Reinventing Rhonda
Mid-life adventures of an energetic fatigued woman.
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
Reinventing Rhonda: Reinvention in the Mirror
Reinventing Rhonda: Reinvention in the Mirror: "Inspiring you to reinvent yourself" Dear Friends, I’ve written five new posts in my imagination since the last one that act...
Reinvention in the Mirror
"Inspiring you to reinvent yourself"
Dear Friends,
I’ve written five new posts in my imagination since the last
one that actually made it to you. (Each brilliant in its own way.) Today, I
want to open up a bit of my character for our collective inspection, reflect on
the reinvention I’ve been sharing since February, and let you know why I
paused.
“It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.” Just
like the giddily playing kids whose parent must yell this cliché, I began my
journey of reinvention with little idea of the risks. For one thing, it did not
dawn on me, though it should have, that this blog and my FB pages would be
stalked by someone without my best interest in mind. As I hope you’ve figured
out, there are aspects of my life that I do keep private, writing nothing about
here or on Facebook. Besides simple discretion and courtesy to others involved
in my “reinvention,” I am sensitive to the idea, developed in social science,
that to observe something is to change it in some way. So, I share with you
what I am open to your influence over – you, meaning the innumerable people,
currently known to me or not, who may ultimately read these musings. By opening
myself to your observation, I know that my experiences themselves are somehow altered.
All the more so, as I am describing my life to you with intent and choices; of
course I’m aware of and influenced by your presence.
This blog is about growth, learning, joy, gratitude and excitement.
In these areas, the more the merrier! Come on in for a swim in these pools of
my mind; splash around; make some noise; run, even, if you wish. It’s safe and
I welcome it.
Why did I start the blog this year? Because I have illnesses
that have forced me to change direction; because I was too ill to work and what
on earth was I going to do with myself? Because I have financial and familial
circumstances that one could consider dire. (Okay, that are dire.) Because I am much lesser abled than I ever was, in
life-critical ways. Because everything must change because everything has changed.
My response to those truths is to dwell as much as possible on
these equally available truths: that there are also good circumstances in my
life, that I have plenty of blessings to count, and that to a great extent, I get
to choose my private and public responses to the losses. (Jewish tradition
includes very sensible distinctions between public and private mourning.) It is
not the circumstance that defines one, but the response.
My cyber-stalker – yes, someone I know – believes that if
one is true the other must be a lie. Either I am in dire straits or I am joyful. If I write about joy and good fortune here,
that belies my “claim” of difficult circumstances. If my physical and financial
difficulties are true, then – obviously
– I am lying to you in this blog and on Facebook. This person has decided that
I lie habitually and that I have little integrity.
So I paused. To ponder. To give the stalker less fodder for
misinterpretation. To wonder, am I being truthful with you? After much
deliberation, I came to this thought:
Pthththththththththththththth!!!!
It may be harder to burst with joy when counting too
few pennies or when feeling knocked off one’s feet, but it is by no means
impossible. A stimulating conversation may do it, as may evoking an infant’s
smile.
Watching a cat choose the posies’ planter as a cat bed has done it. Seeing
FB photos of former students loving life does it. Chocolate ice cream does it (duh!), as does linguistic
and philosophical discourse with a new FB friend.
I don’t yet have the answers to my fiscal well-being, and I
don’t know how I will live a productive life with the ailments that limit me. I
don’t. I grieve plenty, in private and to my closest confidantes. It scares me not
to control the outcome, not even to know it.
What I do know is that for me, joy
is the antidote to fear. Laughter pushes stress away. Creative expression lightens
the burden. Loving family and friends soothe my achy soul. And that, my dears, is no lie.
So, after this, back we go: to aspirations, inspiration, and
the occasional stinky perspiration. Back to joy, growth, and beauty. Back to learning,
reinvention, naysayers be damned.
Thanks for reading!
Love, Rhonda
Labels:
Fibro flare,
Fibromyalgia,
friends,
health,
humor,
laughter,
Love,
Reinvention,
stress
Friday, May 15, 2015
Reinventing Rhonda: Unintentionally Slapstick
Reinventing Rhonda: Unintentionally Slapstick: "Inspiring You to Reinvent Yourself" Dear Friends, Years ago, I asked two colleagues to stop talking about their sex l...
