Have my cake & eat it, too.

After (hilariously) making yet another list of books last week here on the blog, I dove in. It was like I suddenly gave myself permission to eat dessert first.

I’m not good at that. I come from a family of good Christian Midwestern farmers of mostly Danish stock. What that adds up to is the idea that life is toil and hardship – you work very hard and maybe at the end of the day if you have any energy left, you can do something you enjoy… although even if you do, you never have idle hands! Honestly, it’s slightly psychotic, or rather masochistic. Or a bit of both.

Ingrained in my brain is the story of how my grandfather said he became a success. It was the hour before dawn and hour after dusk that he worked in the fields when everyone else was sleeping or being with family when he made his money. The rest of the time was what barely allowed them to scrape by. And he did become a success, owning several farms, apartment complexes, and more. In fact, the people at the apartments thought he was the janitor because even into his seventies he’d always be the one to do all the work when things went wrong. That’s how I remember him… with that giant ring of keys, which weighed about as much as I did back then, in work gear heading out to one or the other of his sites again.

So when I was in college, I decided to study art. But my parents made it clear I needed an “academic” major as well. I obediently obliged them. The thing is, I would end up spending all my time on classes that were tedious rather than investing some of that time in my major classes because, well, I loved doing art. Classes I would have aced I struggled with at times as a result. And now I deeply regret not taking full advantage of the facilities the art department had because once I graduated (and had the time) I no longer had access.

This disposition carried over into my finding a job/career. I’d pursue things I was interested in, but never anything that brought me bliss. Mustn’t enjoy what I do, not deep down. That was somehow wrong. So my varied professions gave me great and diverse experiences (oh my goodness – the stories!), but not real joy. There was no true satisfaction that what I was doing was something to which I felt any sort of “calling.” Therefore, I’d work extremely hard, get very good at it, then get bored. There was no passion behind it. So I moved on.

This mentality I was brought up in (toil and suffering first, pleasure last), instead of helping me progress has held me back. Not just from reading the books I’m most looking forward to, but from doing the things I’m most passionate about. From living a joy-filled, complete life.

It’s a hard thing to break out of. Truly. I’ve known about this for quite a few years, and have attempted to extricate myself from it. But it’s so pervasive in all areas of my life. Obviously it’s worth the effort. And, too, this extreme pairing down I’m doing with my “stuff” invades my being enough that I’m stripping down and purging some of the non-productive internal processes and ways of thinking and being as well. But I do wish I could simply relax and enjoy without feeling antsy, guilty, or frustrated.

When it comes to the books I have, the permission I gave myself was to read exactly what I want… not to feel the need to have read books I feel are “important” but for which I know I will honestly hate reading. Those classics that show only the depravity of life, for instance, really needn’t be read – not by me. I, quite obviously, understand the hardships life can bring; the difficulties from which some souls never climb out. I chose to dwell on and read about those who perhaps struggle, but who find a level of grace they never expected.

In that revolutionary act of permission-giving, I find I again desire to read some of the books that felt rather obligatory only days before. Perhaps in the same way when I break out of this “toil” mentality, I can find a deep joy in the very things that wore on my soul previously. I hope so. I love dessert.

It's the little things.

A couple of interesting experiences from the last few days…

Scene One:

I was in my local Mexican hole-in-the-wall. It’s the kind where it’s clean and colorful inside, with a television always on a Spanish speaking station – that day’s show was “El Gordo y La Flaca” (the fat and the skinny). The food is truly authentic to the point that during the time I was in the restaurant for a quick lunch, easily twenty Hispanic people either dined in or took out. I was, in fact, the only white person there. That is until The Grannies.

Just as I was finishing up my amazing fish taco and horchata, three older ladies entered. One of them charged in yelling “HOLA” (she pronounced it hoe-lah). The other two scurried up behind as she said in one of the worst gringo accents ever, "¿Cómo estás?" The cook/owner kindly responded in simple Spanish, but it seemed those three words were about the extent of her Spanish vocabulary.

