Have you ever considered how deeply your ego is wrapped up in your job? Well, neither did I – until I began to reinvent myself. I quickly found that if you don't choose to do something awesome, exciting, sexy or daring you begin to be invisible. You fade quietly into the background until you're gone. I believe this is especially true for women.
It's important to know this. It might impact what you choose to do next. Then again, if your ego is strong and totally intact, it may not bother you at all. It bothered me when it began; it bothers me today.
Fading away appears to have a lot to do with social status. If you are what you do – you'd better be doing something people admire or covet. In my former life as a hospital marketing director others were covetous of my job and my success. They didn't care that I was miserable, heck I didn't care that I was miserable! I made good money, had great benefits, a modicum of power and prestige and, most importantly, a strong professional identity. When I quit I had none of that. But, being a good marketer I was able to re-package myself as 'new and improving'. I was still cool…but only among my friends.
While fine tuning my 'improvement mode' I engaged in a number of 'lesser;' jobs. You know what I mean. The kinds of jobs that don't require degrees or significant experience. I accepted these jobs as part of my reinvention experiment. (Or at least that’s what I told people). This is when I discovered that although your friends might think that what you are doing is cool, others (who do not know you) just don't see it that way.
I took service jobs – the kind of positions that require you to help other people. Sounds nice. What I did not realize was that many'other people' simply do not view service workers as people of any significant substance. Case in point: my brief career as an esthetician. While I have covered this ill-fated experiment in a previous blog entry, I failed to mention that one of my biggest problems with the job was the way I was treated by customers. Oh, they were nice. But they were also condescending. I, as a person, did not exist. My sole purpose was to cater to their whims. I am not good at catering. I got the sense early in that career that my customers assumed I was dumb and uneducated. I cannot provide examples of this because it was never that blatant. But it was there. How do I know this? Because every time I had an opportunity to share stories with my clients, I would talk about my former life in health care. And then everything would change. Right before my eyes. Invisible one minute; visible the next. How they spoke to me and the things they shared with me changed too. I was, once again, one of them. Go figure.
This pattern has continued. I experienced it in my brief (notice how my careers are brief) stint as a bridal consultant and as a receptionist in my friend's dental office. Is it a phenomenon of the wealthy area in which I live or is it just human nature to look down on people whom we think are less educated? Or do we all just need to think we are better than someone else?
Five years ago, while in grad school, I took a job as a caregiver for a 90 year old woman. I never meant to stay with her for five years, but I have. I simply love her. When I tell people that I am a caregiver most just say, "Oh.". That's all. "Oh". I can read a lot into "Oh." When I take her to the doctors the nurses will inevitably ask, "Are you her daughter?". "No, I'm her caregiver."…."Oh" and then, in most cases, they never speak to me directly again. I become invisible. It's become so bad that I no longer tell anyone what I'm doing. I talk about my part-time market research work but rarely mention the caregiving. I am, I guess, as bad as the people I'm talking about. I have let their opinions of what I do color my opinion of what I do. Shame on me.
There are a lot of 'service professionals' with amazing backgrounds. I have been massaged by a woman with a PhD in History, had my computer fixed by a man who was the former CEO of a large company, and been taken on a tour of Italy by a woman with a doctorate in languages. These weren't fall back jobs - these were jobs they chose. They all appeared to be happy with their choices. However, now that I think about it, I am reminded that they too found a need to tell me what they used to do. Makes me more sure that my experience is fairly common. Sad, but common.
If you need others to approve or envy or be awestruck by what you do – then do not go into service work. No matter how fulfilling it may be – you have to be able to weather the disapproval of others. I wish I were better at this. But I'm not. So, when people ask I often say, "I'm a free lance market researcher with a Masters in Counseling. I also help out an elderly lady in the mornings. It's a job I started in grad school and it's fun."