Unintentionally Slapstick
"Inspiring You to Reinvent Yourself"
Dear Friends,
Years ago, I asked two colleagues to stop talking about their sex
lives in front of me: "Don't you understand," I said, in mock
exasperation, "I'm unintentionally celibate!"
They chuckled, left my office, and we went about our week. Except
that Sandy giggled every time she saw me, returning repeatedly to the concept
of "unintentionally celibate."
Just as a staff meeting was about to begin, Sandy and I made eye
contact across the table; muttering, "unintentionally celibate," she
began to laugh again.
Here's a nice picture of a nice cucumber. No reason. Why? |
"Sandy," I said in mock exasperation, "Don't you
understand? It wouldn't be funny if it weren't true!"
"Oh!" she responded, thought a minute, nodding her head
slowly.
"Ohhhhhhhhhhh."
It was an odd concept. Celibacy, as opposed to “not getting any”
or “in a dry spell,” connotes choice, virtue. To be celibate is to be
well-behaved, disciplined, pure and strong. In control of one’s destiny. I was
unintentionally strong and in control? Yes! I'd much rather have been
impulsively screwing up a storm every night and bow-legged with exhaustion
every morning. It was my age-right, my birthright. I was racking up virtue
points when I should have been racking up notches on a bedpost. It was
frustrating. And funny.
I often burst out laughing when I recount my frustrations, and, as
I saw clearly this week, so do my friends. I’ve been in NYC, down from Albany for
a divorce mediation session that took place on Wednesday. I planned 1.5 days free
and close by on either side of the stressful event, in case of debilitating
potential Fibro flare-ups. (Thanks to the Have Computer Will Work strategy, I
am able to be as productive in borrowed digs as I am at home.)
Making time to connect with friends through the week, I had lunch
at a café, dusk beside the Central Park Reservoir and dinner at a corner
Italian place. After each get-together, my abs ached and my cells felt over-oxygenated
from belly laughter. The stories were the sort that are over-the-top funny
because, well, they aren’t really funny at all. Self-deprecating slapstick: Not
so-and-so slipped on a banana peel; rather, that’s me slipping on the damned banana
peel that I threw down to begin with!
My friends and I laughed about grunting like old, arthritic men
every time we move, the relationships that went insanely south, the most bizarre
moments of those relationships, and the grief of lost love and trashed dreams.
Conversation sloshed between sharing real pain and giggling over it, being
worried and being giddy and strategizing and caricaturizing.
I could barely catch my breath or hold my bladder. At the café,
the woman behind us could barely hear herself think. At the reservoir, self-satisfied
runners just barely managed to ignore us. No matter – we were thoroughly
enjoying the fruits of our failures.
Often, I describe my body with Fibro as a carnival fun house
mirror – everything’s warped and unreal. “It would be hysterically funny if it
weren’t true,” I say. But enjoying this week so much and remembering back to “unintentionally
celibate,” I now see that if it weren’t true, it wouldn’t be funny.
Are you enjoying these posts? Please do share them. It’s fun to
see what new countries people are reading me in. I don’t have anyone in Africa
or Scandinavia yet. Let’s go, people!
Love, Rhonda
PS. Need writing or editing help? Write me at rhonda@reworkediting.com.
Labels:
divorce,
Fibro flare,
Fibromyalgia,
getting old,
health,
humor,
laughter,
Memories,
stress
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Reinventing Rhonda: For the Love of God…
Reinventing Rhonda: For the Love of God…: “Inspiring you to reinvent yourself” Dear friends, I bought a blender this month, the kind that crushes everything with blades o...
For the Love of God…
“Inspiring you to reinvent yourself”
Dear friends,
I bought a blender this month, the kind that crushes
everything with blades of steel. Not the insanely expensive brand that produces
so much friction, COSTCO hawkers make soup in it. I dreamed about that one,
imagining it would change my life forever. I love soup, and if I make frozen margaritas, surely beautifully
plumed people would flit around me like hummingbirds to nectar? Nah.
I rejected the TV miracle one that looks like a mortar shell
and is likely to send smoothie gloop-shrapnel all over my kitchen. On the other
hand, I loved my Ginzu knives, so maybe this is good quality. Still, too utilitarian; I wouldn't love it.
