I think I'm my Mother

For years now, I've been steadily turning into my mother. Today, I think the transformation is complete. Allow me to explain... As a child, I was very much like my father -- quiet, reserved, easily hurt. Physically, I also took after him -- tall, long feet and limbs, as well as flat feet and a flat derriere. There's more, but you get the idea. Some traits of my mother I knew I inherited long ago -- a love of shopping, a taste for the finer things in life, no patience for fools, etc. But over the years I noticed that I started picking up her habits -- leaving change in my pockets, buying gifts for myself, but today I noticed I have mastered her most amusing and possibly her worst habit. My mother names people. The monikers are always fitting, but not always appropriate. They endure because they are funny. For example: One of my sister's first boyfriends neglected to give her a Christmas gift after she spent all her allowance on him. We remember him as Cheapskate. Mommie spent 40 minutes in the back seat of my car with one of my friends who did not quite appreciate the usefulness of deodorant. To this day, that friend is known, within the family, as Stinky. A man who was deeply in love with my sister was, and always will be Boring. A previously mentioned ex, who was substantially older then me, became Old Seasoned One when he failed to show excitement for something accomplished that he had experienced long ago. And there are more. I admit I've christened some people. Old Seasoned One became Osama Bin Idiot. But Tuesday night, I don't know what happened. I was at a concert with some friends and the more I looked at the band, the more familiar they became. And then it struck me. One of the guitarists could have been a Hobbit in the "Lord of the Rings." He was small in stature, had the wavy hair, and his ears were slightly pointed. The drummer also perplexed me. By the end of the night, I realized he was a dead-ringer for the Captain from Captain & Tenille, complete with Greek fisherman's hat. Everyone laughed and I didn't give the names out of malice, but why did I do it at all?

Happy Birthday to Me!

Yesterday on the eve of my birthday, I posted a blog about aging. Today, one year older, I've had a revelation. (Is it true with age comes wisdom?) As I was eating birthday cake for breakfast, although it's almost lunch time, I was looking at my gifts and rereading my cards, and remembered age isn't important. What is important is how you live your life and what you do with it, and perhaps birthdays are a not so subtle reminder of that. Last night friends treated me to a wonderful dinner and gave me many beautiful gifts that show they really know who I am and what I like: jewelry and chocolate! This morning my in-box was flooded with greetings from friends all over the world, including one whom I haven't seen in over 10 years. Good friends don't care about gray hair, extra pounds, or whether I feel as if I've been professionally successful. Good friends simply care. But this revelation has created something else for me to worry about. I had a touching birthday message from my sister that made me cry, and my eyes welled up as I started to write thank-you notes. Is the ultimate stoic becoming a sap in her old age?

Hurricanes

Okay, everyone keeps asking me why this year’s devastating storms are all named after women.  Check out the following link for the history and policy of naming storms.  

FEMA History on naming Hurricanes

For a comprehensive list of storm names, click on:

Six-year list of storm names

Oddly enough, the “adult pages” were devoid of useful content.

Age: Is it really just a number?

My birthday is coming up soon -- the 23rd for curious readers -- and I keep thinking of the scene from "When Harry Met Sally" in which Sally cries about turning 40. Harry asks when and she replies, "In six years, but I'm still going to be 40." My 40th is not yet here, but I keep thinking about the number. Forty is not that far off and it sounds so grown up. But I don't feel grown up. And if I believe the masses, I look much younger than my age. So if I don't feel or look grown up, and if 40 is the new 30, why am I worrying about aging? The issue permeates every aspect of my day:

• While brushing my teeth in the morning, I study the wrinkles over the bridge of my nose. They are only visible when I squint, but the lines are deep. I look at the grooves around my mouth and I wonder how long they've been there. I question the elasticity of my skin. I'm even more obsessed since a dear friend, who has a flawless complexion, told me about a recent encounter in which someone told her she looks older than her oldest sister.

