Amy Lu's View

“We’re made for each other.”

Really?

I think this saying is supposed to be romantic, but it doesn’t feel meaningful or desirable to me. I don’t want to yuck anyone’s yum–if you feel this saying represents your relationship or is something you aspire to, who am I to be snarky about that? But to me it suggests passivity and effortlessness that I don’t associate with love or relationships. 

At some point, Chad and I came up with our own version of the “We’re made for each other” slogan. We like to say, “We’ve made ourselves for each other.”* (see disclaimer/follow-up at the end of this piece).

What’s the difference? 

I think our version rejects the idea that there is some cosmic plan for our coupledness. We’re not meant to be. Instead, it focuses on chance and choice. Somehow our paths crossed and forces we couldn’t control as well as those forces we could have led to our relationship to feel right and normal and relatively easy. 

Saying “we’ve made ourselves for each other” also highlights that we’ve grown and evolved together, and made compromises big and small. We don’t usually notice this process, and when we do, we mostly feel it’s been a gift. We’ve become better and more because we’re part of this thing that’s a combination of both of us. 

But sometimes, we feel annoyed and even angry. Sometimes, feeling like you’ve changed because of another person, even if you wanted to, even if you’ve chosen to, feels like a loss. 

Sometimes we say “No–I’m not going to change,” or “I’m not going to expect you to change.”

I don’t think we make ourselves and each other only for romantic relationships, but all relationships–with other individuals, communities, and our social and physical environments. Sometimes we’re remade without having many good options, or the ability to put on the brakes.

I like the possibilities and nuances I find in saying “We’ve made ourselves for each other,” but as I’m thinking about all of this, I realize that isn’t the best way to describe how love changes us and gives us the power to change another. 

Because we’re never “made”–as a proposed change to our national Unitarian Universalist bylaws points out (#ChurchNerd), we’re never finished or perfect, nothing is. Yes, Chad and I have made ourselves for each other to get to this point, but we’re not done. We’re making ourselves for each other. We’re continuing to choose to be changed and to be a catalyst for change, as we create new versions of ourselves as individuals and as this additional thing (we call it Chamy) we make together. 

Not only do I feel like I’m making and remaking myself so I can be in a long-term relationship with Chad, but also so I can be a part of our church, Michal Servetus (MSUS). Sometimes, being a member of the MSUS community feels effortless, and I can’t imagine a reality where MSUS isn’t a huge part of my life. Sometimes being a part of this community feels like a challenge, or a burden, or a catalyst for me to be something different. 

I think being changed because of someone, and changing others, and changing together, and even saying “no” to change that isn’t right for you, is part of love. 

At least my time loving Chad, and loving MSUS, has made me think that. 

*Disclaimer/full disclosure: Chad thinks our version of this saying is “We’ve made each other for each other.” I like my version better because I think it highlights our individual choices and our willingness to be changed. He likes his version better because he thinks it emphasizes how we influence and shape each other. 

I wrote this piece for a church service we did on “love”–something that’s become a tradition for us around our anniversary time–and while I went with Chad’s version for the service, my way wins for my blog. 

One could argue that it’s not really “our” saying if we have two different ways of saying it, but I think that makes it a quintessentially Chamy saying. 

Our dog, StanLee, did something silly and cute yesterday and I immediately thought, “Oh, I can message my sister, Jenn, about this–she’ll enjoy this little StanLee story.” 

But I can’t message Jenn because she died on April 22, a little over a year after she was diagnosed with uterine cancer. Jenn was sixty-three years old, and just a couple of months shy of her sixty-fourth birthday, on June 16. 

Jenn and I “talked” a lot via Facebook messenger with the start of Covid, and even more after her diagnosis–sometimes several times a day. We talked about StanLee, and our cats, and my latch hooking, and her crochet and craft projects. Jenn listened patiently as I detailed my latest library and community theater drama. I told Jenn about the topics that came up at my church “lunch bunch” zoom gatherings. We talked about the British royal family, and celebrities I wasn’t aware of (including Pete Davison?). Jenn told me how much she liked looking at the nature photos I posted from the various parks I visited.

