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
If You Don't Like The Band, Don't Go To The Concert
About one week before I turned 35, I did something rather momentous. For the first time in my life, I moved into my own place. My residences up to that point had been shared with the following people, in order: parents, friends, parents, boyfriend, parents, husband, mom, boyfriend. In 35 years I had never experienced the singular (dare I say it?) joy of living on my own. Admittedly, I live with my children, so technically I still don't live alone - but it's not alone that I was looking for. Independence does not require solitude.
For many of my friends and family, maintaining their independence has never been an issue. These amazing people seem to move in and out of relationships without ever sacrificing their identity. I say "seem to" because we all know that sometimes the face we present to the world isn't exactly a true representation of who we are at home. This is in part why powerful CEOs pay professionals in PVC to make them crawl on the floor (after signing a binding confidentiality agreement, of course.) We can't always safely expose who we are to the world at large. There are even times when we can't share who we are with those who love us. The strong don't want to appear weak. The weak don't want to seem foolish.
My friends don't seem to have this problem. If they like Indie Rock before they start dating Bob, they are by God going to like the same thing when Bob is gone. If they dressed for comfort instead of style before Kate entered the picture, that's not going to change just to please her. More than anything else, they still take time to do what they want. I see these people living their lives completely blissed out on independence, and I wonder if I missed a class somewhere along the way. I must have, or maybe I just read the wrong books. I've been doing it all wrong for years, that much I know.
My mom used to tell me I was a chameleon, changing to match my boyfriend. At the time, I really resented hearing that. My logic told me that if I wanted someone to like me, I had to make myself likeable. Besides, look how much I managed to learn over the years about sports, cars, outdoor activities, classic rock, and computers. I used to tell her that both parties "won" because the guys got to do what they wanted and I got to spend time with them, and that I was learning so much that it didn't matter if we broke up eventually - I was richer in knowledge! At 35, I have this to say about my 17-year-old logic: I am a walking encyclopedia of trivia that only matters to people I am no longer dating. It's revelations like these that make you wonder what the hell you've been doing with your life.
Moving out was undoubtedly one of the smartest things I've ever done. For once - and I think I can honestly say that - for once, I am doing something for myself. This is not easy, it is not comfortable, and I am at loose ends constantly for want of someone to follow. Currently, I am not very good at doing "what I want" - but I am getting better at not doing what someone else wants to do. I recently did not go to a particular concert with a guy because - guess why? I don't like that band. At 35, I feel reasonably certain that this should not be such an achievement. I know some of my girlfriends will be rolling their eyes or even slapping their foreheads as they read this. But some of them might be saying, "I remember that moment." Some of them might even be saying, "You can not go?" So to anyone who is walking behind me on this journey, let me say it: If you don't like the band, don't go to the concert.
This blog is about what I'm doing to change my life for the better, and the first thing I did was get my own place. It's terrifying in a sense - but that's because there are two little people in this dinghy with me and I can't let them down. Mostly it's frustrating, because I've been hearing for so long that being on your own is so great that I keep expecting it to feel great. It doesn't really feel great yet, because this is just the first step. I have a lot of other things to work on before this even feels comfortable. But sometimes there's a glimpse of what that greatness will be like. I imagine the weather turning warm in a few months, and I picture myself taking the kids to the pool whenever we want to go. I imagine summer evenings and my neighbors grilling on the patio, and I see my back door open so we can all talk to each other. The other day I was dreaming that my mom was telling me to get out of bed to clean the house - and then I woke up and realized that I don't live in her house anymore.
Yes, every day is a little bit like Christmas in the sense that I wake up hoping that I'll get the one thing I really want: A feeling of contentment that stems from being happy, healthy and fulfilled in this life. But even though I haven't gotten it yet, I've learned a really valuable lesson: I don't have to wait for someone to give me what I want - contentment is a gift I can give to myself.
