Staying true to your course

When travelling into the city for work, I constantly see people grasp onto bus handles and the metal standing poles so as not to lose their grip when the brakes are put on at the last minute or when the bus lurches forward in order to get ahead of traffic. It’s comical at times, seeing people swing into each other and apologize profusely for spilling their hot coffee on someone or interrupting their good read, but at times it can be annoying when you feel like the entire ride you have had your two feet planted solidly onto the floor, and then inevitably, you end up having to grab onto something desperately until you are able to let go and relax a bit when it comes to a complete stop. Once this happens, people wipe up spilled drinks, exchange embarassed smiles with one another, and announce “Wow, that driver is crazy. What could they be thinking?”

Exactly. What could the driver be thinking? I remember when I was little, and I can’t remember what I was having a fit about, but I remember it involved me stomping my foot at my mother saying, “But it’s not fair!!” (I probably can’t remember because this was such a recurring scene.) My mother just sighed, and said, “Leah, life is not about being fair.” I’m sure for a 6 or 7 year old, this phrase is not only frustrating to hear, but difficult to understand. Because at that young age, getting a Barbie on your birthday or having McDonalds on a Friday night or getting through the day without getting a run in your new tights is pretty much what your world circulates around. That kind of stuff is what makes up your life. Or at least what made up mine. I lived for Happy Meals and was always constantly ripping up my stockings somewhere along the way. But now, at 35, I know what my mom had meant. Life is not about being fair. But life is about learning from what you do have in front of you, and what it might mean to say goodbye to it at the end of that particular ride. Life only really becomes fair when you are at the closing chapter of your life and you say, Ah, I get it now.

About a year to date from when I packed up my stuff to Boston and kissed Mr. Pretty Damn Close goodbye from underneath that streetlamp at my old apartment, I kissed him goodbye again just a few weeks ago. (This goodbye routine is really getting kind of old, by the way). But this time, the goodbye was much different. It was about moving on and accepting that we were turning pages of different chapters at not the same pace. That can be a hard pill to swallow for both people involved, regardless of who jumpstarts the release. So, another chapter closed, a new window opened perhaps, and time to dust myself off and pick off where I started. (Now where was I???). But this time – because you know I’ve had my share of break-ups so I consider myself just as schooled in this area as much as I’m schooled in being a bridesmaid – it was different. Although it was sad, disappointing and a sucker punch to the ol’ ticker, it was completely refreshing to have started and ended a relationship right for once and with some closure. Closure, what a concept!  In some of my past relationships, closure had been just as much as satisfying as Berger’s post-it (“Sorry, I can’t do this”) he left on Carrie’s computer in the beloved Sex and the City series. 

This time, however, I did this relationship right. I was honest from the beginning in what I wanted, I was honest about who I was as a person (and shocking - was completely loved for being who I was) and had an absolutely fabulous time. I could be myself and I didn’t hold back in asking for what I wanted every step the way. Although, asking for what I wanted is what inevitably made the relationship end, me being honest in what I wanted (and for him to clearly respect and hear me on that) didn’t allow for the relationship to drag on down a miserable road that both of us didn’t want to be on.  It was, in fact, the best relationship I’ve had. And I believe it was because it had been true, genuine and honest from start to finish. And it allowed for me to finally understand what I’m looking for, what I want and what I deserve. So this past year was not for naught. The relationship brought so much into my life I can’t help but think that it was all part of the plan in the first place. Mr. Pretty Damn Close was also Mr. Pretty Damn Good. Albeit parting was hard, saying goodbye was tearful, it was all done from a loving, honest place. Mr. PDC was true, genuine and  loving to the end.  And you can’t fault that. You look at that, and say, well, what can I say? I may want to find a reason to run over a photograph of him back and forth in the driveway or make it into a dart-board, but when there is no real reason that I can find to do that, than that’s why I know it was all worth it.

Looking back on some of my past blog posts, I smile to myself. Not because I’m funny, but because it all makes a lot of sense. Moving here, having this job, writing my dissertation, new city, new friends. It all comes together in a myriad of movie scenes that end up being my life. And it’s all threaded together in a masterful way. So someone that’s driving this bus sure knows what they are doing. I just try to keep up and hang on. When God closes a door, I’ll be damned, but I do feel a draft from somewhere of a window being opened. Life isn’t fair. It doesn’t make sense. When this past break-up happened, my first instinct was to look up at the ceiling and say to the man upstairs, “You have got to be ^%$#! kidding me. Again?” And guaranteed, He looked back down at me and said, “Let go of the wheel, kid. How many times have I gotta tell you. It’s not the right time yet. And for the love of Me, don’t use the F-word.”