We had several conversations about the new television series “The Interview with the Vampire,” based on the book by Anne Rice that we both loved. We agreed that the new series was awesome, but that “The Mayfair Witches” (also based on Anne Rice books) was a hot mess. 

Jenn and I talked about how she was feeling and the treatments she was undergoing, and about her anxiety and depression, which were understandably heightened by having cancer. We talked about the health and housing concerns of Jenn’s husband, Steve, and how much she loved her daughter, Kate. We talked about my sister-in-law, Chris, and how awesome it was she was taking Jenn to her treatments, and gave each other updates about my brother, Charley, and Charley and Chris’s adult children Logan and Raegan. Jenn was especially intrigued by Logan’s goats. 

We shared memories of our mom, who died in 2000, and our dad, who died in 2013. 

These chats create a pretty good picture, or at least mosaic, of Jenn. Jenn was a tremendously talented crafter, and could really work magic with crochet. Jenn loved pets, especially her cats. Jenn was a fiercely loving and devoted mother, and loyal caretaker for her husband. Jenn loved the royals (I remember her getting up in the middle of the night to watch the wedding of Charles and Diana) and she was always more up on contemporary celebrities than I’ve been (if a celebrity hasn’t been in a sci-fi show I’m usually clueless). Jenn openly struggled (so I feel comfortable sharing this) with anxiety, depression, and other mental health issues her whole life.

And while we didn’t talk about it much in our recent chats, Jenn spent over twenty years (I think) as a teacher, most notably a kindergarten teacher. 

Jenn was funny, smart, creative and loving. 

To paraphrase a Todd Snider song lyric, “Yes, she was, but that’s not all she was.” People are complex and multilayered. Love is complicated. 

A wise friend who is a cancer nurse told me a few months ago that “If there is anything you want to say to your sister, you should probably say it now.” Good advice, but so hard to do. I did tell my sister that I loved her, but that feels inadequate. Hopefully, all those silly messages about StanLee and latch hook conveyed that “You’re important to me. You’re special and unique. We share a history and a bond that can’t be forgotten or replaced, even though we were sometimes frustrated and disappointed and annoyed with each other.”

It’s going to be hard to break my habit of messaging my sister.

It’s going to be hard not having my sister.

Parchment paper was thwarting my efforts to achieve personal growth. 

Or rather, I was thwarted by my failure to successfully procure parchment paper. 

I didn’t really know what parchment paper was, but I needed it for the online vision board class I was going to take. Technically, Chad was taking the class–I enrolled him in the session as a birthday gift–but I wanted to attend, too. 

Since the class was a gift, and honestly, one of the “Look honey I got you this thing I actually wanted for us/me” variety of presents (don’t all couples do this?), I thought I could at least round up the supplies.

Unfortunately, I followed my usual M.O and waited until almost the last moment, so I didn’t have the time or inclination to shop anywhere but Target. I was nervous, because I didn’t think Target carried too much in the way of craft supplies, but luckily, the list of items that we got from the instructor that we needed for the class didn’t seem too specialized. 

I also took my usual approach of NOT making a shopping list…I got fixated on a few items on the class supplies list, most notably, glue sticks, and resolved to make a quick stop at Target on the way home from the gym. And…I got a little lost at Target. 

Not only did Target have basic crafty supplies, but they had an array of shiny and colorful and tempting office, school, and home decor supplies (THIS is why I seldom venture out of groceries and clothes). There were so many things that I never knew existed that it turned out I desperately needed! But, I was strong–where, or where, would I put all these marvels in our already crammed-with-stuff-house?–and returned home (later and more tired than I hoped, having willpower is exhausting!) with glue sticks and markers. 

I triumphantly showed Chad the spoils of my shopping expedition. We were ready to vision!

“That’s nice, honey, but did you get big notecards?”

DAMN!

We needed big 5X8 notecards because we were actually doing vision cards, not a board. 

Argh, I would just have to fit in another Target trip the next night after work and before the class. 

