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Why I’m Grateful for the Super Bowl

5 Feb

While writing my undergraduate thesis, I met a Holocaust survivor.  Not surprising since I majored in European history (concentrations in military intelligence, WW2 and the Holocaust).  What was surprising, was that after he answered questions from me and my fellow fledgling historians, he asked if he could ask some questions.  We waited, with bated breath, for insightful questions that would be treated more like answers.

Instead, he asked about sports.  He asked how we felt when the Red Sox won the World Series (a mere few months beforehand).  He asked what it was like to sit in Fenway Park.  And he asked about football, that favorite past-time of America.  And when we asked why he cared so passionately about sports, he shrugged and said “Because it comes last.”

I had no idea what he meant.

But now, being presumptuous, and possibly utterly wrong, I think I do.

On Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, sports (if it were listed) comes last.  One of the main reasons that America embrace baseball and football, not only as sports, but as paid professions, was because it showed the rest of the world that America had arrived.  Only certain societies, those not suffering drought and famine and warfare, can indulge in sports.  In a hobby that does nothing to keep you alive, keep you fed, keep you safe.  A hobby that exists merely to entertain.  To play at the big questions of life (Am I strong enough? Will my team win? Do I want this badly enough?) in an arena where others can observe.

Sports come last.  And I live in a society where I can get to last.  I’m utterly grateful that my needs are met and I can indulge in fun for the sake of fun.  Not every society is so lucky.  Where choosing sides does not involve hatred and loss of life. Where we display our affinity through team colors and not blood pacts.  Where our rivalries don’t tear us apart but bring us together, to watch the same game on the same field.  We sit on different sides but those sides aren’t so far apart.

Today, as my friend set a PR in his race and crossed the finish line, the race announcer said “I should probably say “Go Pats! But I’m actually an Eagles fan…”  There was poetic justice in this, I have to admit.  The racer finishing his victory lap is a Pats fan.  He referred to me, within weeks of meeting me, as the “vile Eagles fan” and could not comprehend how I could rout for “the wrong team”.

Today I’m cheering for the Pats.  Refusing to think about that game the Sunday after November when the Pats trounced my Eagles and the stadium emptied half way through the game. But even if the Pats weren’t playing, if I didn’t care about the outcome of the game, I’d be grateful that I have the opportunity to sit and watch the Super Bowl.  To cheer for something that really, at the end of the day, doesn’t matter.  If being able to do and watch and think about things that don’t matter is the essence of being wealthy, then I’m very rich.  And so is everyone living in a place where “sports come last”.

 

 

People Are Not Leaky Faucets

25 Jan

“Figure out what’s broken and fix it. That’s the way we naturally think. But that attitude reduces us to things like faucets that sometimes break and fail to function properly…we are relational, not mechanical.”
- Dr. Larry Crabb

I like to figure out what’s broken and fix it.  If I can’t, it goes on the To Fix list until I find someone else capable of fixing it.  I know I’m not alone in this desire to see everything function properly.  Ask any engineer.

But people cannot be fixed by other people. (At least not by me.) A friend of mine passed away the night before his brother’s wedding.  I could not fix that.  A friend of mine chose to stay in a verbally abusive relationship. I could not change her behavior.  And trust me when I say that I’ve tried, to the point where I was so stressed that I stopped sleeping at night.  A friend of mine suffers from epilepsy.  There’s no tool for me to fix that.  Another friend suffers from depression.  I cannot change his attitude.

And the engineer a few years ago, who graciously told me to lose weight so I could run faster (thinking he was being incredibly helpful) did not fix me.  I still weigh about the same (actually, more. But I swear it’s all muscle.  And I’m happy about that.) I was treated like a leaky faucet.  But I’m a person.  With complex un-faucet-like emotions and needs and desires and choices and consequences and behaviors.  Learned and unlearned, natured and nurtured, and complex and simple.  A faucet is just a faucet.

But people cannot be fixed by other people.  We are not in control of other people’s reactions or decisions.  There are times when, in love, we have to tell people uncomfortable truth.  But it’s not our responsibility to fix their mistakes, change their attitudes or force their behavior to change.  Ask anyone who has attempted that and they can tell you how often it backfires.