I went about the business of devouring more of the taco when bits of the continuing conversation wafted my way. She was explaining to her two companions what a burrito is and what a taco is. Now here in California, well, you’re just sort of born with that knowledge. Like knowing your cheeses if you’re from Wisconsin. It’s just the way of [your] world.

Still, I ate on. But I was again sucked in when one of the followers said in a British accent, “Guacamole,” (pronounced something akin to that amusement center game “Whack-a-Mole”), “that’s made with avocados, yes?” When the answer came in the affirmative, she said, “I’ll have this.” She then points to an item on the menu which is on the wall outside of the kitchen. So the person taking the order had no idea what she was referring to and just looked utterly dumbfounded when none of the three offered a further explanation as to what “this” was.

Well, that was pretty much it for me, I mean I’m sure they said and did loads of other funny things before they took their seats, but frankly I got the giggles. The three Mexicans at the next table looked at me… sitting alone… laughing... but I was giggling too hard to explain, so I vaguely gestured toward the ladies and just kept looking the fool. It was worth it. I was sorry I was done and had to be off.

Scene Two:

I was walking in the park again today. Third day in a row, fourth this week, so I’m feeling really good about it. Sunday is obviously more crowded than the other days (even Saturdays, actually). I’ve recently learned this breathing technique to do, and it’s especially good when walking. Without getting into it, I’ll just say it involves intaking all your air through your nose. Being spring, over the last few days this has been delightful. It’s a large park with a lake, and I walk the whole of it, so there are loads of lovely, fresh smells with everything blooming.

I was about two thirds of the way through the walk when, in the traffic of people on the trails, walking toward me were a man and a lady. Now, I must confess I don’t have any idea what the guy looked like because my eyes went straight to the lady’s fake boobs. They couldn’t help it, my eyes. Now, this lady was dressed like someone from Beverly Hills would dress if they were pretending to workout – all high end clothing, none of which would actually hold up to any real excerpted activity, and no actual bra underneath her purple designer spandex-with-spaghetti-strap top (yet oversized-boobs-on-tine-body are fixed in place). Her hair is big, and she’s even holding a designer water. Yet, somehow if it weren’t for the boobs, she’d not look so obviously over-done. Of course, with the exception of the boobs, having only had a glance, none of this processed until I'd passed them.

But the passing was the thing, because when I did I happened to be doing one of those big intake breaths… you know, through the nose. I sputtered and coughed, my eyes started watering. I was choking on the cloud of perfume in which she was encased. This also made me laugh – and I thought for sure I’d be found out as to why, so without really being able to breathe I rushed forward. Once breathing again commenced, I was chuckling for a while, because seriously it was an intensely pungent fragrance. I got to my turn-around point on the dam, back in the groove of the rhythm of exercise. As a turned a corner down the way a bit, there they were again. Luckily this time I could see them coming from a ways off, so I could make sure to be breathing OUT when I passed. But I still laughed.

Scene Three:

I was helping someone out with their start-up business, and ended up driving an hour away to babysit both Friday and Saturday. They were for about four hours each. It was fun (the work, not the commute); the girl is really cute. This business provides you with a basket of fun, mostly learning-related, toys and games. Yesterday, amongst other things, we built a wooden model of the skeleton of a brachiosaurus, played the memory game, and I painted her face. She loved it all, but especially the face painting.

With about ten minutes before I was scheduled to leave, she really wanted to do something from my basket of goodies again, but I explained that I was going to have to leave soon. She started crying and said she wanted her mom. Her mom, who had returned and was working in the next room, automatically asked what was wrong. Once she realized, she started laughing and left me to it. (I’m pretty sure her daughter was hoping mom would side with her and tell me to stay.) I came up with a solution that made my charge happy, but it’s pretty hilarious when someone outright cries AND wants their mom when you tell them you’re going to be leaving soon – especially when you’re at work.