• I've always admired my mother's silver hair (I've only seen her with naturally dark hair in old photos), but I'm freaking out about the ones on my own head. I'm thrilled they are silver and not a dull gray, and I don't want to dye them because I don't think I could keep up with the maintenance. Yet, they are everywhere now and they won't behave, so I curse them. A cool streak might be okay, but my hairs stick out at all angles and drive me nuts.

• Every morning I also see on the scale the pounds I've gained since arriving in Kuwait. I've modified my diet -- all except for giving up chocolate -- yet they stay. I know more exercise would help, but ... And I wonder if it's all futile as I hear my sister's words echoing in my head that I'm old and the weight gain is unavoidable.

And while I try to come to terms with aging -- I'm cool with the concept, but the reality is a bitch -- I have to ponder the effects of age on my relationship that is or isn't. I've come to terms with the fact that my friend, although grayer, is younger (it's only 1 year and 11 months, but I'm used to dating men 20 years my senior). Yet I can't help but think that at my age, every day, month, and year is magnified and matters. I still haven't decided whether I want children at all, let alone naturally, but at my steadily advancing age, the decision may no longer be mine. If he follows the example set by movie and music stars, he's got at least 40 more years to decide if parenthood is for him. I don't have that luxury. I'm beginning to think it's now or never as I was rudely reminded this week in an editorial by English doctors that women can't have it all. You can't beat biology. Still, I don't want to do something stupid because 20 years from now I might have regrets.

So am I simply obsessing about another thing I can't control or are my concerns valid?

Rage

I tend to be a pretty even tempered person, and I pride myself on it. In the past week however, I can tell that too much work, too little sleep, and a long to-do list are starting to get to me. In today's New York Times, there was an interesting article by Natalie Angier (check out her book "Woman") about cursing and how it has been around as long as language itself. I took note that some people curse more when they are under stress. Apparently it's a way to relieve tension and not explode. Angier also reported that people tend to swear more around people they know and like. My poor office -- I've been cursing like a sailor this week. Thankfully, they know and like me, and vice verse. Anyway, I guess things came to a head tonight because I expressed my rage and frustration in a very Hollywood way. The house next door to me is under construction. I can handle the noise. The problem is the sloppy workers. They somehow manage to sling concrete in my yard and on two occasions, have covered my car with it. Fortunately, whatever mixture they use washes off without damage to the finish of my car. There are also wood, nails, and screws all over. As a result of the mess and noise, my dogs are afraid to go out and have been leaving little puddles and piles around the house and on my favorite rug. I've complained and cajoled, and the workers often apologize and clean up. But last Friday I cursed. I was on my way out the door when a worker dumped a bucket of trash into my yard. Forgetting it was Friday and a mosque is nearby, I yelled, "WTF?!" The guy shrugged and I lit into his colleague in a mixture of Arabic and English. More complaints were made to the owner and yesterday they cleaned up much of the mess. Tonight, however, after a long and stressful day, I pulled into my driveway to again find the mesh screening that is supposed to protect my home from their mess, flapping in the wind and wooden boards in the driveway. In a fit of pique -- but after I changed out of my suit and good shoes -- I went out determined to pull down all the sheeting. I tugged and tugged, but only managed to tear it more. The bottom half made it into my yard, but they did a pretty good job of securing the top. Plan B: Using one of the boards in the yard, and glad I had a tetanus shot, I shoved all the sheeting over the wall, tossing the boards afterwards. In the end, it was a comical sight and made me laugh. I found another way to relieve stress. What do you do when it all gets to be too much?