If you think otherwise, that you can change people,  please explain to me how often you’ve been successful.  How many marriages have you stopped from ending in divorce when people tried to change each other rather than accepting and supporting who the other person truly was?  How often have your desires to mold someone else, like PlayDoh, ended in them looking exactly how you planned?  What parent has ever given birth to a robot?  Please.  Enlighten me.

Until then, I am going to treat myself like a newly landed alien from outer space.  You know, the kind that walks around with flashcards: This is a leaky faucet.  This is a human being.  These two items are not the same.

Leaky faucets are to be fixed.  And then used for faucet-needs.  Flawed people (aren’t we all?) are to be loved.  And then encouraged and propped up and loved some more as they make their own choices and behavior changes and attitude adjustments.  The best we can do is to be there for them.  Viewing them as a person.  Not a project.  Maybe even holding their hand.  Definitely handing over a Kleenex when they get leaky.  Rather than frantically searching for a wrench.

I Am Not My Body

22 Jan

When OccupyBoston occurred, those of us not interested in playing a role were still categorized – as part of the 99%.  But there’s a far larger protest afoot: OccupyYourBody and once again, many of us fall into the 99%.

An article that I read yesterday at the gym noted that a mere 1% of women are happy with their bodies.  1%?  Only 1 out of 100 women like the way they look externally?  It made me sad and a bit depressed.

Because the truth is that we are not our bodies. My body may be an external manifestation of my state of mind, of my ability to care for myself, of my desire to live a long life and die of natural causes. But my body is not ME.

I’ve always believed this but lately I’ve been thinking about it more. I love running. And I haven’t run in 5 weeks.  5 weeks is a very long time to not be able to do the thing that brings me great joy.  Early Saturday morning long runs – when the city is just waking up, there is an entire weekend ahead of us, the air is cold and brisk and I have set aside time for this run – those are my favorite mornings.

So a few weeks ago, when my test run (after resting for 3 weeks) led to severe pain by mile 4, I was pretty upset.  My mind and my legs felt fresh – they wanted to run for miles and miles. But my left IT band hurt so much that I knew running through it wasn’t an option.  So I stopped and went home.  And worked on finding joy and headed off to watch the Bruins (lose).  And, tucked into a seat, a bottle of water in my hand, a knowledgeable hockey friend on my left and my boss on my right, I loosened up and threw myself into cheering for the fights (err, I mean the game).  And because I hadn’t run 16 miles, I didn’t spend those two hours forcing myself to eat and drink large quantities of water, I never took a bathroom break, I didn’t check any marathon training schedule on my phone or obsessively calculate what training I should do the next day. I sat and watched and when my phone buzzed, I ignored it.  My boss said “I’ve never seen you so relaxed before.”  It was great.

A few days later, a friend commented on how happy I looked.  It was probably because I’d just been sitting with a group of coworker friends, introducing them to each other, and having a lot of laughs (probably at my expense). But I also told him that it’s because I am remembering that I am not my body.

Aside from running pain, I am healthy and can participate in most activities. But whether or not I do those activities doesn’t make me who I am. I am my words, my ideas, and my actions.  And I want to be known for my words, my ideas, and my actions. I will never have a perfect body, nor would I want the pressure that comes with it.

Attempting to conform to the world’s standard causes us to drift from our own uniqueness.  I cannot be both standard and unique. I can only choose to be me transformed (becoming the best version of me) or me conformed (becoming the version the world believes would be most accepted).  One brings freedom and one brings constant fear of rejection.

Yesterday, a friend asked for exercise advice. She began cataloguing a list of her body’s imperfections. I had to stop her. “I will help you feel healthier and stronger and proud of what your body can do” I said. “In return, you will treat it with respect.  You are not your body.”

And yet we reinforce that daily.  Every time we say “Have you lost 5 pounds? You look great!” we are leaving people with one of the following reactions:
1) Did I not used to look great? Was I so horribly fat that people talked about me?
2) I haven’t lost 5 pounds. I guess I should wear these pants more often.  Or actually lose 5 pounds.  I must look like I have 5 pounds to lose.
3) Yay! People are noticing! I am getting compliments, I must work harder/eat less to lose more.