As long as I was going back to Target, I thought I would take a look at the supply list again…wait, I was supposed to get parchment paper, too? What would we be using that for? Target certainly wouldn’t have that. 

The topic came up in a chat with my sister, the consummate crafter. “Target will have that, you’ll find that in the food section” she helpfully explained. 

What? Hmmm, it must not be what I thought it was–something to recreate the aesthetic or writing on historical paper.

Well, as long as I would be at Target again, I would follow directions and get parchment paper, too. Except…Target didn’t have 5X8 notecards! Double Argh! I got so involved with that problem (which I resourcefully solved by just getting 8X10 card stock paper we could tear in half, close enough) that I totally forgot about the parchment paper. 

I am proud of my notecard adaption. I consider this an example of having a “stretch” as opposed to a “chaser” mindset, which I recently read about in a Experience Lifetime magazine article. Instead of chasing after the perfect materials for our class, I made do and got creative with what was readily available to me (as the article would say, just like the MacGyver, or, as I would say, I half-assed it).

Turns out, we didn’t need the parchment paper. I’m still not sure what it was for–just to protect our work area? Honestly, I still don’t really know (or care, so don’t feel like you have to tell me) what parchment paper is. 

What we did need, beyond glue sticks and notecards and magazines to cut up, was a sense of openness and a willingness to look and feel goofy, and to do something badly. Even though our instructor was encouraging and stressed that we couldn’t do this wrong…I think we both did it wrong. Or at least we weren’t super happy with our efforts. We were probably somewhat stymied by not having “goals” to vision about. (Our goals felt either too broad–”finish seminary”–or too status quo–”run a half marathon again.”)

But we tried to get over ourselves, and we did have fun. Or, at least, I had fun, and I Chad didn’t have not-fun. I even have aspirations of trying again–I have a long personal tradition of liking collaging, and this seems to fit with that. 

And now I know that I don’t need parchment paper–and I have glue sticks to use up. 

Maybe I’ll really discover my inner MacGyver!

When I was a kid, I used to be afraid to use the toilet if there was lightning. 

Luckily, that fear left me years ago, but I remembered it recently because of a connection to “Belles,” the play I was just in. “Belles” is the story of six grown sisters trying to connect via phone calls (yes this is set before we all had smartphones). While the sisters spend ample time on the phone, their mother won’t touch “that instrument of death” because she’s afraid of lightning traveling through phone lines. 

My character, Aneece, mocked her mother for her phone phobia, but it wasn’t as silly as my worries about using the toilet. I’m not sure what I thought was going to happen–did I think the water in the bowl would attract the lightning? 

Aneece wasn’t scared of lightning, but she was scared of many things. When Aneece acted out in fear, it wasn’t pretty. In many ways, Aneece was quite unlovable–a mean drunk who carelessly hurt her sisters by speaking “her truth.” 

Aneece was often unlovable, but I loved playing her, and I even loved her. 

It’s easy to say why I loved playing Aneece–she was a wonderfully complex and interesting character, and I felt like I could pull the audience into her story. I could take the audience on a journey with Aneece–from laughing at her declaring “I AM an alcoholic” to cringing as she described childhood abuse and her struggles with fear and loneliness. 

Aneece getting swacked

It also helped that I felt mostly solid in my knowledge of my lines, and my blocking was pretty simple. To some extent I could let worry about those “logistics” go and really focus on being Aneece. 

And I loved being a part of the “Belles” team and getting to know and work with my tremendously talented and supportive onstage sisters and our director. 

But why did I love Aneece as a “person” (albeit a mythical one) and not just a character I got to play?

I loved Aneece because she was a fighter. I loved Aneece because she was funny and fierce. I loved Aneece because she tried to be brave and honest. 

I’m inspired by Aneece’s honesty–I want to be better at speaking my truth–but NOT in a way that callously causes pain to others.

While I cut Aneece some slack for how she expressed herself, I do judge Aneece harshly for her alcohol choices–STOLI? Even a cheap bourbon would have been better in my estimation. Stealing one of favorite overheard quotes: “I’m not judging that you’re drinking, I’m judging what you’re drinking.”