When I pulled away from Mr. PDC’s house that day, I turned on the radio and Tom Petty’s “Free Falling” was playing on the radio. Turning it up a bit, I was able to smile through the tears. Although I wasn’t pounding the steering wheel and singing at the top of my lungs Jerry McGuire style, I was able to sing along knowing that both of us were ”free falling” into what was up next for both of us. No exact plan, but just letting things be for the moment. For the wind to pick up and carry us without having to focus on a real destination. To see and concentrate on what’s in front of us right now and to let the other cards fall where they may. Life can be about holding onto someone’s hand, and sometimes life is just about giving someone’s hand a big squeeze only in order to release it. Thank you, Mr. PDC. Because being a man isn’t just about staying, but sometimes it’s about knowing when it’s time to let go. 

And so, the bus wheels turn, and the trains continue to move us throught its tunnels at sometimes lightening speed, or sometimes a trudging pace. Whatever the case, we may need to grasp something and hold on for awhile. Life can be funny. The  thing that  annoys people the most about public transportation is that they aren’t the ones driving. And the thing that people love most about public transportation is for the exact same reason; because at least for one part of their day, they aren’t the ones driving.

Whether you are at the wheel or a passenger, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again; stay true to your course and hang on. ’Cause what’s up ahead may just be the best part.

Copyright 2011, Leah A. Flynn

Three’s a Crowd: When past pain follows you into relationships

So here’s a confession. I share this trait with my siblings, other members of my family and a number of my friends; it’s my inescapable habit of laughing at physical humor. Three’s Company was my favorite show growing up; I didn’t understand – nor much care – about the sexual innuendos or Mrs. Roper trying to get it constantly on with the mister or that Jack was trying to pass himself off as gay. Nope, what I tuned in for was Jack hitting himself with the ironing board, Crissy knocking over a table at the Reagle Beagle, or any of the cast tripping over their own feet on a daily basis. At a ripe young age, that kind of stuff made my side hurt. My mother constantly would walk into the room, sigh, and say, “Leah, I don’t want you watching this stuff.” But I couldn’t help it. The roommates’ constant attraction to consistently being accident prone was my first childhood crush (before Ricky Schroeder and Silver Spoons came along). The rush of laughing at someone getting clocked in the head with a swinging door was enough to make my night. And to this day, I die a little inside when someone trips up the sidewalk, slips on a banana peel, or stumbles up the stairs. Lucky I wasn’t there. I wouldn’t have been much help. Oh, I would have asked how you were after the fact. But that would be after I dried my tears of laughter. I’m a sick person. I know it. I accept it. Again, blame it on my family. For some a number of years, there was a stretch of birthday parties where there was always a pinata. And one time, someone was smart enough to get the whole production on video. My oldest nephew, blindfolded and swinging the 2×4 as if he was up at bat at Shea Stadium, took a crack at the pinanta. He ended up skimming the top of the donkey and clocking another family member -the one standing behind the pinata, holding the string that kept it up in the air - across the forehead. Normal, caring people would have rushed to his side. Not my family; amidst the laughter and the occasional “ohmigod are you okay?” dotted with snickers, you could hear someone yell out “Did someone get that on video?” Sick we are. Fun, but sick. Cause at that party, the one holding the pinanta string was the only ass that ended up getting hit.