Wouldn’t it be better to compliment people on the actions they have taken: “You look amazing! What’s your exercise secret?”  ”I am so proud of you for working out 5 days a week, finding time in our busy schedules is such a challenge, you inspire me!”  Learning to compliment people on their words, their ideas, and their actions is a small step towards helping more people truly become the 99%.

You are not simply your body.  I am not simply my body.  We will age and shapes will shift and injuries will come and go but who you are, and what I love about you, will only get better.  Don’t waste your life striving for X when everyone else loves you for your Y. OccupyYourBody proudly because it is yours. Just don’t turn OccupyYourBody into OccupyYourMindEntirelywithhowtoOccupyaBetterBody.  It’s just not catchy.

Embracing the Weird

9 Jan

Thanks to the Internet, weird has reached an all-time high. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

There are plenty of people who think the Internet is evil. Others think it is God. I believe that it is merely a tool, like all technology, and can be used for good or for evil by people. But that technology is not inherently anything but neutral.

That being said, the Internet (and the prevalence of social media) has ushered in the era of the weird.  It has made “the long tail” finally relevant. Let me explain.

If you think of the bell-shaped curve and the normal distribution, you know that most “normality” falls into the curve.  And one rarely thinks about the long tail off to the side that trails on and on.  For many years, normality has been what sold.  Why would you produce a product that 5 people might want when you could produce a product that appeals to 99%?  Or 92%?  So mass production has been centered on the majority that fall within the bell-shaped curve.  This is basic economics and makes total sense.

In a large city it might be profitable to open a stamp collectors store.  But in a small town?  No.  You cater to the majority. You have grocery stores but probably not an Asian market unless there is a large Asian population.  You have libraries but probably not a cookbook only store unless there is a large cooking population.

But the Internet has made weird normal. In the greatest sense.  With ITunes, you can find all kinds of obscure music to listen to that you never would have found at your local CD store (carrying the top 40 and a smattering in other genres).  With Amazon, you can buy a book that isn’t a bestseller, it doesn’t cost them anything to list random books that might appeal to a very small population anymore than it costs them to list the bestsellers.  At a bookstore, there’s never enough space or demand for the odd stuff.  With chat rooms and websites and social media tools, you can find other people with the same diverse interests as you (a rare breed of dog? a clown phobia? a desire to travel to every single country? You can find lots of websites and other people who are just as weird as you in the same way you’re weird.  How cool is that?)

Before, we were limited by geography.  So we were pigeon-holed into eating the same types of food and reading the same types of books and thinking (a lot) of the same types of thoughts.  But if you look back at the world’s great explorers, inventors, scientists, engineers, etc. the one thing many of them have in common is that they bucked the status quo, they were weird, and great stuff happened.

I wrote half of this blog.  Then I saved it and started reading We Are All Weird by Seth Godin. And basically he says everything I said above (and more) but in a better way.  It’s pretty fascinating.

But the one sentence that is sticking with me so far, that I reread multiples times today is this: “If you persist in trying to be all things to all people, you will fail. The only alternative, then, is to be something important to a few people.”  Just like mass production tried to please everyone with limited products (and failed) so people try to appeal normal in order to appeal to everyone.  It can’t be done.  Why?  Because we are all weird.  The best we can hope for is to be ourselves, embrace our weird, and hope a select few will find our weird endearing.

I’d rather matter deeply to a few people in my lifetime than be universally accepted but ignored by the masses.  Especially if I was continually fighting a losing battle of pretending to be everything that is normal.

Weird is okay.  Weird is good.  And finally, maybe for the first time in history, weird is becoming acceptable.

It was about time.

When Joy and Sorrow Mix

31 Dec

As a child, I foolishly thought that bad things and good things happened but they were kept separate, never co-mingling, like two peanuts still in their sturdy shells. Or positive and negative charges destined to repel each other.  Or vinegar and oil, dancing together in the pan without ever mixing.

But the end of 2011 showed me that joy and sorrow mix, often in the same moment, nearly in the same breath.

October.
Walking to work, an hour before dawn, excited to spend the morning talking to my coworkers, greeting them as they began their work day, hoping to genuinely bless each of them.  And then, witnessing a suicide.  Chaos, confusion, do we call 911, did we see what we thought we saw, suddenly the early morning haze seemed ominous and stifling and evil.