Regards,
Allison
For many of my friends and family, maintaining their independence has never been an issue. These amazing people seem to move in and out of relationships without ever sacrificing their identity. I say "seem to" because we all know that sometimes the face we present to the world isn't exactly a true representation of who we are at home. This is in part why powerful CEOs pay professionals in PVC to make them crawl on the floor (after signing a binding confidentiality agreement, of course.) We can't always safely expose who we are to the world at large. There are even times when we can't share who we are with those who love us. The strong don't want to appear weak. The weak don't want to seem foolish.
My friends don't seem to have this problem. If they like Indie Rock before they start dating Bob, they are by God going to like the same thing when Bob is gone. If they dressed for comfort instead of style before Kate entered the picture, that's not going to change just to please her. More than anything else, they still take time to do what they want. I see these people living their lives completely blissed out on independence, and I wonder if I missed a class somewhere along the way. I must have, or maybe I just read the wrong books. I've been doing it all wrong for years, that much I know.
My mom used to tell me I was a chameleon, changing to match my boyfriend. At the time, I really resented hearing that. My logic told me that if I wanted someone to like me, I had to make myself likeable. Besides, look how much I managed to learn over the years about sports, cars, outdoor activities, classic rock, and computers. I used to tell her that both parties "won" because the guys got to do what they wanted and I got to spend time with them, and that I was learning so much that it didn't matter if we broke up eventually - I was richer in knowledge! At 35, I have this to say about my 17-year-old logic: I am a walking encyclopedia of trivia that only matters to people I am no longer dating. It's revelations like these that make you wonder what the hell you've been doing with your life.
Moving out was undoubtedly one of the smartest things I've ever done. For once - and I think I can honestly say that - for once, I am doing something for myself. This is not easy, it is not comfortable, and I am at loose ends constantly for want of someone to follow. Currently, I am not very good at doing "what I want" - but I am getting better at not doing what someone else wants to do. I recently did not go to a particular concert with a guy because - guess why? I don't like that band. At 35, I feel reasonably certain that this should not be such an achievement. I know some of my girlfriends will be rolling their eyes or even slapping their foreheads as they read this. But some of them might be saying, "I remember that moment." Some of them might even be saying, "You can not go?" So to anyone who is walking behind me on this journey, let me say it: If you don't like the band, don't go to the concert.
This blog is about what I'm doing to change my life for the better, and the first thing I did was get my own place. It's terrifying in a sense - but that's because there are two little people in this dinghy with me and I can't let them down. Mostly it's frustrating, because I've been hearing for so long that being on your own is so great that I keep expecting it to feel great. It doesn't really feel great yet, because this is just the first step. I have a lot of other things to work on before this even feels comfortable. But sometimes there's a glimpse of what that greatness will be like. I imagine the weather turning warm in a few months, and I picture myself taking the kids to the pool whenever we want to go. I imagine summer evenings and my neighbors grilling on the patio, and I see my back door open so we can all talk to each other. The other day I was dreaming that my mom was telling me to get out of bed to clean the house - and then I woke up and realized that I don't live in her house anymore.
Yes, every day is a little bit like Christmas in the sense that I wake up hoping that I'll get the one thing I really want: A feeling of contentment that stems from being happy, healthy and fulfilled in this life. But even though I haven't gotten it yet, I've learned a really valuable lesson: I don't have to wait for someone to give me what I want - contentment is a gift I can give to myself.
Regards,
Allison
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
The Number of the Beast is 35, and So Am I
I don't practice Numerology, but I know an evil number when I see one - written on the "age" line of a form, that is. I'm like that kid in The Sixth Sense who can see dead people, only I didn't get my special ability until the day I turned 30. It's been five and a half years since that day, and I have only recently begun to pull myself out of the dumpster of middle-age. This won't be especially brief, but here's a bit of personal history to explain why I'm writing this blog.