Playing Aneece encouraged me to contemplate some deep questions about memory, loneliness, family, and courage–and some lighter ones, too. 

• As kids of the 70’s and 80’s, did we think it was a good thing or bad thing to get Lifesaver storybooks as presents?: I think it came down to context–probably not a great thing to get from a sibling, but a relief to receive from a classmate. 
• Scrunchies are back–am I going to embrace wearing them again?: Yes, I am!
• Can I wear my super short costume dress (which is a dress I pulled from my closet but I don’t remember how I came to own it…I think I got it to wear over biker shorts while playing drums and I don’t think I’ve worn it much) out in the world for real?: Hopefully, once it warms up. 

AND I learned a new word from being Aneece! Not only a new word, but a new word for being drunk, so it will be a useful word for me: Swacked. I am still a little mystified as to why I’ve never heard this word before. Is it a southern word? Was it mostly in use during the 80’s when I wasn’t drinking?

The only bad thing about the experience of portraying Aneece was freezing in the theater–which was my fault for insisting on wearing the aforementioned super short dress as a costume. I guess it is true, we must suffer for our art!

I spend too much time on my smartphone–just ask StanLee. Time spent using my phone is time  I should be petting him. It’s also time when I’m not terribly productive, or not paying attention to what’s going on around me. Or time when I’m trying to avoid being bored, which sounds good like a good thing, but some research suggests we actually need to be bored to promote creativity. We also might need to have entertainment-free time when it’s not so easy to escape uncomfortable emotions we might be avoiding. 

Me and StanLee and researchers (and probably even 4 out of 5 dentists) agree: Cutting back on how much I use my smartphone would be a good thing.

But I’ve never had any intention to stop using my smartphone to listen to audiobooks when I run.

And yet, I ran 5 MILES at the gym recently without using my smartphone to listen to an audiobook. This means I had NOTHING TO ENTERTAIN me as I ran around, and around, and around, the track. 

Obviously, I didn’t plan on doing this, but when I got to the gym and started changing in the locker room, I realized I had forgotten my earbuds at home. Ugh. I looked and looked, hoping they were hiding in a pocket somewhere, but no, they were really not there. I finally remembered and accepted that they were at home, happily charging away, so that I could be sure they wouldn’t run out of power on my run. 

Decision time. Should I just give up and put my clothes on and go back home and ride our exercise bike?

No, I had already invested so much time getting my ass to the gym, I had to at least get some benefit out of it. “You can do this,” I told myself. “At least for a couple of miles. Just do that, and we’ll take it from there.”

So now I feel pretty mighty, having made through not just two miles, but FIVE (yeah, I know I already said that). So much of running involves “mental toughness” so I’m proud of rising to this unanticipated challenge.

And…it wasn’t actually that terrible. The time went faster than I would have thought. 

Did I discover I was okay with being alone with my own thoughts while I ran? NO. Not only are my thoughts not that interesting, but running around in a circle (well, oval) is just not that pleasant. But there was more entertainment and distraction than I expected. Every time I passed the television monitor playing the show about adorable animals in distress, I had to check how they were doing (all happy endings I think). And nothing beats the entertainment of moral outrage which running on the track provides…there’s always SOMEONE walking the wrong way, or stopping on the track to watch the pool, or not looking when they walk across the track. Yesterday, I came within inches of running into someone which allowed me to distracted by indignation.

And I thought about blogging! How I could turn this anecdote into a post and all the partial posts I have that I want to finish and did I need to worry about any of my content going stale?

Expectations were important too–I expected my run to be terrible, so when it wasn’t SO awful, that made it seem better. And every time I hit a goal, I talked myself into doing a little more–another 5 minutes or another mile.

This was my second experience of not having digital entertainment or distraction just this weekend, as Friday night I forgot my phone when we went to see comedian Sarah Silverman. This was more than just an “ack I want my phone”–we actually needed my phone because the tickets were on them (and no, I don’t have any idea how to sign into any of the necessary accounts to get another copy of the tickets by using Chad’s phone).