November.
Running my first official marathon, going to get a medal at the end (unlike my 6 ultra marathons).   The months of training are done.  I find myself needing distraction, anything to keep from thinking about my fractured foot and how tired I am becoming and how many miles there are to go. So I pray for my friends and their little baby – running her own marathon – struggling against the odds to live, and every day a miracle, and there are many more days behind her than anyone ever hoped for (but never, ever, enough).  Eventually, much longer than I think it should have taken, I cross the finish line.  And I feel no sense of accomplishment, I do not cry, but I do drink an ounce of apple juice, downing it like a shot of tequila, and then I find my Mom and I show her my medal.  And the day should be a victory.  But two men die while running.  And then, in the car, driving back to BeanTown, when I should be eating or sleeping or stretching (I do none of those things) I learn that the little baby has crossed her finish line too, gone from earth to heaven.  And my medal seems inconsequential.

December.
Christmas is wonderful.  I spend 4+ days at home with my family.  I see my baby sister dance as the Principal Dancer in the Portland Ballet with an entire orchestra playing for her. I enjoy time with my relatives and being the only daughter at home on Christmas morning without once edging into pity-land or wondering why my sisters get what I want.  Instead, I am happy.  For once, on a holiday, I am not sick.  Burnt out from work, dreading homework, but I set that all aside and I am just present in the day.  Present in each new experience. And then I head back to Boston and my Mom calls me in tears.  The boy, not so little anymore, who I first saw in a stroller when his adoptive parents proudly showed him around the neighborhood, who I spent my summers babysitting when he was young, and then listening to his antics with my sisters when he grew older, has been shot.  He is dead.  And one feels a range of emotions (sadness – he is so young, there was an entire life ahead of him, guilt – could we have done more, why did he make such bad choices, understanding – the US Marshals were only protecting themselves and following protocol, embarrassment – he disobeyed the law, that has consequences, grief – this ending is all wrong for him and for his parents and for us).  Yes, their were bad choices and consequences to actions but love is blind to all of that.  Love is not just for the perfect and the noble and the good.  I am so grateful for that.

Joy and sorrow mix.  As children, we see it happen and we respond in kind.  We cry and we laugh almost in the same breath.  But the crying is so quickly canceled out by the laughing and even if the little dry sobs takes a while to disappear, the tears are already gone and the smile shows that, for this child, this moment is the best moment ever.

As adults, joy and sorrow mix.  We rejoice over an engagement while comforting someone else over a loss.  And the joy and the sorrow ebb and flow and we experience many joys and many sorrows simultaneously and we learn how to live in the juxtaposition of happy and sad, calm and chaos, sorrow and sunshine, grief and gladness.

And we know, even if we never express it, that this sorrow isn’t the last.

There will be more.

And we rejoice because this joy isn’t the last, either.

There will be many more.

And in the end, there will be joy.

Before Facebook, there was Fridgebook

23 Dec

I remember when Facebook began because it was pioneered at just a few colleges and billed as a way to meet everyone else in your classes so you could exchange notes and study for exams.  My college was one of the few that Facebook chose.  You could only connect with people at your own college.

Eventually, on a very exciting day, you could connect with a few other people at other colleges.  I’m fairly certain Meredith Lennox Chase was my very first Facebook friend.

But this concept of pictures + college was not new to me.  Because my parents “invented” Fridgebook.

Fridgebook took up an entire side of our fridge.  It was a collage of pictures, mainly of the families of my parents’ college friends.  They went to Dartmouth.  They had a lot of friends.

Fridgebook was much more subtle than Facebook.  You didn’t count how many friends you had, you just cropped the pictures smaller and smaller so they would fit onto the two cork boards wedged between the beam and the fridge.  People “chose” their profile picture by sending it to my parents, usually in a Christmas card.  And then once a year, the Fridgebook was updated.  It was like a puzzle – trying to fit every face onto the boards. Old family photos were replaced by updated ones and if you ran out of space, you had to discard a very old, no longer updated photo of someone you hadn’t heard from in a long time. Sometimes, when I was in charge of reordering the photos, they got grouped by: relatives, local church friends, Dartmouth friends. I have always loved grouping and categorizing.