When I was in junior high I used to walk home from school, and almost every day I saw my friend's grandmother outside doing something in her yard. Grandma was always wearing a long loose dress and her hair was long, loose, and gray. No artificial coloring, no sassy cuts, no Bo Derek cornrows. Every time I saw her I would think, "That's gonna be me. I'm gonna grow old gracefully. I'm gonna do what I want, and wear what I want, and I'm not gonna jump through hoops trying to look twenty years younger than I am." If there's one thing you can say about being 13 it's that you are supremely confident that you have life all figured out. Yes, at 13 I knew it all, and more than anything I knew I was going to be unapologetic about my age as the years accumulated. I knew something about feminism and how to be a strong woman, and though I wasn't about to stop shaving my armpits (grody!), I knew that I was going to age gracefully.
Looking back on that larval Allison, I only wish I could laugh. I wish I could say that in the past five and a half years I've come to accept being "in my thirties" with grace. I wish I could say that having achieved such a perspective, I can look back on myself at 13 and smile fondly, shake my head at the naivete of my younger self, and then move bravely through life like one of those women carved on the prow of a ship. I imagine wave after wave of life smashing against my permanently pert breasts as I, in turn, glide through life with an enigmatic half-smile - like a very buoyant Mona Lisa.
I said I wish I could look at it like that. The very day, the very instant that I turned 30, I felt one of my feet slip off the edge of terra firma and straight into my grave. Ask anyone who was there. I dreaded that birthday for months. It was like listening to the Jaws theme for 24 weeks straight. (Here's a bit of trivia - Jaws and I came out the same year.) I might have thought at some point that it couldn't possibly be that bad, that surely on the dreaded day I would wake up to find that Being 30 wasn't all that different from being 29.
Thirty is not the same as 29. It's okay to be single at 29. It's okay to rent at 29. It's okay to wear holey sweatpants and crocs at 29. Try doing any of that when you're 30 and you'll see what I mean. You're not cute anymore. You're not allowed anymore. According to The American Dream, by the time one has achieved the ripe old age of 30, one shall have accomplished the following: A successful career, a happy marriage, the birth of one and one-half children, and ownership of one piece of American property. This is why your metabolism starts to slow down when you turn 30 - you're not supposed to still be trying to get all that stuff.
I could cry about this for...well, forever pretty much. When I turned 30 I wasn't married, I was divorced. I didn't have one and a half children, I had two fully formed kids - one of them was 11 and one was just a year old. (I'll wait while you do that math on that.) I didn't have a career because I gave it up to be a stay at home mom. I didn't own a house - I was living with my boyfriend in the house that he had just bought. In all ways I had completely failed to achieve The Dream, and in many ways I was getting further from achieving it every day. Let me sum it up like this: I didn't have a whole helluva lot of reason to feel good about that birthday.
Now, today is January 26th, 2011. That means I am exactly 35 years and 5 months old. (Since D-day I've taken to celebrating the anniversary of my 26th birthday, so if I didn't know you I would say, "this is my 9th anniversary," which sounds much better than "I'm 35 and a half.") For the past five and a half years I've been moping around, hating myself for not having achieved these things, feeling pathetic because I'm pathologically incapable of letting anyone else share the blame for my failures in life. Frankly, I am too old for this shit.
This blog has been created so that I can share the steps that I am taking to pull myself out of this funk, to save myself, to enjoy being alive. I invite anyone who is struggling against the implacable march of time to join me. Step by step I intend to examine myself, my mistakes, my successes, even my ancestors if necessary in order to start living a life that I can feel good about. There's only one thing left to explain - the name of the blog. Such Good Advice is taken from Alice In Wonderland (the animated Disney version) wherein young Alice says, "I give myself such good advice, but I very seldom follow it." I've been guilty of that myself up until now, but from here on, I'll be following that good advice. I hope you don't even recognize me when I turn 36 - I intend to be that much better!