Chad is the hero of this story–we were almost to the restaurant when I realized my blunder, so Chad dropped me off and headed BACK home to get my phone (about a 35 minute round trip excursion). 

So I got to sit at the restaurant just waiting for him, with, obviously, no phone to entertain me. And I was surprisingly, and uncharacteristically, Zen. I even enjoyed people watching (this restaurant was part of a hotel having a convention so that elevated the people watching) and just sitting. I was most surprised that I didn’t freak out too much about Chad’s mission–I felt bad that he had to go through the hassle and that our together time was cut into, but I accepted I couldn’t do anything to change the situation (and luckily we had enough time for him to get back and eat and we still made it to the show). I’m sure having a cocktail and an appetizer while I waited for him also helped me be more relaxed.  

I’m sticking with my plan to avoid running without entertainment (especially any run more than 10 minutes and any run inside) but maybe I can start trying to do other activities or have other experiences without my phone. Or, spend some time just doing nothing. 

Nothing, besides petting StanLee–and maybe having a cocktail. 

Target cashier: Is that a tory?
Me: What?
Target cashier: Your purse
Me: No…I don’t know what that is.
Target cashier: They’re expensive.
Me (inner monologue): If I was the type of person to be into expensive purses, would I be shopping at Target? And no, this isn’t a “tory” purse but it IS a Doctor Who purse but I won’t say that because you won’t know what that is...and I’ll have to blog about this! 

I smugly exited Target with my non-“tory” (which of course I had to Google the spelling of and learned it’s actually “Tory Burch”) Doctor Who-themed purse that I acquired through my Loot Crate subscription. (I’ll confess that although I consider myself a big Doctor Who fan, I wasn’t able to identify the “Seal of Rassilon” on the purse without the Google).  

Not only is my purse super-cool because it celebrates Doctor Who, but the color perfectly, and unintentionally, matches a new dress that I got for my birthday. (I vehementally reject the idea of “fate” or “meant-to-be-ness” but this happy cosmic coincidence almost make me wish I didn’t).

Shockingly, I was terribly remiss in taking a selfie to capture the awesomeness of my purse matching my dress when I wore the dress for a recent birthday celebration. Such a selfie was crucial for this blog post, so when I got home I remedied my oversight as soon as possible, even though getting re-dolled up was a pain in the ass (#ISufferForMyArt). 

I found the purse conversation entertaining, and completely unexpected. I wasn’t surprised to have a conversation with the cashier–in fact, I was dreading it. I was grumpy, and in a hurry (totally my fault because of my own bad time management skills) and concerned as I was waiting in line to discover the cashier seemed particularly chatty and chipper. I was fidgety and irritable about having to make happy small talk and worried that the cashier was going to ask me about the “craft supplies” I was buying and what fun I had planned for the children I must be buying them for. (I hope to have another blog post in the near future about my need for craft supplies…#ForwardPromo). 

So I wasn’t startled about having a check-out line conversation, but about the content. Yet another mini-life lesson that I shouldn’t make assumptions. 

Maybe I also shouldn’t assume that people who like expensive purses don’t shop at Target? Or that a randomly encountered Target cashier wouldn’t know about Doctor Who?

Or that any strange little social encounter I have will make a good blog post?

“Make sense of this.” 

I received this directive at the Walker when I recently visited it on my birthday. 

Yes! That’s what I wanted to do. That’s what I was trying to do: Make sense of my birthday. 

Okay, this command wasn’t given specifically or exclusively to me, and it wasn’t actually about my birthday, but about the Walker collection.

But here I was, on my birthday, with the Walker telling me to “Make sense of this,” and it seemed like a directive, or an invitation, I should accept. Afterall, I had been thinking obsessively, and disjointedly, about my birthday–especially how to blog about my birthday–for days.

Of course, I was under no mandate to blog about my birthday, but since it was looming so large in my head, I felt obligated to do so. 

Why was I thinking about my birthday so much? Because I love my birthday–even though loving my birthday as an adult, especially a middle-aged adult woman, isn’t a popular response, and doesn’t seem to make much sense. How could I possibly love this day that just means I am yet another year older, with more wrinkles, less cultural relevance, and fewer days of my life ahead of me than behind me?