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Dressing for regress
We were drawn to the store by the window display. Coaxed inside by the "to die for" jeans. Like lemmings to the sea, the inner store displays pulled us in further. We were in Wonderland.
The most over-used and commonly heard word while women shop is "cute". "Oh that's so cute!", "That looks so cute on you!" "Did you see this cute bag?" I am just as guilty as all my sisters for using this word. Even though I hate it. Let's face it, a $400 handbag is not 'cute', it's expensive. But on this day, in this store, we were in the Land of Cute.
Like inmates on a day-pass we flitted crazily from rack to rack, and sale rack to sale rack. Adorable t-shirts, amazing tunics, great pants, and shelves of leggings in every possible pattern . We eventually bypassed the leggings, admitting that maybe we were too old to indulge in the trend this time around. My mother used to tell me that it is wonderful when something you wore twenty years ago comes back into fashion. But, she would caution, when it comes back for the third time you are too old for it. Sigh.
On that day, we were on a mission to find trendy clothes that were appropriate (grrr) for more mature women. Things that could be worn to work or out to dinner. Nothing that looked boxy, boring or flowing like a Bea Arthur outfit. Something a bit more exciting than Ann Taylor Loft or Liz (yawn) Claiborne. We loaded our arms with things we just 'had to try on for the fun of it' and headed for the dressing rooms.
The young lady who unlocked our fitting rooms was, at most, 17. I remember thinking, 'I could be her grandmother.' However depressing this thought might have been, I pushed on. My friend and I would talk to each other from behind the locked doors of our fitting rooms. "Do you have it on?" one of us would ask. The tone of the answer would determine whether we would get to see "it" on each other. "Yea," my friend answered, ""I'm not sure...". "Let me see!" I demanded. And one or the other of us would pop a head outside the room, scan the area for others who might see us, and slowly come out. The routine is the same no matter who is trying an item on. This is pretty much where our shopping similarities end.
I have a few basic criteria for choosing my clothes: price, style, fit and price. (I'm thrifty). Clearly price is important. "Fit" is even more important. I don't want to hem, tuck, or have to adjust. A bargain is not a bargain if you have to have it altered. How it looks matters...if I think it needs a jacket, a necklace or some other accessory - then it's wrong for me. I love accessories (though I don't wear many)but if I NEED accessories, then there is something intrinsically wrong with the item. (In my twisted head). My friend sees this process differently. She sees everything and I mean everything. She cannot try on a piece of clothing without checking her makeup and fingering her hair. She even does this little thing with her lips where she looks like she's about to kiss something. It never fails to make me laugh. The clothing almost always seems secondary to the whole picture. And she imagines almost everything with accessories.
On this particular day, we struggled with sizes...'small', 'medium' and 'large' were really 'smaller,' 'a bit bigger', and 'allows you to breathe'. We adjusted. Once the first batch of clothing was tried on, we went back for more. I had zeroed in on a t-shirt and was debating a pair of skinny jeans (YES you heard me, skinny jeans..) My friend was fixated on some "cute" tops she would wear under jackets. Then suddenly, as if a light had magically been shone upon us, my friend froze, looked up, and then lowered her eyes and head. In a small, whispery voice she leaned into me and said, "The average age of the people shopping in here is 12." I looked around. She was right. "Well, " I reasoned after a few nanoseconds of deep thought, "we could always say we were shopping for our grandaughters". Feeling "oh so clever" we continued to shop.
The problem with shopping when you're over 45 or 50 is twofold. First, few designers design for women over 45. Second, those who do consider designing for older women produce unexciting, and mostly unflattering garments that can be purchased on the Shopping Network in an array of fashion colors. The trends and the energy are directed to the kids...and we have the money. It's as if Fifth Avenue would simply like us to fade into the background and not be noticed. Well, screw that. I want to be seen. I want to be stylish without being ridiculous. I want the stores and departments I shop in (or am supposed to shop in ) to be merchandised in ways that are fun and exciting. I am not dead. I am not planning on dying any too soon. I would like an adult wardrobe that is stylish and(ahem) appropriate. Oh yea, and affordable.