Regards,
Allison
When I was in junior high I used to walk home from school, and almost every day I saw my friend's grandmother outside doing something in her yard. Grandma was always wearing a long loose dress and her hair was long, loose, and gray. No artificial coloring, no sassy cuts, no Bo Derek cornrows. Every time I saw her I would think, "That's gonna be me. I'm gonna grow old gracefully. I'm gonna do what I want, and wear what I want, and I'm not gonna jump through hoops trying to look twenty years younger than I am." If there's one thing you can say about being 13 it's that you are supremely confident that you have life all figured out. Yes, at 13 I knew it all, and more than anything I knew I was going to be unapologetic about my age as the years accumulated. I knew something about feminism and how to be a strong woman, and though I wasn't about to stop shaving my armpits (grody!), I knew that I was going to age gracefully.
Looking back on that larval Allison, I only wish I could laugh. I wish I could say that in the past five and a half years I've come to accept being "in my thirties" with grace. I wish I could say that having achieved such a perspective, I can look back on myself at 13 and smile fondly, shake my head at the naivete of my younger self, and then move bravely through life like one of those women carved on the prow of a ship. I imagine wave after wave of life smashing against my permanently pert breasts as I, in turn, glide through life with an enigmatic half-smile - like a very buoyant Mona Lisa.
I said I wish I could look at it like that. The very day, the very instant that I turned 30, I felt one of my feet slip off the edge of terra firma and straight into my grave. Ask anyone who was there. I dreaded that birthday for months. It was like listening to the Jaws theme for 24 weeks straight. (Here's a bit of trivia - Jaws and I came out the same year.) I might have thought at some point that it couldn't possibly be that bad, that surely on the dreaded day I would wake up to find that Being 30 wasn't all that different from being 29.
Thirty is not the same as 29. It's okay to be single at 29. It's okay to rent at 29. It's okay to wear holey sweatpants and crocs at 29. Try doing any of that when you're 30 and you'll see what I mean. You're not cute anymore. You're not allowed anymore. According to The American Dream, by the time one has achieved the ripe old age of 30, one shall have accomplished the following: A successful career, a happy marriage, the birth of one and one-half children, and ownership of one piece of American property. This is why your metabolism starts to slow down when you turn 30 - you're not supposed to still be trying to get all that stuff.
I could cry about this for...well, forever pretty much. When I turned 30 I wasn't married, I was divorced. I didn't have one and a half children, I had two fully formed kids - one of them was 11 and one was just a year old. (I'll wait while you do that math on that.) I didn't have a career because I gave it up to be a stay at home mom. I didn't own a house - I was living with my boyfriend in the house that he had just bought. In all ways I had completely failed to achieve The Dream, and in many ways I was getting further from achieving it every day. Let me sum it up like this: I didn't have a whole helluva lot of reason to feel good about that birthday.
Now, today is January 26th, 2011. That means I am exactly 35 years and 5 months old. (Since D-day I've taken to celebrating the anniversary of my 26th birthday, so if I didn't know you I would say, "this is my 9th anniversary," which sounds much better than "I'm 35 and a half.") For the past five and a half years I've been moping around, hating myself for not having achieved these things, feeling pathetic because I'm pathologically incapable of letting anyone else share the blame for my failures in life. Frankly, I am too old for this shit.
This blog has been created so that I can share the steps that I am taking to pull myself out of this funk, to save myself, to enjoy being alive. I invite anyone who is struggling against the implacable march of time to join me. Step by step I intend to examine myself, my mistakes, my successes, even my ancestors if necessary in order to start living a life that I can feel good about. There's only one thing left to explain - the name of the blog. Such Good Advice is taken from Alice In Wonderland (the animated Disney version) wherein young Alice says, "I give myself such good advice, but I very seldom follow it." I've been guilty of that myself up until now, but from here on, I'll be following that good advice. I hope you don't even recognize me when I turn 36 - I intend to be that much better!
Regards,
Allison
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