Come, come, whoever you are.
Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving.
It doesn’t matter. Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times.
Come, yet again, come, come.
     ~Rumi

I actually really enjoy exercise, but I am an idiot.

I was a high school and college jock, a swimmer, and pretty much grew up in the water. When I stopped swimming after college, I started gaining weight. When I start swimming again, I lose weight. It’s a pretty simple equation, really.

Of course, with an adult life and priorities, I can never again spend the 3 ½ to 4 hours a day in the water I spent as a young adult, but still, I can easily invest an hour in my health and sanity, and most importantly – I really like doing it.

I also like walking. Hiking. Bicycling. Yoga. Weightlifting. Rowing and kayaking. The only thing I don’t like is cardio machines – they bore me silly – although I can talk myself into rowing or doing elliptical for an intense 20-30 minutes in a pinch.

Anyway, this spring, in the onslaught of knee problems, bronchitis, vacation, and project ramp-up, I stopped swimming and never got back into it. *whacks self on the forehead* That was pretty stupid because a project like the one I’m on now really requires some extra stress management help.

As a result I regained a pants size, am regularly chewing my nails to nubs, and am through the roof with stress and anxiety. Of course, that kind of stress is normal a month before go-live on a project. I’m not sure even running half marathons would cure that.

Some friends have started an informal accountability group online, on twitter, hashtag #akmoveit. Our goal is to exercise at least 3x a week for 45 min. For each session missed, we forfeit $3 to the pool. We haven’t really determined time period or an empiric measure for most consistent exerciser, but whoever that person is will win it. (I have no illusions it will be me!)

So, right now, I’m walking again. And I may do a yoga session or two if I can find a piece of carpet that’s not covered with boxes or pet hair. Once I get settled in my new place, I’ll join the neighborhood Y and start swimming again – the Y is close, the hours are long and the facility quite nice.

Really, I have no excuse for not doing something so very, very good for me, especially since it’s an activity that I actually rather like. As I said, I’m an idiot.

Quote thanks to the amazing & well read Karen S. Thanks!

My excellent friend and perennial Internet crush Eric tweeted an interesting article on how to be friends with an introvert. It’s definitely food for thought.

It requires a companion piece, though, on “Care and feeding of your extrovert.” Or, “Extrovert – narcissistic and needy?”

Those on the extroverted end of the continuum (like me) tend to require a little patience from those who are, well, not of the same persuasion. Still, we’re worth it – adopt an extrovert and you may find you have a friend for life!

Talkative and expressive. Outgoing people are naturally talkative and emotionally, physically expressive. Their dynamic range is considerable; they talk with their hands, their arms, their whole body. Not only do they enjoy talking, they require it for their sanity; when things are crazy, they verbally process and analyze issues and questions of the day. This need for verbal processing, for someone to talk to, sometimes makes extroverts seem a bit needy.

Enjoy hugs and affection. Extroverted people tend to be more casually physically affectionate. They casually hug, and touch you on the arm, the shoulder, the hand, while talking. They may walk a little too close, even sit right next to you. To them, this creates camaraderie, while to an introvert, it’s an invasion of personal space.

Prefers people to toys. Extroverts almost always prefer people to toys, and when they do enjoy those toys, it’s within the context of social implementation. When they indulge in the latest phone and the latest camera, they’re using ‘em to connect with people. You’re not very likely to find an extrovert choosing a book over a social outing, or online gaming over a dinner party.

Are interested in new people and places. Extroverts enjoy meeting new people and mingling in groups — the same kind of scenario that strikes your average introvert as fairly painful. They also tend to choose a new restaurant, a new club, or a new travel destination over revisiting the tried, true and familiar.

Extroverts find identity & energy in social contact. An extrovert takes Descartes one step further – the introvert’s mantra is “I think, therefore I am” but the extrovert believes “I interact, therefore I am.” Social interaction provides the extrovert with validation, energy and justification and when he/she can’t find someone to talk to, verbally process with, it can be uncomfortable and frustrating.