Status updates were not needed because my siblings and I created them.  Aside from relatives and church friends, the majority of the photos were of my parents’ friends and therefore our history with them was fairly limited.  We often didn’t know the kids names (ok, I knew every name and I hadn’t even met half of them) but we knew the important stuff: “That is a picture of the kid who peed on our trampoline.”  ”That is the family who plays lots of bridge.”  ”Remember when he was mean to us?”  ”She babysat us that Saturday and let us read the special Troll book.”  The special Troll book was pretty grotesque which made us love it even more.

One of my little sisters really upped the Fridgebook capabilities when she invented the dislike button.  There was a picture of a family whose son, for whatever reason, she did not like.  I think we’d met him once on a summertime visit.  She, very carefully, used a pushpin to turn his eyes into little pinprick holes. It was a fairly bold, less than subtle way of letting us know that he had been officially unfriended.

Fridgebook still exists.  And it is much more entertaining than Facebook.  Even if pinprick boy is probably married by now and trampoline-wetting boy is in high school and probably no longer spraying down other people’s play equipment.  Probably.

 

 

Democracy Meets Foam Rolling

22 Dec

Ballerinas have pointe shoes.  Bikers have spandex.  Runners have foam rollers.  The point is, we all have something that helps us do our job or enjoy our sport which doubles as a torture device.

Foam rollers are the worst. Insidious and fun-looking, they scream “anyone can do this!” but the fine print says “Easy do-it-yourself torture device, no training necessary, all can attempt and all will cry.  No exceptions.”

I have to fortify myself with beer or ibuprofen or reward myself with a magazine while icing afterwards in order to use the foam roller.  It used to be “try to do it 3-5x a week, kinda like flossing” and I felt  very virtuous afterwards.  This past week, it has become an urgent “do it 2-3x a day so hopefully my IT band recovers and I can run again” task.  I know I have to do it but I’d rather take a 3 hour exam.

So today, while at the gym, using their foam roller instead of the one at home, I read snippets of my latest Time Magazine.  In particular, I read a portion of their article on the Year of Protesters.

“Globalization and going viral have been the catchphrases of the networked 21st century.  But until now the former has mainly referred to a fluid worldwide economy managed by important people, and the latter has mostly meant cute-animal videos and songs by nobodies. This year, do-it-yourself democratic policies became globalized, and real live protest went massively viral. But as they’ve rejuvenated and enlarged the idea of democracy, the protesters, and the rest of us, are discovering that democracy is difficult and sometimes a little scary.  Because deciding what you don’t want is a lot easier than deciding and implementing what you do want, and once everybody has a say, everybody has a say.”

Everybody has a say.  We get excited about that statement. As we should. Until we think about the implications of everyone having a say. And everyone potentially drowning out my say. And my say not necessarily being in the majority.  Or even the well-respected minority.  And the fact that everyone can be manipulated by others and coaxed by the media and that even I am not unswayed by the opinions and thoughts of others.

And what about difficult and scary?  No one likes difficult and scary.  And the number of men and women who are willing to do difficult and scary is rapidly decreasing.

But the part that made me laugh, is the part that is relevant to foam rolling.  Deciding what I don’t want – to not be able to run my marathon in March – is a lot easier than deciding and implementing what I do want – muscles that are not tight and balanced and can put up with a lot of heavy pounding.  And I foam roller out of fear of letting go of my dream.  Out of fear that I can’t do something I want to do.

A lot of people know what they don’t want.  And they will voice what they don’t want.  The entire Occupy Wall Street movement demonstrated this in a powerful way – it was a movement against things they didn’t like, not in support of something in particular.  Disliking things is a lot easier than supporting something.  Tearing down someone else’s goal is a lot easier than creating and striving to attain our own goal.  Disliking democracy because everybody gets a say keeps up from discovering the beauty in the statement everybody gets a say.  A statement that only a privileged few, living in a democratic nation, understand.

I think I dread the foam roller.  Even though it is a painful tool towards a better future.

But what I really dread is the disappearance of democracy.
Even these campaigns and debates and elections can be a painful tool towards a better future.
Can be.  That is, if we could move past deciding who we don’t want in office, what laws we don’t want passed, what reforms and tax codes and budgets we want to disappear and could actually focus on deciding and implementing positive change.

Like finding me a foam roller that doesn’t cause me to invent new swear words under my breath.

