(S)park!

Mike and I have been together for 12 years and married for six. That's 48 seasons. While I understand that's a drop in the bucket for some, it's a wonderfully long time in my book. I love our relationship.

     Of course, like all relationships, ours needs to be nurtured. Relationships are living breathing entities like the people in them. They change over time, because we change over time, so it's important to always be paying attention. In order to do just that, I've been doing some research.

     First stop, writer, activist, and internationally syndicated relationship columnist, Dan Savage!

     Dan Savage was the first to use the abbreviation GGG - Good, Giving, and Game - to explain what partners should strive to be in order to nurture and sustain a successful, healthy relationship.  Savage promotes being up for anything... within reason. Hey, there are as many proclivities out there as there are people. It's important to be open and willing to explore.

     And genuine science backs Savage up. Dr. Amy Muise's Psychology Today article, "Are You GGG?" acknowledges that "people who are more motivated to respond to their partner’s needs report higher relationship satisfaction and feel more intrinsic joy after making a sacrifice for their partner.” 

     Now, I'm not trying to brag when I say - I've been pretty darn GGG over the years. Years of damaged boyfriends and comedy improvisation taught me to always say, "Yes, and...," and I think there have been more winners than losers in my relationships when all was said and done. I like to think that my husband benefits from my high GGG level. I try to keep the magic alive, as magazines and talk shows like to say. 

     But.

     Mike has been asking for one thing over the years that, well, I've never felt completely comfortable with. Full disclosure - I've done it before. I started doing it early (14?), and I'm pretty good at it (even if I grow impatient and tire of it quickly). Ultimately, I don't enjoy it. To be fair to Mike, it's not a deviance; more of a desire... a desire that's morphed into a necessity. The requests that started as sweet and subtle suggestions became more frequent and pressing entreaties.

     My husband wants me to park the car.

     No, that's not a euphemism.  

     He wants me to actually PARK THE CAR.

All of you outside major urban areas are yelling a collective WHAT?! Yes, I hear you. But city dwellers, back me up here. 

     Like most sane New Yorkers, I do not like driving - let alone parking - in New York City. I don't need to drive here. It's easy to get anywhere I have to go by foot, by bicycle, or by MTA. When Mike and I first got together, he owned a car, but I didn't. Several years and vehicles later, we took over one of my parents' cars when they downsized and moved to Florida. While our car became a jointly-owned asset, the responsibility still remained solely Mike's.

During the school year, I had a strong defense. My devoted husband may have had an itch for something different, but he knew that NO was my answer. He didn't even bother to ask, and that was the end of it. Most often, Mike could be home early enough from work to beat the neighborhood parking rush. Sometimes he was able to work from home, so he could take part in the alternate side, double-parking ballet.  He was still the master of his domain.  

     Things changed, though, when he started a new job this year. He returns home in the evening, and late-night parking really blows. 

     So when summer rolled around and my schedule became less demanding and more flexible, Mike began to press a bit.

     He'd lean in close and purr in his best Barry White, “Hey, if you’re around at 12:45…” 
     I'd stiffen and pull away. “Mike, I'm really not comfortable with that.”  I'd remind him that he is a master at parking!  He’s got magic parking space radar and surgical precision. He can squeeze into a space with nothing but a sigh between bumpers. I am not as adept. Of course, he'd counter that I just don't do it as often, but that if I would just give it a try, I would see it really isn't a big deal. My protests would continue until finally he would drop it, but I knew he was undeterred... maybe even more resolute. He was gonna wear me down, all right!

     And wear me down he did.

     The first time, I was truly panicked. I envisioned myself driving around in an endless loop. "But did she ever return, No, she never returned, and her fate is still unlearned..." But heaven, and a parking space, opened right up. I felt a surge of confidence run up the steering column and into my very being as I turned the wheel to the curb. I DID IT!

     It has become easier. I've even begun to initiate. It doesn't matter how good I am at it, I get the job done, and Mike is just so incredibly grateful that I'm (finally) willing and able.  