I have yet to really pull it together and get beyond the slapstick giddiness of seeing someone else getting knocked around like they were one of The Three Stooges. Even at times of seriousness and requiring the utmost maturity, I still lose it. I remember Carrie and myself went out looking for cars after mine had gotten stolen out of my apartment parking lot a few years ago. This wasn’t too long after Mr. X and I had called it quits and I had been suffering with bouts of heartache and the pain of having to get over someone.  To have my car stolen on top of all that was enough to make me feel like a country western song. So you can imagine how psyched I was to look for cars in the middle of November in Upstate New York.  One evening after work, Carrie and I had hit about our fifth car lot. We were traipsing through the rows of cars, trying to read the prices on the side and peeking in to see if it had a CD player or not, or if it had enough room to fit our Target purchases after a Saturday of shopping, or if it had a sunroof for our friends to hang their heads out the window. You know, playing the role of serious car shoppers. Ten, fifteen minutes went by and no one came out to help us. Instead, we saw a bunch of people through the large glass windows all warm inside the showroom, sipping coffee, laughing as they sidled around, watching TV from mounted screens. At that moment, a distinguished gentleman whipped a vehicle into the driveway, stepped out and strode – not many people stride but this guy had it down – with purpose towards the door. He caught sight of us and stopped short. He came over to us and asked if anyone had come out and helped us yet. We told him no. Nostrils flaring, he again strode (now with furious purpose) into the showroom. Although we couldn’t hear what was going on inside, we could guess what probably was happening. The distinguished gentleman - Fred was his name - started throwing his arms around, pointing at us, pointing at the people inside, clearly angry and upset that no one had ventured out to help us. Carrie leaned into me and said in her little voice, “Oh my, it looks like someone is getting fired in there.” After he was finished shouting, we saw Fred make his way towards the door, coming out to help us. He was so upset that when he threw open the door and walked out, and again with all the striding business, poor Fred didn’t notice one of the flag poles that was sticking out horizontally from the side of another pole, right at his head level. His eyes on us and clearly not on this obstacle in front of him, he slammed his forehead right into it, whipping his head back in one smooth motion, and then in another swift motion he moved his head quickly forward and down between his knees, holding his head in his hands. It all happened so quick, and the clanging of the bar still ringing in my ears, Carrie and I just gaped. And at that moment, I knew that I had to pull myself together. I could feel it bubbling up from way down deep inside. My laughter threatened to come out as if someone let out a tremendous fart in church and the priest was in the middle of his homily. Carrie grabbed my arm, knowing what was happening and understanding that I was about to lose it. She hissed, “You’re going to need to pull yourself together”, as he made his way over to us again, still holding the side of his head. He came up to us shouting something about having asked to have that pole removed weeks ago, and mumbling about people who don’t do what they are asked to do in the first place and that’s how people get hurt. Fred then looked at both of us and said, “Is my head bleeding?” Not daring to look directly at  him, I just shook my head, biting my lip and trying to breathe normally out of my nose. His pain for the moment forgotten, he then proceeded to walk me through a nearby Subaru’s specifications, while I noticed out of the corner of my eye Carrie tipping her head sideways looking at his face. She then spoke up and said “You know, sir, you are kind of bleeding…”. He then became extremely flustered and grabbed for his handkerchief – because of course he had one – and began mopping at his head. He was so involved in his job and being angry at his employees that he momentarily forgot about the blood that was indeed dripping down his head. It took a customer to have to point out his pain. Although I’m sure he clearly felt the blow (it was obvious as he had held his head between his legs) he tried to ignore it and push it aside for the time being, concentrating on what was most important; making a sale.  Well, when all was said and done, I didn’t end up buying a car from Fred. But it did make for a good story. And as weird and as screwed up as it may sound, his physical pain made me momentarily forget about my own emotional aches.

It’s inevitable that we all carry pain as baggage into the next relationship we venture into. If we are lucky enough, the person you are with at the time, is open enough to share their emotional baggage in exchange for yours. So you end up trading stories, showing scars and sighing about how “everything happens for a reason” or “well, I wouldn’t be the person today if that didn’t happen” or “shit happens” or, like REM so eloquently sang, ”everybody hurts”. It’s true; heartache and painful emotional experiences happens to the best of us. And often, we stride on through life, trying to shove it down and aside as if it’s a pizza box at the top of the garbage heap. We may think our past painful experiences is all just garbage and not worth keeping, but yet, it still ends up following us around like dryer sheets clinging to our pants. And it still effects the way we feel about relationships, the way we approach them and how we move ourselves through the understanding that this time it will – and can – all be different.  It’s funny how something we try so hard to forget about, still ends up consuming so much of our thoughts and how we look at the relationships that we are currently in. In fact, we end up being so caught up in how much we had been hurt, and how much we need to forget about it, and then getting angry that we can’t seem to forget about it and then trying to deal with the anger at the person who caused it in the first place and goddamit why can’t I just forget this already that you forget that someone else’s pain is just as real -and just as present – as yours. I was recently reminded of that with my current partner. A couple of weeks ago, I was in the middle of expressing to him my feelings about  our relationship and sticking together, knowing it was worth it, we were worth it. (and this is hard for me to do. Past experience has led me to believe that having any sort of serious conversation like this with a boyfriend is risking the fact that he might freak out, look at me like I just grew five heads and run the other way). So you can imagine my surprise when I heard him hesitate and say “Are you sure?” in the smallest, most cautious voice I had ever heard him use. That’s when it hit me. He had been just as hurt, and just as angry as I had been, from what he had experienced in the past. Yet, here we were, arms  around each other, and giving us a chance. Scars and all. Obstacles and all. That’s something. And this time, I wasn’t laughing.