So, I will buy the fashion basics in the dull places - but I will also continue stalking Forever Twenty-One and Charlotte Russe because they have cool stuff!!!! I'll have to count on my own style-sense to keep me from going too far. As for those 'skinny jeans' I mentioned earlier - I look really good in them and I wear them proudly!
The most over-used and commonly heard word while women shop is "cute". "Oh that's so cute!", "That looks so cute on you!" "Did you see this cute bag?" I am just as guilty as all my sisters for using this word. Even though I hate it. Let's face it, a $400 handbag is not 'cute', it's expensive. But on this day, in this store, we were in the Land of Cute.
Like inmates on a day-pass we flitted crazily from rack to rack, and sale rack to sale rack. Adorable t-shirts, amazing tunics, great pants, and shelves of leggings in every possible pattern . We eventually bypassed the leggings, admitting that maybe we were too old to indulge in the trend this time around. My mother used to tell me that it is wonderful when something you wore twenty years ago comes back into fashion. But, she would caution, when it comes back for the third time you are too old for it. Sigh.
On that day, we were on a mission to find trendy clothes that were appropriate (grrr) for more mature women. Things that could be worn to work or out to dinner. Nothing that looked boxy, boring or flowing like a Bea Arthur outfit. Something a bit more exciting than Ann Taylor Loft or Liz (yawn) Claiborne. We loaded our arms with things we just 'had to try on for the fun of it' and headed for the dressing rooms.
The young lady who unlocked our fitting rooms was, at most, 17. I remember thinking, 'I could be her grandmother.' However depressing this thought might have been, I pushed on. My friend and I would talk to each other from behind the locked doors of our fitting rooms. "Do you have it on?" one of us would ask. The tone of the answer would determine whether we would get to see "it" on each other. "Yea," my friend answered, ""I'm not sure...". "Let me see!" I demanded. And one or the other of us would pop a head outside the room, scan the area for others who might see us, and slowly come out. The routine is the same no matter who is trying an item on. This is pretty much where our shopping similarities end.
I have a few basic criteria for choosing my clothes: price, style, fit and price. (I'm thrifty). Clearly price is important. "Fit" is even more important. I don't want to hem, tuck, or have to adjust. A bargain is not a bargain if you have to have it altered. How it looks matters...if I think it needs a jacket, a necklace or some other accessory - then it's wrong for me. I love accessories (though I don't wear many)but if I NEED accessories, then there is something intrinsically wrong with the item. (In my twisted head). My friend sees this process differently. She sees everything and I mean everything. She cannot try on a piece of clothing without checking her makeup and fingering her hair. She even does this little thing with her lips where she looks like she's about to kiss something. It never fails to make me laugh. The clothing almost always seems secondary to the whole picture. And she imagines almost everything with accessories.
On this particular day, we struggled with sizes...'small', 'medium' and 'large' were really 'smaller,' 'a bit bigger', and 'allows you to breathe'. We adjusted. Once the first batch of clothing was tried on, we went back for more. I had zeroed in on a t-shirt and was debating a pair of skinny jeans (YES you heard me, skinny jeans..) My friend was fixated on some "cute" tops she would wear under jackets. Then suddenly, as if a light had magically been shone upon us, my friend froze, looked up, and then lowered her eyes and head. In a small, whispery voice she leaned into me and said, "The average age of the people shopping in here is 12." I looked around. She was right. "Well, " I reasoned after a few nanoseconds of deep thought, "we could always say we were shopping for our grandaughters". Feeling "oh so clever" we continued to shop.