Of course, friends of all personality types can enjoy spending quality time together (often over pizza and beer), enjoying music, sports or the outdoors, or other common interests. It is especially important to train an extrovert well, keep them from jumping up on you and on your furniture, and have their hips and joints checked regularly by your veterinarian be patient with them.

Note: this post is dedicated to my many fine introverted friends. You know who you are.

I learned to be a good girl early in life. When I took care of everyone else, didn’t rock the boat, followed all the rules and met my parents’ high standards, I stayed out of trouble and earned the occasional grudging nod of acceptance.

I got married a couple of months after college and settled down. I was a good wife, supportive and enabling, tolerating it all and cleaning up messes as soon as they were made. I earned a good living and used it to support the family.

I had my first baby three years after the wedding, and my second three years after that, both on schedule. I was a devoted mom, putting my kids first and working long hours to both support them and spend quality time with them.

I finally divorced my ex-husband after nine years of his compulsive financial irresponsibility, not for myself, but when I began to feel my children’s safety and security were threatened by it. It cost me my faith.

A couple of years later I married Bryan, who I adored and tried to be an exemplary wife to. He was conservative, responsible, kind and loving and I tried to take care of him and the boys in every way. I was a good wife and mom, I had a good job, and constantly strove to be conservative and respectable and not rock the boat.

Then a year ago I lost Bryan, and with it a large part of my identity – wife. Loved one. Partner in a stable, responsible home. Instead, I had to try to figure out who I was, when I wasn’t busy taking care of everyone and trying to meet everyone else’s standards as wife, mom, employee, daughter.

Who am I? I am still a caretaking, nurturing type – that hasn’t changed. There’s nothing I like better than truly helping someone, preferably behind the scenes, with a hug, some long term support, an act of love, or anonymous generosity.

I am not, however, quite the good girl I’ve tried to pass myself off as for so many years. I do like to rock the boat. I firmly believe that “What the hell?” is often the right decision, and that I would, indeed, like to give ‘em something to talk about. I’m creative and artistic. Passionate about what I believe in. Very geeky. A little bit edgy and nihilistic. And more than a little bit hedonistic.

In the process of growing up a little this past year, I got healthier and set some interesting fitness goals. I changed the way I dress, a little curvier and punkier, becoming a shoe & jewelry addict in the process. I pierced my ears a few times and now wear colorful jewelry. I got my first tattoo, an ankle bracelet memorial.

The tattoo, in particular, is an interesting rejection of the good girl ethos. When I grew up, only sailors and bikers had tattoos. They were just not commonly worn, especially by women. Now, of course, for younger generations, body modification is a frequent rite of passage. As an artist, as a bit of a rebel, as a woman seeking beauty and meaning in my life, the act of permanently inking my skin with something significant is an important freedom for me.

So, here’s to shedding the old, ill-fitting good girl skin and finding one that fits better! I wish all of you a similar epiphany on your journey.

“Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.”
         ~Henry Van Dyke

One of the strangest facets of loss is how it changes time.

You’d think time is a fairly straightforward measure. There are 60 minutes in an hour, 24 hours in a day, 365 days in a year. Those numbers can’t adequately measure the experience of the human heart flowing through time.

I have lived 45 years. Raised children for 21 years. Loved Bryan for 12 years. And have been on my own, without him, for one year. That 12 years with Bryan, one-fourth of my life, still defines me – my values, my home, my heart, my plans.

How can it be that the one year since losing him can feel like it was equally as long?

I remember, in the initial days, even month, following the initial shock of his passing, time behaved especially strangely. I had the strangest sensation of being frozen, like a fly in amber, like a pebble in a stream, as life rushed on around me.

The night hours stretched out like an eternity — every night was at least a week long. In the daylight hours when I’d try to rejoin life, I couldn’t keep up. I’d notice something, consider reaching for it in the current, and it’d be swept far past me by the time I moved.