I gotta say; Mr. Pretty Damn Close is playing with a full set. And I’m not talking about Bocce. I’m talking about the other B word. The last time I had a serious conversation with a guy in a relationship, he never called me back again. Ever. After saying to him that I didn’t think we had been emotinally connecting lately, I heard him sigh and say on the other end, “Okay, let me just set my stuff down and I’ll call you back.” But he never did. And all that ever spelled to me was c-o-w-a-r-d-l-y. Mr. PDC, however, just doesn’t carry a mental hankerchief around with him to wipe up past wounds, but he does it with grace, patience and a genuineness I had yet to experience. And he listens. And he also can fix stuff. Literally. So that’s pretty hot. But I digress.

Physical humor aside, it’s important to note that no matter if you are staying in the relationship you are currently in, or if you are looking for a new one, take note that there is always someone else who has been just as hurt-or maybe more than – you have. All you need to do is listen, comfort, wipe some tears and offer a hankerchief.  But know when to say when; when pain becomes a third roommate or a house guest that has stayed way past their welcome, it comes due time to learn from it and move on. It’s okay to recognize pain, listen to each other when it comes back to rear its head from time to time, and then move on ahead. It doesn’t mean that you forget, but it does mean to live in the moment and enjoy what you got.  It’s okay  to laugh about it, too, when things are all said and done. Because sometimes, it’s good to see things like an episode from a sitcom. But your life is happening now! No use staying up late for the reruns.

Copyright 2011, Leah A. Flynn

Looking at 35

When I was little, the night before my birthday, I would always look out my bedroom window, breathe in the smell of fresh lilacs and eagerly anticipate the onset of summer. I still can picture the pinkish purple sky, the sun setting while I listened to tractors growling by our house, still trying to take advantage of that last piece of daylight before farmers turned in for the night. I could hardly sleep knowing what surprises might await me the next day; a new Barbie, a Cabbage Patch doll, a tape cassette of my favorite music (Madonna, Tiffany, Debbie Gibson, you name it. I was  a slave to late 80’s pop).  My mom would then come upstairs, tuck me in (although sometimes it was so hot, the only tucking in she would need to do would be the lone sheet around my leg), and would lean down to kiss my forehead and tell me about how I was born however many years ago on a dark and stormy night…

Now, here I am, many years later and a grown woman. It’s still hard for me to wrap my arms around the word “grown”. What does that word exactly mean anyway? For sure, I have grown a bit in height, catching up  with some of my other peers (not by many inches, but at least I don’t feel like I’m part of the Lollipop Guild anymore). Certainly being “grown”  doesn’t mean what fills up my shirts, blouses and tank tops. That, my friends, was a lost cause a long time ago. Although I hold down a pretty good job, have a nice apartment living on my own in a great city, am responsible for two judgmental and emotionally imbalanced cats, I still don’t feel grown up. For years, my mother would tell me “Now, Leah, just be a lady.” Or older siblings would say, “Leah, just wait until you grow up. Then you’ll understand.” But I don’t think I yet do. Every day is a new learning experience, and to be grown up, doesn’t that mean you get to the point where you have to know everything? And have to understand everything?