     Something has shifted since I've started to help park the car. My husband has been more attentive.  Often my texts are met with radio silence, but look at how quickly and enthusiastically he responds when I text about the car:

  

It's incredible! I feel like finally surrendering to this request has brought us closer. We're back in a honeymoon phase. Seriously, look at the love here:

 

Lesson learned? 
The way to a man’s heart is through a parking space.

I'm doing it twice today. How's that for GGG in the NYC?

Stuck in the Middle

     While the universe christened my personal summer as The Summer of Humble, my husband Mike termed (somewhat optimistically) 2015 as our Summer of Social. We had high hopes for lots of cultural outings and merriment with friends. Unfortunately, Mike's work schedule's been significantly busier than planned, so more often than not, I've been making the trips to outdoor events, museums, and the theater without him. One July Friday, though, we managed to check out the evening music series at some beautiful outdoor gardens together.

     Sonnenberg Gardens (and Mansion State Historic Park) is a 50-acre estate in the Finger Lakes that houses a greenhouse complex, nine formal garden areas, including a Japanese Garden and a classic style rose garden, and an impressive 40-room Queen Anne-style mansion.  In the summer months, they string colored lights along their meandering pathways, and every Friday night through July and August, guests are able to walk the grounds and enjoy live music under the stars. 

     The band was set up on the wrap-around veranda of the mansion, and was cranking out classic Rolling Stones as we arrived. Most folks were sitting on folding chairs on the lawn directly in front, leaving a bit of room for dancing if the mood struck. Mike and I hung back a bit and set up farther out in the gardens where the crowd was thinner but the view was still good. We spread out our picnic blanket, got comfortable in our lawn chairs, and secretly sipped our Nalgene bottle full of homemade margaritas.

     The members of the group, like a significant swath of the crowd, looked to be in their late 50s/early 60s - Four guys sporting a healthy mix of gray, white and balding with varying eras of facial hair. They played just about everything spanning the last half century, and what they may have sometimes lacked in technique and pitch, they definitely made up for in enthusiasm. Mike and I figured that these friends had started playing together in high school and had just carried on for the next 40+ years. I appreciate that.  Nice work if you can get it!

     The band was having a great time, and so was the crowd. Most folks stayed seated to enjoy the entertainment, but there were a few pockets of daredevils that frequently jumped up and hit the dance floor. I got out of my chair, too, but stayed near our spot and enjoyed our two-person dance party. I felt like a cooler, younger kid with better moves, and I smirked a bit as I typed an update on my Facebook page:

     I leaned over and shared the sentiment with Mike, and he laughed and replied, "Steph, you are middle aged."

I had no idea.

Seriously.  When did that happen?

     What constitutes “middle-aged?” The U.S. Census Bureau doesn’t define the term “middle age” anywhere on their website, but their data refer to the group before “elderly” - ages 45-64 - as “the older-working population.” (I’m going to get that on a t-shirt: I’m not middle-aged, I’m the older-working population!) Merriam-Webster.com first defines middle age as “the period in a person's life from about age 40 to about age 60,” but then right below, it offers the FULL definition as “the period of life from about 45 to about 64.”  (The dictionary needs an editor, apparently.) Psychologist Erik Erikson defined middle adulthood as between 40-65.

     All of this is to say, none of this looks good for me.  

     I know this was not a sudden occurrence; it was, however, a sudden revelation. 

     It was a Twilight Zone episode:

     I awaken in a field, full of smiling, doughy white folks in long khaki shorts, solid cotton t-shirts, and comfortable shoes. They are gathered in lawn chairs, bobbing their heads to the music, when suddenly the band kicks into a warbly, non-ironic version of “Play That Funky Music.” They glow with nostalgia, and like one somewhat awkward blob, they rise from chairs and motion each other to the open area. They do their best to inhabit the music with their semi-balanced side to side rocking, enthusiastic shoulder thrusting, and clapping on the first and third beats of the music.  And just when I feel myself recoiling in horror, starting to yell, “Two and four! Two and four!” they notice me.  They reach out their arms to me, beckoning. Welcoming. I look down at myself and realize that I, too, am wearing a light pink cotton t-shirt, and khaki shorts.  It doesn’t matter that they’re green; a wild color can’t save me now. They recognize me.  