But ugh, I didn’t, I don’t, want to wallow in tired and cliched “aging sucks” thinking (or blogging). Yes, some things about aging definitely are not awesome, and I’m sure I’ll find that even more true as I get older–I know I’m extremely lucky to have made it to 53 without any serious health issues, or even annoyances.  

Aging IS scary–I don’t want to downplay that. I’m not a fan of mortality, of my own or my loved ones, and I’m not big on changes I can’t control. I’m not big on loss, and the process of aging is filled with losses big and small.

So there are a plethora of difficult and even sad things about getting older, but of course some positive aspects, too. I’ve learned so much from my 53 years–lessons big and small, everything from the value of presence to the very recent discovery that boiled peanuts are really messy to eat and not worth the effort. 

This year, the most relevant thing I’ve learned–at least as far as my birthday goes–is that it’s okay to love my birthday. It’s okay to set aside some time (not limited to just one day) to ponder and be grateful for all the wonderful people who are or have been part of my life. I can take time  to appreciate that I’ve made it this far (both in terms of years and experiences), and to celebrate with indulgences and frivolity (likely small and spread out over a whole month so I don’t exhaust myself). It’s worthwhile to reflect on what’s been and what is and to have hopes and dreams and anticipation for the future. 

Maybe I won’t love my birthday as I get older, or I’ll love it in different ways, but now I can just enjoy it as I want to (including obsessing over where to go and what to do to celebrate and what to wear while I do it). 

I don’t know if I’ve made sense of my birthday, or my fondness for it, but I do find meaning in it. I may not be fulfilling the charge the Walker gave me, but I’m okay with that. (I also wasn’t able to make “sense” out of most of the art I saw at the Walker but it was an enjoyable visit!)

Every run has its challenges (or at least irritations) but today was the first time my run was interrupted by a fire alarm. 

Yes, this was an indoor run on the track at the gym we go to (LifeTime Fitness), and I was only about 10 minutes in, when the fire alarm went off. 

Damn. 

I had just gotten my motivation up enough to make the (short) journey from church to the gym, and went through the rigamarole of going to the locker room and changing, and finally got my ass on the track and running…and now I was supposed to stop?

So I didn’t–other people kept working out, too, and no one seemed too distressed, and I saw no signs of fire. Maybe it was clearly a false alarm–an electrical issue or something–that would be over soon? So I kept running, and I was able to get about another three minutes in before a staff person made an announcement that yes, indeed, they DID need us to leave.

Sigh. I went downstairs and grabbed my clothes from the locker and just put my real clothes on over my workout clothes–not ideal, but I knew I would need to finish my workout in some way and not having to completely change clothes again would facilitate that. 

Now it was decision time. Did I just wait for the fire alarm situation to be resolved? Give up on the gym entirely and go home and ride our stationary bike? Try to be efficient and go to Target?–but I needed some groceries and it wouldn’t be good to have those sitting in the car when I went back to the gym. 

I really hate having my plans interrupted, even, especially, the inconsequential ones, and I hate feeling like I’m wasting time. But, feelings acknowledged, frowny face noted, I had to make a decision. 

I ended up going to Walgreens (I was considering a hair dye run anyway AND I found the rather uncommon shade I was looking for), went back to the gym (luckily there wasn’t actually a fire and  I could go back), finished running (and hey, the track was pretty empty after the fire drill although one person still managed to be running the wrong way), and went to Target and got groceries. #SuccessForAmy

Yay, I ended up accomplishing my goals for today, but what is the point of this post? I could tie today’s fire alarm experience with last night’s dining debacle, another anecdote about how one of my plans went awry and I had to make a decision and got extremely stressed. (Synopsis: We had reservations at a local restaurant before a theater show we were going to, but they were so busy that they didn’t even come by to take our dinner order until after 45 minutes so I didn’t think they could possibly get us our order in time for the show so I decided we should leave and we got appetizers but we didn’t get supper, just pretzels–and wine–at the theater. Obviously, we didn’t starve, but I was wracked with anxiety and trying to make the “right” decision and I had been thinking about having their gnocchi for weeks!). 