Sure, there are physical hints to my growing age. Just a few weeks ago, I was at a restaurant in Harvard Square where I insisted that the waiter check my license when I ordered a margarita. He obliged, only to look at it, smile and return it to me, saying “Wow, you’re my mom’s age.” Wow, you’re not getting a tip, you smart ass hipster-wannabe.  If I had a larger purse, I would have beat him about the head with it. I wanted to sink through the floor as the two nineteen year old girls next to my table smirked at me.  I’ll give you something to laugh about, you over-developed Kardashians. If I ate a whole crap-load of preservatives and hormone-laden milk when I was a kid, I’d look like you too.  I mean, body parts just aren’t meant to sit that high.  Sure, I have laugh lines around my eyes – laugh lines, not wrinkles – and some strands of gray in my roots that I’ve been trying to push off as blonde, but you know what, I still have a butt that won’t quit and a smile that will stop traffic. So where is the growing that’s supposed to happen? Cause the only thing I feel are body parts going downhill, cricks in my joints and my eggs drying up. Now how is that growing?

I’ve always been the type of person who wants approval. When I was little, I always wanted approval from everyone and their brother that I was being a “good girl”; whether that meant I was sitting still in church, paid attention and listened in school or didn’t talk back at home. Granted, I was not an A+ student in any of these categories. But you can’t blame a girl for trying. See, that’s why the approvals were great motivators – I loved the high you got from getting a pat on the back or a gold star or a “I’m so proud of you.” I could ride on that kind of stuff for weeks. And quite frankly, I’m still that way. At work, with my friends and with my family. Knowing that I have the whole team on my bandwagon is a “feel good place” for Leah. If someone hesitates in jumping fully on, well now, that doesn’t feel so good. What do you mean you don’t want to? But I KNOW what I’m doing! Look at me, look at how I got here, look at all I’ve done for you, don’t you trust me? And in my head, I’m stomping my feet all over again like a little girl trying to gain that approval rather than concentrating on why I, now as a grown woman, I wanted or  needed to make that decision in the first place.

You know the real times when I feel grown up? When I can go to McDonalds and no one will tell me “no, Leah, not tonight” or “how about the 6 piece instead of the 9?”. When I plan a vacation, I think wow, I really could go anywhere and if I set aside some money, I can afford to do so  and no one says, “You can’t go” or “Will this vacation be chaperoned?” (Although, looking back, I’m sure some vacations I’ve taken as a “grown-up” should have probably been chaperoned. But that’s another story). Or there are times when I make a decision at work, and it’s all up to me. No one is there to slap my hand and say, “Nope, that’s not the answer, Leah. Try again.” or “Stop asking your neighbor for help and solve it yourself.” Because, get this kids, they hired me to make these decisions. So, I think now that I’m looking at 35, I should be old enough to accept the fact that I will make decisions that my students, my friends, my family and my partners won’t necessarily agree with. And that’s okay. Because although a good portion of these people are grown-ups, that doesn’t mean that they are any more right than I am. We just all hold our perspective from a different angle.

I think that being grown up means to stop stomping your feet, accept the fact that you might not have a full bandwagon the entire ride, and move on and make things happen, anyway.  This doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t take heed, advice, caution or listen to others. But it also means that it shouldn’t stop you in your tracks so you can work at seeking others’ approval instead of concentrating on what you’ve set out to explore and do in the first place. And maybe, when I accept the fact that I don’t need to seek approval yet learn how to constructively take in advice without faltering, I will be acting finally like a grown-up.

However, there are some things that I will never grow and move on from. I will, at times, probably still stick my face in a rye-boat dip. I will probably laugh so hard that I pee my pants.  I will still dance too much at weddings and snort out loud in church. I will probably act like a clown on demand just because, well sometimes, people just desire that sort of thing in life. i will still want my mother to kiss my forehead and tuck me in. And I will continue to love, to hug, to listen, to wipe tears away, to cry, to work hard, to learn and to…yes, you betcha, write it all down.

I’ve been blessed to have not just my parents raise me, but literally the whole fam-damily on Flynn Road. That means aunts, uncles, cousins and siblings. I’m indeed fortunate for having amazing, loving role models. Perhaps that’s why I might work so hard now to please, only because in my eyes, they’ll always be the grown-ups, and I’ll always be the chubby kid who stuck her finger in birthday cakes for a lick of frosting or took 500 times to get up onto water skis or cried when I couldn’t get the trick of riding a bike for the first time. But  you know what? I did grow up; I lost my baby fat, I now know how to water and snow ski, and can ride my bike for miles along the Minuteman Trail. But most importantly, I understand that life is a continual learning process. And if you’re bandwagon ain’t driving straight, it’s guaranteed someone along the way will show you how.