I’m one of them.  

I’M ONE OF THEM.

     You know, I actually thought I’d outgrown self-deception and denial, but here I am, full-on SMACKED again.

     And this is so awfully predictable for the way my life goes.  I start to look down my nose at someone else, and I spot myself in the crowd.  There is no getting around it.  I am everything and everyone I judge. I am.

     Needless to say, I got a lot of great Facebook responses that night, but the most thought-provoking came from my friend, Peggy: 

"Silly lady... you need to be dancing and not watching... When you're dancing you feel ageless ... Never mind what it looks like... There comes a time when you stop thinking about that and just do it!!!"

Peggy's absolutely right.  For most of my life, I've managed to march to the beat of my own drummer (while clapping on 2 and 4).  Seems I'm overdue to embrace middle age with that same spirit.  

Humble Beginnings

As I was losing tennis against the handball wall this morning - the third superbly humbling experience of the day - I realized that this is my destiny for the summer. I am a teacher, so I always get the question, “What are you doing with your summer?” I think I’ve found my answer.

“I’m being humbled.”  

This is officially the Summer of Humble.

The morning began with a realization. I’ve come to hate my core.  It’s true.  

This year, something has shifted in my body.  Call it age, call it lack of any type of mid-toning/strength work, call it regular, increasingly frequent margaritas. Whatever you call it, thy name is gut.  

It’s not an overwhelming gut.  It only slightly protrudes, so a few of my loved ones have rolled their eyes when I’ve brought it up.  There have even been a couple of scoffs. I get it - they don’t live in my skin. It’s a gut to me, though.  It’s knocked my confidence a bit. It changes the way my clothes fit, it affects my decisions about what to wear. (Right now, I’m favoring shorts and t-shirts over sun dresses.)
It weighs on me.
It’s taken me years to grow into my body. Yes, I laugh at it a lot, and use it as joke fodder, but I’ve truly come to love my no boobs, no hips, athletic pre-pubescent boy look. I’ve even accepted my block of a middle.  For a long time, that block was ripped and tight, and it made me feel bad*ss. But the block is now a bit squishy - it’s thicker and rounder, which makes it even more obvious that I have no boobs and no hips.  I got used to - and embraced - my proportions when my middle was thinner and flatter.  Now, I feel more barrel-ish.
The realization that I hate my gut led to my first humbling experience of the day.  I realized that when I talk about my physical core, I may also mean the core of who I am.  This goes deep, folks.  I really pride myself on being disciplined and structured.  I like to think that I get sh*t done, and that if there’s a problem, I can and will solve it.  So, how is it that this thing - this small, inconsequential thing in the big scheme of things - is causing the most self criticism and loathing? Why can’t I stomach fixing my stomach?I
I’d had one realization and one humbling experience, and it was only 6:30AM.  I had to act.

I had to do something to save my core(s).  
I decided that I was finally going to go across the street and take advantage of morning lap swim at the local Parks and Rec pool. I’d signed up online and bought the goggles the week before.  All I’d needed was the nudge, and here it was.  

I grew up as a swimmer. I spent five years on a swim team. When I was 22, I spent the summer swimming a mile each workout.  How hard could it be to get back in the water?