There were times when I slowed my life down to match time’s flow. Sailing, flying under the sun at whatever speed the wind chose to take us, allowed time to catch up and life shifted into focus. Hiking on a beach or in the woods, time became my friend; the birds ignored the passing of the hours and the only rhythm was that of the sunrise and sunset.

But always, I had to return to real life, the fierce onrush of work, deadlines, errands, housework, bills, and I then I couldn’t stay synchronized, couldn’t keep up with the flow anymore.

Maybe this year my own personal time flow will speed up a little and match the world I must live in. Or, more sanely, maybe I can find a way to slow my world down to mesh with my life.

Goodbye my love, maybe for forever
Goodbye my love, the tide waits for me
Who knows when we shall meet again, if ever
But time keeps flowing like a river (on and on)
To the sea, to the sea
Till it’s gone forever
         ~Alan Parsons Project, “Time”

Recently, I’ve been wrestling with the concept of responsibility – my own hyperdeveloped sense thereof, and what I perceive to be a pathological lack of it in others.

Responsible
1 a: liable to be called to account as the primary cause, motive, or agent b: being the cause or explanation
2 a : able to answer for one’s conduct and obligations : trustworthy b : able to choose for oneself between right and wrong

In my profession, I am the responsible party, the bottom line. If a project succeeds, I give the credit to my team, but if there are issues, I’m the “single throat to choke”. And personally, as single parent to two, and foster parent to a third, I’m also the responsible one, even if the boys pretty much adults.

I’m going to try to talk about the concept of responsibility without sharing the details behind the issue; the detailed story is someone else’s and I don’t have permission to share, and when I’m frustrated with a person or people I prefer not to name names.

I’m struggling mightily with someone else’s strange, complete disconnect with responsibility. This deficit is not new to me, I’ve known about it for years. Still, it’s bizarre and puzzling to that someone can simply decide that responsibility that is legally, morally and ethically theirs can simply be ducked, with a shrug and maybe even a little bit of blame game, just because they don’t want it.

I talked about this with a good friend last night, one who is always direct and honest with me. (All my good friends are that way – I’m very blessed!) This friend said, “You are all adults now. Being an adult has responsibilities. That is the hardest thing to learn. And you are trying to solve all of their problems, and you cannot.”

Ouch. This bears reflection, because it is so very true. If I can’t be helpful and supportive in a family relationship or a friendship, I often wonder what value I bring to the table. I do tend to be a fix-it kind of gal, although I’m ok with just listening too. Still, what if the best and most constructive thing I can do for someone I love is to require them to stand on their own two feet and learn to solve their own problems?

This brings to mind another definition:

Enabler
1 a: one that enables another to achieve an end; b: one who enables another to persist in self-destructive behavior (as substance abuse) by providing excuses or by making it possible to avoid the consequences of such behavior

Am I acting as an enabler, because I do too much, want too much to be helpful? It’s quite possible.

The questions here, the murky areas, are related to mental illness, an adult de-facto dependent with a significant degree of mental health impairment and mood disorder.

• What additional support is required?

• What logical consequences are appropriate or even comprehensible?
• What level of expectations are appropriate?
• How can I, as caregiver, live my own life?

I don’t know of any hard and fast guidelines – suggestions range from a completely supported lifelong live-in model to a tough love, sink-or-swim model.

Actually somewhat applicable here, the classic and actually very infrequently used insanity defense is based upon an evaluation that the accused was incapable of distinguishing between right and wrong and that he/she was unable to control his or her behavior at the time of the offense.

None of this answers the question of how I deal with people in my life who are unable to comprehend or accept responsibility at all. Unfortunately it can’t be externally applied, via flog, spur or carrot-on-a-stick. I guess where I’m arriving at with this rambling essay is that compensating for them by taking the responsibility on myself helps no one, least of all myself.