Well, 35, I didn’t do too bad, afterall. So to all the men I’ve loved before…(just cause I’ve always wanted to say this, not necessarily because it fits exactly with the story)…who’s sorry now? And that goes for you, too, waiter in Harvard Square.

Copyright 2011, Leah A. Flynn

Patience is a virture…and other bedtime stories.

I’ve never been what someone would call a patient person. I’m the one that tailgates so close to the car in front of me, that I might as well be driving in their back trunk. I’m the one that shakes the gifts under the tree at Christmas and lifts the wrapping up to see if I can get a glimpse of what prize – or regift! – lies beneath.  I’m the one that can’t sit still on a Friday night waiting for friends to “get ready” while I worry what I might be missing out on at wherever we may be headed out. I’m the one that reads a novel so quickly simply because I’m eager to see the villain get his (or hers) in the end. And, yes, I’m the one who has on occasion, wanted to see the first date fast foward to the end of the aisle with me in a gown wishing the priest would hurry up and get it over already so I could just kiss him, dammit (my husband, not the priest).

Needless to say, I’ve had to practice patience. In fact, I blame my klutziness on rushing to get onto the next thing. I don’t just trip up and down steps to entertain people…I think it happens because my mind is already at the next place, and  because my feet are running so fast to keep up with it that I forget where I step, how I step and who -sometimes – I may step on. Maybe its perhaps that I’m so eager to drink life up that I gulp instead of sip – forgetting what the initial taste was like in the first place. Because life can be so darn interesting sometimes, that I can’t help but want to peek at the end, rip off the paper or push along traffic so I can see what’s up around the bend. At times, my impatience has caused me to miss out and truly enjoy what was happening right in front of me – to be in the moment. Sometimes I forget those amazing first dates; where his smile and story-telling I should have focused on rather than whether he would look good in moccasins and his shirt off mowing our lawn some day. I forget to take in the peacefulness and serenity of Christmas Eve mass, while I sit worrying about what the big guy in red will put under the tree that night. I mean, really, why rush? Why would someone work so hard to make a cheesecake, a pizza or a mouthwatering steak taste so good if I’m just going to rush through my meal, shoving five forkfuls in my mouth at at time, lest that it grow legs and run right off my plate.

Let’s take my recent move. I was in such a rush to get on to the next best thing, that I forgot to really take in and appreciate all that I had left behind. This is not something that I haven’t said to y’all before. I mean – we all know I was ready for the move to the big city and we all know what it took for me to continue in my transition. So, I will not digress back to my more recent musings. But the thing is, once I get to that next best thing – I think, now wait a minute, why was I in such a hurry again? Because when you rip the wrapping off, shut the book closed, park in your spot at work, swallow down the last bite – you gotta ask yourself – was it worth it? Was all that sitting on the edge of the seat “come on, come on, come on” worth it? Or was the journey itself something I should have focused on?
If someone asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I might say a crystal ball. I shamelessly desire a reassurance that I’m going to be happy at the end, that it’s all going to work out. That I’m going to get the guy, push the baby carriage somewhere along a tree-lined sidewalk, make important speeches in front of large audiences, and sip gin and tonics lakeside in my retirement years.  However, my desire for a crystal ball clouds the fact that the way that I live my life NOW is the true key in assuring that it’s all going to work out. There is no magic wand that someone is going to wave that will make it all better or turn out fabulous. It is the way I map the journey along the way that will cause my nerves to jump back under my skin and to breathe again at a normal rate.