Or, I could reminisce about past fire alarms…mostly I remember how I heard about middle of the night fire alarms being a thing I would have to contend with when I went to college and lived in the dorms and having lots of anxiety. Would I ever even be able to sleep at college and would fire alarms constantly interrupt what little sleep I got? Would I be able to find decent clothes and make my way out of the dorm in time? Would I have to stand outside in my pajamas for hours? Turns out I only had to deal with one or two fire alarms as a dorm dweller. 

Or I could reflect on how lucky I was that fire alarms were NOT a thing that I ever had to deal with as a library building manager, and something I NEVER have to contend with as someone who gets to work at home. 

(Hey, I guess I did just write about all those things!)

Is there a through line to any of this? A takeaway, a theme, much less a “moral” (I prefer “insight”). I’m afraid this is yet another blog installment of “Things Amy needlessly freaks out about” and/or “Amy delusionally expects life to conform to her trivial wishes” which wasn’t really what I was hoping my blog would be. 

But this is my blog, so it is going to be about what I feel and think and experience, especially those things that are trivial and repetitive. Of course I’m going to keep having the same silly anxieties and keep learning the same lessons over and over. I’m not going to magically change, but I do think I am at least a little more self-aware (“Here I go again”) and I can laugh at myself at least a bit and pivot and/or reframe a little more quickly. 

I can accept that my anxieties  (and therefore my blog posts) are repetitive–but in the immediate future, how can I come up with fresh and exciting illustrations and photos to capture them?

“…f*#k we have a box”

I love Valentine’s Day. I love sushi*. But combining those things this week sent me into a tizzy. 

This is a story about me getting stressed out about getting takeout sushi on Valentine’s Day. 

• It’s a story about me being stressed with not being able to find city parking on a dark rainy night when I don’t feel like I can see terribly well. 
• It’s a story about me being stressed about not knowing how much sushi to order.
• It’s a story about me being stressed about wasting food. 
• It’s a story about me being stressed about how long something is going to take and “wasting time.”
• It’s a story about me being stressed about not being in control.
• It’s a story about me being stressed about “making a bad decision.”
• It’s a story about me being likely to get stressed way too easily over small things (often because I imbue them with great symbolic meaning, such as “my failure at ordering the correct amount of sushi = my lack of judgment and clarity.”)

The details of the story aren’t actually all that interesting, but here they are anyway: I spent days thinking about if I should get sushi takeout on Valentine’s Day from a local spot that I’ve been wanting to try now for years. Valentine’s Day seemed like a good day for a special treat, and I would be in the area anyway because my singing lesson was close by…but the sushi joint often looked very busy so I had several doubts and misgivings. How long would it take? Where would I park? Where would I wait for the sushi? Would I have to stand outside in the rain?

I had Plan Bs, but, at the last minute I decided to order sushi. The app said it would only take 20-25 minutes for my order to be ready. 

Well, an hour after I had placed my order, I was waiting in the restaurant and freaking out. I couldn’t stop thinking about HOW I HAD RUINED VALENTINE’S DAY. Clearly, I had ordered sushi for 40 people and the overworked staff wasn’t going to be able to complete making all that sushi by midnight. 

Approximately one hour and 5 minutes after I had almost cried in the sushi place while texting Chad about my colossal failure, I sent him the above message that we had a box full of sushi.

And about 20 minutes after sitting down to our sushi supper, all the sushi was gone (the box was actually fairly small, or maybe we just eat an abnormal about of sushi, but I was happy there were no leftovers). I was reveling in the yumminess of the sushi. I was thinking I could get takeout from there again, now that I’m more knowledgeable about how much sushi to order and know how the takeout process works. 

Maybe I’ll even know– and remember–not to have a meltdown and assume the worst the next time I am literally, or metaphorically, waiting for sushi.  