Woe is Woman

One of the reasons I started this blog was to express my concerns about the status and treatment of women. My frustration and outrage have grown as I read the papers and absorb stories about women being abducted for marriage in Kyrgyzstan (April 30, 2005 NYT), a Nigerian ban on women being passengers on motorbikes because the men might harass them, and the rape of young school girls in China. I can't comprehend why so many women continue to be subjugated and abused when women have made so many advances: 2 Secretaries of State, prime ministers (what's with the braid on the former Ukrainian PM?), a candidate for German Chancellor (Angela, why the hard "g?" It sounds so...so... German.), business moguls, etc. Why? Why? Why? Worldwide, women do must of the child rearing. They have an opportunity to shape and influence boys and young men for years. So why do so few of these boys and young men grow up to appreciate women as equals and partners and not treat them as objects? Is it nature? Is there something so deeply ingrained in our DNA from ancient history when brute strength was key to survival that we can't escape? Below the surface, is society so sexist that there will never be any real change? Or are women to blame for alienating those who have made it in a "man's world" and at the same time belittling women who choose to stay home and lead a more "traditional" life? I asked myself these questions while watching an Oprah episode about 7 cheating husbands. I'm not trying to create a link between infidelity and inequality, but I wondered why the wives chose to stay with the duplicitious men after multiple episodes of extramarital affairs. I'd like to think that love really is blind and forgiving, and that their husbands have truly repented. But I suspect the reasons they endure are economic, social (the whole status thing), and the need to preserve the family for the sake of the children. I wanted to yell at them, "Move on, you don't need a man -- especially the one you're married to." But then I remembered that yesterday I wrote about my deliberations on what to put first: my career or a still undefined relationship. I'm a hypocrite.

Karma

I was tucked into bed -- 11:30PM, earlier than usual -- thinking I might actually make it to work on time in the morning. That's not going to happen now since I'm sitting at my desk blogging away. What happened? I was attacked by random thoughts. It started off innocently enough: tomorrow's to do list, what to wear, how to get the water out my ear, and then karma. Why karma? I'm not a very spiritual person, and eastern philosophy, meditation, etc. mean very little to me. But I really think there's something to karma... This revelation was prompted by reflection on my current relationship. I suddenly realized the guy I'm dating is me, or the me I used to be: satisfied, content, and living in the now, not really thinking about the past or the future. Before some of you who know me well object, allow me to qualify this. I'm focusing on relationships only; we all know I'm anal retentive and obsess over the smallest details in every other aspect of my life. But traditionally, when involved with someone, I've preferred to enjoy (or try to enjoy) each day and put off discussions about "where are we going" or "is there a future?" This has frustrated many a man. The tables have now been turned however. Two weeks ago, I too was avoiding that 800-pound gorilla in the middle of the room. I now have no choice to confront it as my time in Kuwait will come to an end within a year and I have to decide what to do with my life. Do I do what's good for me professionally or do I think about my personal life and try to accommodate it? Given the options available to me, there is no truly happy medium; there will have to be a sacrifice. For the first time in my life, I think I'm ready to consider the interests of someone else, but I'm not getting clear, consistent encouragement about whether I should do so. The feminist in me says, "Move on and do what's best for you." The side of me that knows this man well, understands his hesitancy -- hey, he's doing what I normally do -- and recognizes that the little things he does convey what he cannot say. But what does all of this have to do with karma? I'd like a verbal expression of his feelings and hopes. (I'm still not ready to make any plans.) The karma is the last man I dated often asked, and in clear terms, how I felt about him. I deftly avoided answering because I knew he would not like the response and for a variety of reasons -- some twisted -- I did not want to immediately end the relationship. "But, that's only one example," you say. That's no proof of karma. Read on: Before him, Old Seasoned One (as my mother called him) or Osama bin Idiot (as I and my colleagues named him -- shortly after 9/11 we realized that a physical description of bin Ladin also described this man) broke my heart by doing something he knew would hurt me and never providing a full explanation. I did the same thing to the man I dated before the bin Ladin twin, although my transgression was less evil. The guy has never forgiven me, just like I can't forgive my personal terrorist. (It took a while, but I did get over the sordid saga.) There's no need to list all the previous boyfriends, but as I think back, the not so nice things that I did and the pain that I caused, I have since experienced. I think about how easily I walked away from a man who was by my side through some very tough times. Occasionally, he mentions that I never looked back when I got on the plane. He'll agree, that the relationship was limited to a certain time and place, but still, I made the departure chillier than necessary. Subsequently, someone walked away from me with surgical precision. So all of this raises the question, "Am I where I am because of human nature and the whole male/female thing, or is some greater power just evening the score?"