Only when our journey end is near, do I really think we are in our right to imagine the next best thing. My mom tells me about the last days her mother – my grandmother – was alive. Never, my  mom tells me, did she ever hear her mother ever be in a rush or utter a word of impatience or hurry someone along. However, on the last days of her life, as my mother sat next to my grandmother in her hospital bed, suffering the quick and painful experience of pancreatic cancer, she heard my grandmother utter under her breath to no one my mother saw in the room but to someone none the less, “Come on, come on, hurry up, hurry up.”. It was the pain, I’m sure, that my grandmother wanted to hurry along. Not her life itself, but knowing that it was drawing near, she wanted to be free of the painful end of it in order to move onto what would come next for her in the afterlife.  I don’t know to this day  whom exactly my grandmother was speaking to, but to whomever – or whatever – it was, my grandmother knew that it was going to free her of her current pain. That what was to come, was indeed the next best thing. And she was confident that who and what she was leaving behind would be okay. Because at that moment, she was finally thinking about herself. For a woman who hosted countless Christmas dinners, Thanksgiving and Easter celebrations, raised three children, attended birthday parties and hosted lakeside gatherings for seven grandchildren, saw her husband off to a world war and back again…my grandmother I believe had the right to rush along the painful end for the sake of what gloriousness might come next for her. Her impatience at the moment was validated. And although we were all in pain from losing her, we all knew that it was for the right reason she rushed along that pain for what would came after.

We all are impatient at some point in our lives. Sometimes, when I wish the cashier would ring the items through just a little quicker ALREADY, I stop and think, you know, what would the extra few minutes gain me? The most recent relationship in my life has tested my patience – not in a bad way – but in a wonderful, sweet and most worth it kind of way. Because the time in between our visits, I’m able to reflect, breathe and take in what it means to just be with him. I’m able to look forward to the next time we are together, but at the same time, take in the great city and reality I’m currently living. And for right now, that time apart has caused me to remember what it means to appreciate and drink in life while still looking forward to what is next. I mean, what’s the rush? The way he smiles at me and takes my hand to walk along with him at his own peaceful, steady pace tells me that there’s nothing to worry about. And that we as a “we” will be worth the wait. That’s the kind of journey I have no desire to hurry through; because living the here and now only allows me the time to fully imagine and nurture the shape the “what next” might take.

That’s something worth honking my horn at.

Copyright 2011, Leah A. Flynn

By George…I think I’ve got it: The forgotten art of getting someone.

I have a dear friend from graduate school that is known for her quirks. For example, she scolds me for resting my arm out an open window while I’m driving, for fear if I were to get in a car accident, that my arm would be cut off in the crash. (Her arm is what she would be worried about, not the potential of me having flown through a windshield instead). She brings three overnight bags and a laptop when she comes to stay with me for one night. She embraces the art of cupcake making and her orange cat, Buffy, is considered family. She loves a good 80′s coverband, and loves even more dressing the part; complete with leg warmers, neon t-shirts, and blue eyeshadow. For people’s birthdays, she loves buying “props” to celebrate the day; pins with your picture on it, crowns, pink cowboy hats and/or homemade bedazzled t-shirts. If you ask her what day of the week you celebrated your birthday in 1982, she would be able to tell you in five minutes. She finds the love and life in everything that she does and she is one of the sweetest people that I have ever met. She is one of those friends that you hope finds a nut to her bolt.  A lid to her pot. Or as Phoebe from friends so accurately describes, “her lobster”. 

I discovered the magic of someone “getting” someone else when I met her boyfriend. Here she was, sitting on my couch, rattling on about her family, Buffy’s latest ailment or her most recent pop culture obsession, and I couldn’t help but watch him. I watched him play with her hair, laugh at her stories, and look at her as if she was the best thing since sliced Wonder bread. And it dawned on me. He gets her. Not just because laughs at her stories or goes along with her latest adventure; but he truly gets what she is all about, and he embraces it. I can’t tell you how I knew, it was just a goose-pimpled feeling I got at that moment. And it caused me to look at the other relationships that surround me…Carrie and her husband giggling with each other in the car over a joke that we all told each other over and over in the 5th grade; my friend Julie and Bob still holding hands across the car seat; my brother-in-law John calling my sister by her maiden last name as if they were teammates (’cause they are, and they make a great team!); my mom still thinking my dad is the funniest man that she has ever met and laughing at his dry wit…the list goes on.  It’s these simple things that all add up to one thing; accepting each other for who we are in the beginning, and not setting out to change someone to be who we want them to be for own selfish interests. There are countless of times since that day that I look for couples “getting” each other. Which of course, caused me to look at how my own past has gone.