The problem with shopping when you're over 45 or 50 is twofold. First, few designers design for women over 45. Second, those who do consider designing for older women produce unexciting, and mostly unflattering garments that can be purchased on the Shopping Network in an array of fashion colors. The trends and the energy are directed to the kids...and we have the money. It's as if Fifth Avenue would simply like us to fade into the background and not be noticed. Well, screw that. I want to be seen. I want to be stylish without being ridiculous. I want the stores and departments I shop in (or am supposed to shop in ) to be merchandised in ways that are fun and exciting. I am not dead. I am not planning on dying any too soon. I would like an adult wardrobe that is stylish and(ahem) appropriate. Oh yea, and affordable.
So, I will buy the fashion basics in the dull places - but I will also continue stalking Forever Twenty-One and Charlotte Russe because they have cool stuff!!!! I'll have to count on my own style-sense to keep me from going too far. As for those 'skinny jeans' I mentioned earlier - I look really good in them and I wear them proudly!
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Empty the nest if you can
If you are in midlife and have adult children you are in one of three places. You are either grieving your losses (the kids are gone), glorying in your new found freedom or,like me, wondering how in the hell you can get your kid to leave home.
I came to parenting late. After years of embracing my mother's philosophy that "children ruin your life" I had a mid-thirties epiphany in which I awakened one day and decided I wanted to be a Mom. Maybe it was something I ate. Who knows? At any rate it was what I wanted. And I don't even like children.
Now, my husband did not want kids. He had been very clear about that. So, my new-found desire to add one more person to the earth was both a shock and an annoyance to him. We fought. We struggled. I threatened to leave. He caved. (I'm really good at getting my way). Nothing happened. My periods came as regularly as the students who show up at my door every fall selling Christmas wreaths. We tried hormones and we both gained weight. We tried artificial insemination using his sperm, and this proved as effective as speed dating. Then we got tested. I was fine. He was not. His count was somewhat short of the million-sperm march. Those little tadpoles who were present were disabled. They swam upside down and backwards. The only thing that works upside down and backwards is a slide inserted into a slide projector. For my husband, the revelation of his infertility was a "sign" that we should not be parents. To me, it was a reason to dig in harder. We would adopt, I declared. And that was that.
Two years later the most gorgeous little twenty-two month old Korean boy was guided off a Northwest flight from Seoul and into my arms. I was thirty-six years old and the happiest person on earth. At least for awhile.
In the twenty three years that my son has been in my life I have seen the inside of more psychologist offices than I can count. Ditto that for lawyers, courtrooms, principals' offices and juvenile justice facilities. It has been a wild and not-much-fun ride punctuated with moments of joy that quickly come and go. He has been diagnosed with nearly every disorder one can find in the DSM-V. At first it was the common default diagnosis of ADD. After that other professionals added Borderline Personality Disorder, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, Narcissism and finally Attachment Disorder. In the end only the 'attachment disorder" fit. By then he was a known character in our town...the police knew him and so did the judges. He was the "go to " guy for drugs.
Since this blog post is not about the misery of living with a challenging child, I will spare the details. The point is that almost every parent goes through rough patches. I had a decade and more of rough patches. I was so sure I could fix him...save him from himself. But nothing worked. Tough love was laughable with him. Consequences were inconsequential. He was a child of extreme impulse; he lived only in the moment. I was a MOM with guilt. There is no reason for this guilt, of course. I wasn't my gene pool (That's what I used to tell my friends when I tried to shrug off his behavior).
My son has been thrown out of the house several times. I always relent and let him come back - especially when he has no options. I cannot sleep if he is homeless. I wish I could. He goes through good spells and is a joy to have around. And then he screws up...or breaks a rule or two...and the bad stuff begins. The longest he has been gone was nearly 6 months. It was heaven!!! If he is not around me then I do not know what he is doing. And that's great. But, when he is under my nose I revert to mining his room for drugs, monitoring his coming and going, checking out his friends, and worrying when he will lose this job. At my age this is no way to live!