No, I bought the Jackie Chan of blenders, the one that chops
board-hard carrots like butter. It was love at first blend. Amazing! Kale tastes great with pears, ginger and raspberries, and with carrots, apples, protein
powder and chocolate chips. It’s remarkable how kale, almond oil, parmesan and
pine nuts turn into pesto with the push of a finger. I have eaten more iron,
Vitamin C and fiber than my intestinal track knows what to do with. It’s like after a week at Kripalu, eating vegan foods in bulk.
Thanks, Brunetteanthem.com |
Though it might be hard to discern, this post is about the languages
of love – or more specifically, my languages of love. My new friend Anna, a
fictional representation of a real person (I am helping a beloved client writing a Roman
à Clef—fictionalized tell-all—and this is a good warm-up), mentioned love at
her kitchen table Monday.
I had just sealed a deal with her daughter, Rebecca, to work for me
this summer, and Anna and I had just agreed to collaborate on a writing project. We had also just conspired to get more food-based iron into her oldest daughter, Callie, who
babysits at my house three afternoons a week. My role? Make her smoothies with
kale hidden within, of course. Kale for Callie. (The alliteration works with Callie’s
real name, too, but if I told you, I'd have to..., well, you know.) Anna had just texted back to Rebecca, who
texted her mom from the basement that she wanted to go hang out with
her boyfriend. And I had just told Anna that her ex-husband Bernard, who is my
fictional friend and financial advisor, has been trying to get me to stop
buying people gifts. “The languages of love,” Anna murmured, in a moment of
intellectual flight that hooked me and carried it with me.
What are my languages of love? I am a love polyglot! I do
speak gift. How could I not buy the What da Cluck T-shirt for a friend who
raises chickens? A spring jacket for a toddler niece? A hand-painted mug in her favorite
colors for a friend who turned 50?
I also speak a hybrid of schoolmarm, Jewish mother and soft-bosomed
auntie. I see to your education and that there are childproof locks on the
cabinets. I scold you for talking trash and kvell
over your every achievement. (Kvelling
is Yiddish for celebrating a loved one’s/student’s accomplishments in a
joyfully connected “And s/he’s mine!” sort of way.) I hug you, coo at you and
rub your back. I laugh at your jokes and listen to your music. I use
endearments and touch your hair or shoulder when I walk by. I say and text “I
love you” often. If you are an infant, toddler, dog, cat, goat or alpaca, I talk a
stream of pleasant sounding nonsense to you, often responding to your garbled verbiage with,
“I know, baby. I agree with you completely. What do you think about X (world peace, those
Mets, etc.)?” If you’re a teenager, I meet your ideas with wondering questions –
you sparked my curiosity! I cook you soup.
Speaking of soup, I was trained from birth to speak food: smoothies
with iron; pesto in little jars for everyone; a Passover seder for non-Jewish
friends replete with brisket, Moroccan chicken, fresh-made horseradish and beets, matzo ball soup and innumerable kugels; brunch out; ice cream. Coffee
fixed the way you like it. And I am also an avid listener to the language of
Food.
I can listen and jabber on for days in Daughter, Friend,
Lover and Sister.
Parents Fran and David. Taught me many love languages |
I speak resume and cover letter and their parent language,
editing. I speak Stay at my House, Borrow my Car and What do You Need
beautifully, along with Breathlessly Funny Shared Story-Telling. I am fluent in
Hold on, You’re Safe, though much less so in I’m Letting Go Now. I overuse the
cyber love language, Facebook, and cannot get enough of I Love Hearing Your
Love Languages.
When alone, I use my ESL–extra-sensory love–to scan the
well-being of those with whom I have not spoken today, this week, this month,
and sometimes even, this year. I use this vibratory language to wish them into
greater well-being, celebrate with them, ease their fear or grief, and let them know that I miss and
love them. In many cases, a greeting card would do better, but I speak post
office haltingly and have never quite gotten the rhythms of Remember My Birthday
or Happy Anniversary.
Languages of love:so satisfying to think about this
morning! Thank you, fictional Anna, for sparking this train of thought. I’ve
loved it. Now off either to make my breakfast smoothie or take my early morning nap. Probably the nap; I love naps.
Love, Rhonda
Sunday, April 12, 2015
Reinventing Rhonda: When the Fibro Flares
Reinventing Rhonda: When the Fibro Flares: "Inspiring you to Reinvent Yourself" Dear Friends, I planned a month of driving, visiting, meeting strangers, eating ...
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