Occupy…the Finish Line!

7 Nov

When asked today what my marathon goal is, I realized it’s pretty simple: Occupy the Finish Line.

Obviously, I have to run 26.2 miles before I can begin the occupation.

And I won’t be wearing an Occupy the Finish Line t-shirt as I’m afraid I’d be lumped in with OccupyWallStreet which is a whole different marathon of a very different and confusing sort.

But I will cheer for those also intent on Occupying the Finish Line.  While simultaneously envying those who occupy it before me.  And I’ll smile for the spectators who will be externally grinning and cheering me on but internally thinking “Wow, what stupid people they must be to think this is fun.”

In case you’re still not clear on the main differences between Occupying the Finish Line and OccupyingWallStreet or OccupyBoston or OccupyYourFridge (all teenager boys participate in this one – ditto for OccupyTheGameCube) here are the main tenets behind Occupy The Finish Line:

1. I will Occupy The Finish Line.  By “occupy” it, I mean cross the finish line in one piece while still loving to run.  ”Occupy” does not involve any tents.

2. I will be part of the 1% who run marathons.  I will be part of the 99% who complete marathons.  I will be part of the 1% who sign up for marathons and actually complete them.  I will be part of the 99% who have horrible race photos taken of them.  I will be part of the 1% who run ultra marathons before they ever attempt a marathon. And I will be part of the 99% who do it all over again.

3. Even though I cannot tolerate Gatorade and Gu, I will use them. I will admit my need for electrolytes that they can provide. I will not rail against the sickly overly-sweet nature of Gatorade and Gu while still ingesting them.

4. I will not think less of those who I pass or more of those who pass me.

5. I will be clear in my demands when I begin to occupy. Not only that but they will mirror the demands of every other occupier.  We will be on the same page.  We want medals and photos with family members, warm clothes, wet-wipes to get rid of the salty crust on our faces,  water or even better, chocolate milk.  We want you to force us to walk around. We want the term “lactic acid” to not exist.  We want you to consider occupying the finish line with us next time.  Because we want this so badly, we may even lie a little bit about how bad/hard/exhausting it was.  But just a little.

I plan on Occupying the Finish Line.  For about 10 minutes.  And then I will go home.

Someone has to. Even finish lines get a tad crowded.

 

The ‘Stiff Upper Lip’ meets “Pursuer of Happiness”

3 Nov

There are some fundamental differences between those lovely chaps the Brits and their American cowboy counterparts.  And not just the use of ‘quotes’ instead of “quotes” (that extra little mark really makes all the difference).

So how about a controversial post written in as diplomatic a manner as I can muster (which means…not very diplomatic).

To get the negatives out of the way right off the bat, the British seem to have a bit of an attitude towards us Americans.  Well, some of them.  They tend to fall into two categories: Parents and Grandparents.

The Parent British person sees the average Teenager American as a sullen, rambunctious teenager who chooses to throw caution to the wind, demand their pursuit of happiness, and live for fast food.  (I’m not saying there isn’t truth to this stereotype. There is plenty.) It’s hard to determine whether the Parent British is resentful that the Teenager American seems to be surviving okay despite ignoring all parental advice and wisdom, or a tad jealous that the Teenager American can live life in this manner.

The Grandparent British person is a little more indulgent towards the innocent yet ignorant Teenager American.  Pats on the head “well done” are mingled with little reproaches “that’s not how we did it in my time!”  They are a bit more conciliatory (distance helps) but also perplexed as to why we chose to rock the boat in such a dramatic government-war-taxation way.  And are pizza and hamburgers really essential when one can have fish and chips and a Yorkshire pudding?  But they smile at us, because they are still hopeful that one day we will grow up and change.

Americans are a little simpler (sorry, it’s true).  We basically view British peers as a more cautious population – they like their afternoon tea and biscuits and a good program on telly.  Americans like to shake things up with their Tea Party (both the event and the political party) and dramatic spectacles like Occupy Wall Street.  The British want to watch TV in peace. The Americans want to be on TV.

Like all stereotypes, those are all based in truth and completely false. Funny how that works.