We are nearing the end of September. On October 1st he must either cough up rent or move out. We'll see. I WANT HIM TO GO!!!!! That must sound awful. Too bad. I want my life back. I deserve my life back. Hell, I don't even remember what my life is. I think I have allowed all this to affect my "reinvention"...he is so distracting. (Or at least it has provided a good excuse)
Reverting to being a 'mommy' is common. It happens to my friends when their kids visit. It annoys the kids and the Moms seem unable to stop. But their kids LEAVE. They don't know how lucky they are...
I think my Mom was right....Maybe I shoulda listened.
I came to parenting late. After years of embracing my mother's philosophy that "children ruin your life" I had a mid-thirties epiphany in which I awakened one day and decided I wanted to be a Mom. Maybe it was something I ate. Who knows? At any rate it was what I wanted. And I don't even like children.
Now, my husband did not want kids. He had been very clear about that. So, my new-found desire to add one more person to the earth was both a shock and an annoyance to him. We fought. We struggled. I threatened to leave. He caved. (I'm really good at getting my way). Nothing happened. My periods came as regularly as the students who show up at my door every fall selling Christmas wreaths. We tried hormones and we both gained weight. We tried artificial insemination using his sperm, and this proved as effective as speed dating. Then we got tested. I was fine. He was not. His count was somewhat short of the million-sperm march. Those little tadpoles who were present were disabled. They swam upside down and backwards. The only thing that works upside down and backwards is a slide inserted into a slide projector. For my husband, the revelation of his infertility was a "sign" that we should not be parents. To me, it was a reason to dig in harder. We would adopt, I declared. And that was that.
Two years later the most gorgeous little twenty-two month old Korean boy was guided off a Northwest flight from Seoul and into my arms. I was thirty-six years old and the happiest person on earth. At least for awhile.
In the twenty three years that my son has been in my life I have seen the inside of more psychologist offices than I can count. Ditto that for lawyers, courtrooms, principals' offices and juvenile justice facilities. It has been a wild and not-much-fun ride punctuated with moments of joy that quickly come and go. He has been diagnosed with nearly every disorder one can find in the DSM-V. At first it was the common default diagnosis of ADD. After that other professionals added Borderline Personality Disorder, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, Narcissism and finally Attachment Disorder. In the end only the 'attachment disorder" fit. By then he was a known character in our town...the police knew him and so did the judges. He was the "go to " guy for drugs.
Since this blog post is not about the misery of living with a challenging child, I will spare the details. The point is that almost every parent goes through rough patches. I had a decade and more of rough patches. I was so sure I could fix him...save him from himself. But nothing worked. Tough love was laughable with him. Consequences were inconsequential. He was a child of extreme impulse; he lived only in the moment. I was a MOM with guilt. There is no reason for this guilt, of course. I wasn't my gene pool (That's what I used to tell my friends when I tried to shrug off his behavior).
My son has been thrown out of the house several times. I always relent and let him come back - especially when he has no options. I cannot sleep if he is homeless. I wish I could. He goes through good spells and is a joy to have around. And then he screws up...or breaks a rule or two...and the bad stuff begins. The longest he has been gone was nearly 6 months. It was heaven!!! If he is not around me then I do not know what he is doing. And that's great. But, when he is under my nose I revert to mining his room for drugs, monitoring his coming and going, checking out his friends, and worrying when he will lose this job. At my age this is no way to live!
We are nearing the end of September. On October 1st he must either cough up rent or move out. We'll see. I WANT HIM TO GO!!!!! That must sound awful. Too bad. I want my life back. I deserve my life back. Hell, I don't even remember what my life is. I think I have allowed all this to affect my "reinvention"...he is so distracting. (Or at least it has provided a good excuse)
Reverting to being a 'mommy' is common. It happens to my friends when their kids visit. It annoys the kids and the Moms seem unable to stop. But their kids LEAVE. They don't know how lucky they are...
I think my Mom was right....Maybe I shoulda listened.
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