*Why am I eating sushi if I’m a vegetarian? I’m only mostly vegetarian–a pescatarian who eats fish for special occasions and feels guilty about it. And, I didn’t eat that much fish in this instance because I got mostly vegetarian sushi which I know isn’t really sushi but mostly worked for me. 

“You inspire me!” a guy called out as he ran past me on the track at the gym on a recent Sunday afternoon.

This was highly unexpected. 

I did not feel inspired, much less inspiring, as I was slogging through my tedious run. While I am very grateful to be able to run on an indoor track, especially after years of Covid curtailing my gym visits, I do not enjoy it. But it’s the best of unappealing alternatives in the winter. Running outside when there is a hint of ice feels unsafe for me, and I find treadmills even more tedious, and potentially dangerous–I don’t feel coordinated enough for them. 

Why did I inspire this guy? I’m not sure, but I don’t think it was with my running prowess. This guy was definitely way more fit and muscular than me, and when he was running, he was much faster. But he was sprinting in short spurts, while I was continuously, if slowly, running. So I think I was inspiring him with my perseverance. I know his comment encouraged me to keep going, and I ended up running for an hour. 

I’m writing about this little moment because it was surprising and affirming. It made me think about how we never know how others might see us, or what impact we might have on them, even in small ways. My fellow runner definitely had an impact on me because he helped me reframe my run–I wasn’t “failing” because I was slow, but succeeding for running at all and sticking with it. More importantly, he’s inspired me to look for inspiration from others as I go about my daily life. 

(I didn’t embrace this moment immediately–I went on a quick inner emotional journey that started with confusion and annoyance. “What did this guy just say to me? Don’t talk to me when I’m running!” And yes, I did briefly wonder if he might have been hitting on me, but decided that it didn’t really matter because his comment was still sincere). 

I might be primed to think about inspiration right now because we recently listened to an episode of the podcast “On Being” featuring Dachtner Keltner speaking about awe. One of my takeaways from what he said is that people can experience awe by witnessing or learning about the inspiring actions of others. While my little run today certainly wasn’t heroic, I think it’s really cool that someone else could see something worthy in it, if only for a moment. 

If I think of “awe” and “inspiration” only as grand experiences (which they certainly can be), I’m not likely to encounter them on most days. But if I can open myself up to seeing them in more mundane things, especially in the daily efforts and endeavors of others, without being snarky or defensive or judgemental…well, couldn’t that open up all kinds of possibilities to see good, and feel good, and maybe do a little more good myself?

It may have become a cliche during the pandemic to talk about “small wins,” but I think that’s a worthwhile concept to hang on to, long after we’ve (hopefully) dialed back on the hand sanitizer. Let’s hang on to noticing, and celebrating, the small wins of ourselves and others. 

This is all reminding me of the “Real American Heroes” Bud Light ad campaigns of the late 90’s. Wikipedia says the ads used “mock glorification” (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Real_Men_of_Genius) to praise accomplishments that were actually pretty silly. I’m not a fan of Bud Light, but I definitely enjoyed those commercials and thought they were pretty clever (although I’m sure a deep dive into them could uncover some content I’d now consider problematic). I’m sure I could also spend hours debating the actual merit of some of the “heroes”: Mr. Inspirational Poster Writer definitely sounds worthy of admiration to me! 

What I remember most about the ads (and I’m not claiming this is accurate) is that the “heroes” were sincerely doing their best and were passionate about what they were doing. Yes, there are times when quality definitely matters and excellence should be recognized, but there is something to be said in giving an “A for Effort.” I’m learning to appreciate that people’s interest in something is interesting (and even inspiring), even if I’m not interested in the subject of their attention. 

So I’m on the lookout for inspiration. I’m ready to be inspired by others’ enthusiasm, and kindness, and dedication, and curiosity, and creativity, and bravery, and quirkiness. I’m going to rely on the inspiration of strangers, coworkers, acquaintances, costars, family and friends. Of the inspiration of you, yes YOU!

In the immortal words of the band Chicago: “You bring feeling to my life, you’re the inspiration.” 

Don’t let a cheesy 80’s band down!