My first lap was steady.  I felt sleek and powerful, like a shark.  My slightly cupped hands pierced the water and dragged down the center of my body. I was a predator!  I turned for small side breaths rhythmically after every four strokes. That’s right, the old form was still in my muscles, I thought. I still got it! I sped up at the end, held my breath an extra few strokes and tapped the side.  
When I popped up out of the water, I attributed the slight light-headedness to the rush of reclaiming a sport… until I not only felt but heard my heavy panting. I hadn’t noticed it underwater, but the sharp, jagged breathing resembled a panic attack. I pretended to readjust my goggles until my body stopped heaving and my heart rate had returned from one comparable to a small rodent’s.
I'd gone from shark to rat in one lousy lap.
Feeling deflated but not defeated, I pushed off again.  It only took two strokes to realize I’d blown the majority of my energy on my first pass. Over the next four eternal laps, whatever form I thought I had deteriorated.  My body rocked and swayed like a flat bottomed boat. My side breaths grew to largemouth bass gulps.  I churned the water around me like a drowning man.  When I finally brought my personal nor’easter to shore, I slumped over the pool gutter, closed my eyes, and prayed for lightning or a bomb threat.
Sadly, the day remained beautifully peaceful. I couldn’t bring myself to leave yet, so I decided to slow things down with some breaststroke. The next couple of laps felt slightly easier but just as uncomfortable as the freestyle laps. At least I wasn’t taking on as much water.  I stood up.  An older man working behind the reception table was looking down at me.  I shook my head and said, “It’s been a while.  Pacing is killing me.”
“Here’s what I want you to do,” he said. “This time, I want you to hold your stroke for two extra seconds.”
I nodded and repeated, “Two more seconds. Okay.”  He gave an unconvinced smile.
I turned with new enthusiasm.  I had been given a charge!  Maybe all I needed was a slight adjustment, and I’d be back to my shark self. I pushed off and elongated every stroke.  On my return, I noticed my new coach getting out of his chair and approaching poolside.
I hadn’t seen anyone else getting schooled, and I could only hope it was because he saw some special potential in me. I stood up. He bent over, put his hands on his knees, and leaned in close.
“This time I want you to hold your stroke for FOUR seconds. And I want you to look straight down at the bottom of the pool.  Put your face all the way in the water, look down, and breathe out ALL of your air.” He took a moment, then added pointedly, “ And I want you to RELAX.”
“I don’t look relaxed?” I said.

“No. You don’t look relaxed.”

I nodded. There was a pause.

“So what are you going to do this time?” he quizzed me.

“I’m going to hold the stroke for four seconds.”

“Yes, FOUR seconds, not two.”

“No, FOUR.”

“And…”

“I’m going to look straight down at the bottom of the pool, and blow out all of my air.”

“And…”

“And I’m going to RELAX.”

“RELAX.  Good.”

I failed on the very first stroke.  I didn’t have enough air in me to blow out for a whole four seconds. I was spent after two. I felt my body sinking.  I’d always learned to look where I was going. It felt unnatural to stare at the bottom of the pool.  And it sure as sh*t felt unnatural to RELAX.  
I wobbled and bobbed and strained and gasped my way through set after set of laps, just long enough to feel like I could honestly call it a workout, not simply a bath.  As soon as I felt like I could get credit for this catastrophe, I jelly-leg jumped out of the pool, grabbed my gear, and waddled home.  As I unlocked the door to the apartment, I felt a wave of nausea overcome me...until I let out a giant belch.  I was only surprised not to see pool water and an errant fish tumble out.
The burp helped my stomach but not my core.  

At this point, I decided that what I really needed was to change gears and do something I felt somewhat successful at.  Another sport I’ve been trying after a long, long hiatus is tennis.  (Well, tennis if you’ll consider the loose definition of “smacking a tennis ball against a wall with a tennis racquet.”) With new resolve, I threw on some dry clothes, jumped on my bicycle, and headed over to the local handball courts.  
Humility was NOT going to get the better of me! I was going to dominate SOMETHING!

Then why did I choose another sport I’d just rediscovered?  I’ve never been good at tennis, and that was evident once again the moment I started trying to hit a wall.  My tennis should actually be renamed retrieving. That’s mostly what I do.  And as I was chasing the ball down and digging it out of the bushes and thanking the player on the next court over for returning it, I understood the pattern of my summer vacation.  
This summer, I’ve dedicated myself to doing a lot of things I haven’t done for a long time and/or was never very good at.  

I’m trying to eat better. I’m trying to take care of my upper body and work my core by jumpstarting new tennis and swimming workouts. I’m trying to return to my writing life with the help of a Fellowship with the NYCWP, an incredible community of educator-writers.

But trying is hard. I’m rusty and uncomfortable and self conscious.  I don’t like to NOT be good at something.  I quit things I’m not good at.  Some pursuits are worthy of the struggle, though. I want to be better, so I’m going to unabashedly embrace my Summer of Humble, and hopefully learn a thing or two.

And that makes me think that the core of me is still intact.