A better way to determine if someone is American or British is with the following Lizquiz:

1.  Check their spelling.  Extraneous letters and -s- instead of -z- usually means they are British.
2. Check their dates.  If they use the illogical month-day-year method, they are American.
3. How do they feel about the French?
- They like the average Frenchman on the street?  American.  They can’t explain why they don’t like the average Frenchman on the street but they don’t?  They are British.
- They agree with the French government most of the time? They are British.  They can’t explain why they don’t like the French government but they don’t?  They are American.
4. PG Tips or herbal tea?  If PG Tips is not in your vocabulary, you’re automatically American.
5. Do you prefer wide open spaces?  Probably American.
6. When entering a store, are you upset when the store keeper ignores you?  You’re an American in England.
When entering a store, are you annoyed when the staff chat with you multiple times, offer you suggestions on clothing to wear, comment on your grocery purchases?  You’re a British person in America.  Or an American in America.  Tricky, this one.
7.  You visit places like Graceland to see Elvis’ eternal flame? British.  You visit places like Stonehenge? American.  Or a British person who got roped into showing an American around their “little island.”
8.  Do you live on an island?  If you answer “yes” you are probably British.  If you answer “no” you are an ignorant American.  We all live on islands.  Just varying sizes.
9.  Are they wearing sneakers but not playing a sport? American. Are they actually spending time looking at other people’s footwear?  British.
10. Do you feel your government owes you something? You’ve been wronged in some way? Your spelling is better? Your eating habits are better? Your accent is superior? Your fashion sense is superior? Your taste buds are higher class?   Unfortunately, this just proves you are a human being.

If you answered no to #10, who are you? And how have you survived this world? You can be the feature in my next post. With your limp lower lip and pursuit of pain.

Being Happier with Less: Liz’s TED Talk

22 Aug

So I’ve been grumbling about Al Gore’s super cheery (but not necessarily factual) TED talks.  And don’t assume my frustration with him is political. I’ve listened to many great TED talks by people I don’t see eye to eye with.  The talks were still good: enlightening, engaging and energetic.  Al Gore…meh…

Being Happier With Less

Whether you are concerned with buzz words like climate change and the carbon tax and sustainability, or you couldn’t care less, I think we all can agree that how we live life is going to have to change in the future.  Some believe it is the near future – that by 2025 or 2050, we could presumably run out of water or natural resources such as copper.  Others think we have more time before the depletion of natural resources, or that the Earth will cyclically renew itself over time.

And most people would agree that the idea of sustainability is good.  We might disagree on who should take the lead: government, business, individual people, global task forces, etc.  But almost no one is going to argue with the definition of sustainability: “Meeting the needs of the present without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs.”

The key word, in my mind, is needs.  What is a need?  And what is a want? And what is a luxury?  How comfortable do people deserve to be?  How comfortable do we want our children and grandchildren to be?  How comfortable do we want those currently in poverty to be?  And are we willing to be slightly less comfortable in order for someone else to achieve basic needs?

Regardless of whether the world changes in 25 years or 100, regardless of whether aliens land or nuclear war happens or genetically modified foods kill us all (if we don’t die from the BPA in our water bottles first), life will have to change.  And I think one of the biggest and hardest changes for us as a society is that we will need to become happier with less.

It is possible.  Studies show that wealth has increased in the past 40 years in America.  The average income has increased.  The longevity rate (doesn’t that sound better than the mortality rate?) has increased.  We have healthier.  But the “Happiness Index” as surveyed by the Happiness People (I made that last part up) hasn’t changed at all. We have more.  We are no happier.

Clearly wealth does not equate to happiness.

Education on sustainability and reducing/reusing/recycling is good.  It should continue.  But what about education on gratitude?  On enjoyment of simple pleasures?  How do we teach our children to be good consumers?  To be happy with less.  To not rely on products and entertainment and things to provide pleasure and enjoyment?  Is visiting Disney World a right? Or a need?  Are special treats really special treats if they are given every day? Or even every time they are requested?

If other people were to observe the way we live our lives, what message would they bring anyway?  One of contentment and enjoyment or one of a futile pursuit for more?

Let’s be happy with less.  Not so our children and their children can be happy with more (although “more” in the form of health and jobs and education is good).  Let’s be happy with less so they can be happy with less. And so they can avoid the Consumption Addicts Anonymous withdrawal symptoms our society would need to suffer through.

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