Joining the Thin Club

Too Much, Too Fast

It's too bad life doesn't have a speed regulator dial.  There are times - like lately - when I feel like everything is moving much too fast, including myself.  I just want to slow it down--or at least be the one who can control the pace.

As my daughter prepares to leave the States tomorrow for her year in Israel, I watch her flitting and jittery - after just one cup of Chai Latte.  "What's wrong?" I ask.  "I'm so nervous," she responds.  "Why?"

She's nervous about making new friends, leaving old ones, about taking the valuable year off, about being in environments she may find challenging, with only new people to depend on.  She's nervous about everything.  She doesn't realize just how much I get it.  My experience leaving New York, saying goodbye to my friends and family, taking my work along with me on the promise of another, with prayers for success, was very similar to what she is doing.  My experience was permanent.  I married a man who lives elsewhere.  I took the leap.  It was scary.  And it all happened very fast.  For me, for him, for our kids.  Adjustments are supposed to take time. But time waits for no one.  And when it's time to take a leap, sometimes the quickest way is to close your eyes and step off the cliff.

We leave things behind - in the hopes that where we go, we will discover new wonders.  It's a trade-off.  Hopefully a good one.  And I tell her I know that it feels bittersweet.  As she leaves the confines of her home, the country where she was born, the county where she was raised, the doe-eyed boy who swears he loves her who can never be more than a sad fantasy first love, I am sure my daughter will discover a new life - quickly. 

Because life moves fast.  It has for me.  It will for her.  And I wish her safe and happy landings, wherever it takes her.

New Yorker No More

Although I was born in New Jersey, I've lived my entire teenage plus life in New York.   OK, much of the time I lived in suburban Westchester, which doesn't quite make me a "New Yawker" in the true sense of the word, but I've always had easy access to the energy, the chaos and the constant contact that New York has to offer.  I know the city backwards and forwards, the stores, the people, the pace.

So, here I am, looking out the window of my new home - Lakeland, Michigan - watching a beautiful lake, a few ducks and some doves--my new neighbors.  Paradise discovered, some may say.  But on my last trip to New York, I cannot tell a lie--there was a part of me that just wanted to kiss the gritty pavement.

I suppose I can get used to the clean air, friendly people in overalls, natural predators like mosquitoes replacing the dangerous criminals I was used to avoiding in New York.  True, the restaurants aren't as good (in fact, there are no kosher ones anywhere near me), but there is an abundance of farm-fresh produce here and nice people with whom to break bread, so I guess I can forgo the waiters in crisp tuxedos and I can learn to create the latest, greatest culinary delight instead of waiting for someone else to do it.

Eventually, I may learn to drive 75 in a 70 mile speed zone, go to a Detroit Tigers game without feeling like I'm committing adultery - cheating on my precious Yankees, and shop at Penny's, Kohls, and Target for my clothing (yes, they REALLY do that here), but to be honest, that may take a while.

When you are born and raised in the New York area, you really believe that the world revolves around New York.  Like the old New Yorker cover, the sun rises and sets in New York and New York alone.  Being transplanted into Michigan has been illuminating.  The dry cleaner, upon hearing that I'm from New York, said, "Wow, I've always wanted to go there."  There's a human being on the planet who hasn't even visited New York?  Then came the clincher:  "I know someone who lives near there," he told me.  "My cousin," he said, "is from Philadelphia.  That's right there, in New York, isn't it?"

Nuff said.

The Downside of Being Functional

Today is my birthday and I am feeling a little sorry for myself.

I've always been the functional one.  Sometimes that is a good thing.  Looking back at my life, I've accomplished a lot - wrote three books, published two.  I've succeeded in taking the lemons I've been served in my lifetime and used my skills and strength and made some pretty delicious lemonade.  It hasn't been a single-handed endeavor.  I've had help from G-d and others along the way.  But fortitude has always been a tool in my toolbox - and I've used it with pride.

I've worked hard to not ask others for help - and to extend myself to others instead.  I can do it myself.  That's the credo I've been fed from infancy, and one that I am proud of.

So when I meet someone else who claims she is helpless and uses others, without reaching for the fortitude in her own toolbox, who calls on others for every little thing and who functions from a sense of entitlement, I have a hard time understanding.  I even feel slighted.  Like perhaps I've missed out on something cogent in my bid to be independent and strong.  Because without even realizing she is doing it, the other reaches out and helps herself to extreme doses of sympathy, caregiving and nurturing that I would never dare to ask for.  Perhaps that very quality has contributed to my strength over these years.

Is this my life's challenge and something I should address in myself?  I probably should thank G-d that I am mentally and physically able to care for myself without draining the people around me.  But still, there are times when I feel like strong people finish last.  So I am reaching within for strength to deal with this conundrum and to hold my head up and keep going as long as I am on this earth.

Happy birthday to me.