I’ll be honest; I’ve got my own quirks. I sleep with a teddy bear at night and snore so loudly that it’s been known to wake up roommates and friends at slumber parties. I love physical humor, and can’t help but die laughing a little inside when someone trips on the sidewalk. I like to pop my own popcorn and stuff it in my purse to bring to the movie theatre (also, maybe an occasional burrito or two). I’m not afraid of jumping off docks by doing  a cannonball and walking through vineyards and stuffing grapes into my mouth until my gut aches. I laugh a little too loud and sometimes pee my pants when the laughter gets to be too much. I dance like a jackass at weddings and probably eat too much pizza for my own good. I burp at the dinner table much to the annoyance of my mother (Hey! Compliments to the chef). I flirt with bartenders and grocery baggers. I say my Hail Mary’s every night and go hang with God every Sunday. Family functions involving Pictionary, talent shows and whiffle ball make up a good portion of my favorite memories. I like to go snowskiiing more for the matching outfits and beers in the lodge than the sport. I love black and white movies and re-runs of the Little House in the Prairie. I’m sure there is more that I’m forgetting. I’ve been told by past boyfriends that I’m “unique” or that I’m “something else, alright”. At the time, I took it as a compliment. But I know now that they took my quirks as a threat or something that was less than desirable in a partner. Some would have rather dressed me up as a doll and have me sit at a function (joke-less and humorless) nodding my head and sipping my wine like a lady while we bask in their own glories. As nice as that sounds, for those who “get” me, they know that I always have something to say, and better yet, they want to hear it. And that after particularly long days at work, I gulp my wine, I certainly do not sip.

It’s not that I’m dogging these guys; they will (or have) found someone that is a lid to their pot. But for me to try to be someone that I’m not for them, well, that was a hard lesson that I had to learn too many times to count. Sure, I heard “I love you” from these guys, but what did that really mean? What did I mean when I said it back? I’m sure that there was love to be found somewhere in there. But where exactly is what I ended up scratching my head about. Cause here’s the thing; when someone looks at you and says “I love who you are”, that should be considered a better start than those three little words that we think makes our hearts melt.  Saying that you love a person for who they are is the first step at “getting someone”. If someone can take your head in their hands, and genuinely look at you and say “you’re awesome!” or “Leah, I get you so much, I can’t imagine someone not getting you”, well my friends, that’s not something you necessarily can walk away from. Because when a person not only embraces all that they see in you, but also nods their head heartily in agreement when you crank up a certain song, or laugh at a certain part in a movie, or people watch with the same trailer of snarky comments running through both your minds…well, by George, I think I’ve got it.

I consider myself lucky. I’ve had some romantic moments; dinners on the ocean, fancy dances and receptions where I’ve been told how “nice I look” (NICE! I spent all this money and I look nice????), quiet, slow romantic walks where the silences meant more about what wasn’t being said in our relationship than what was good about it, and rowdy weekends filled with fun and frivolity only to know that’s all it was really about in the first place. But romantic moments to me are no longer about the expensive meals, the candlelight and summer evening walks. Sure, the ambience helps. But romantic moments can be just as simple – and mean a hell of a lot more - as the huge genuineness of his smile lighting up the room when I walk in, an eagerness of anticipation after a long drive and the giddiness of the first hug when he hurries to get out of the car, his laughter at my  jokes and mine at his, long talks that are more than just “about nothing” but always about something, and the excitement of sharing with each other what we both know the other sincerely wants to hear about – whether its about our day, our weekend or just about how we look at life. He gets it. And perhaps its about me getting him, too. I can’t describe it; for once, it’s hard for me to put into words how you know someone gets you. I don’t know, maybe it’s the silences that are no longer awkward, the talks that are no longer forced and the glances that are not about lust but about something  richer. What the heck do I know. I mean, how long did it take me to get to this realization? It’s shameful, really. But the good thing is, now I know. If you are your true self, the art of someone getting you is no longer lost. Instead, it’s waiting to be discovered; and someone will always be that much more eager to discover you.

Never hold back what you have always been yearning to reveal in the first place. The mirror will always tell you the truth. And so will those who you’re brave enough to show your true reflection to. Shine on!

“When you look into a mirror
Do you like what’s looking at you
Now that you’ve seen your true reflections
What on earth are you gonna do” -Dave Matthews Band

Copyright 2011, Leah A. Flynn

Country mouse takes a ride on the bus.

Living in the big city, the wonderful thing is that I no longer have to irritate myself with traffic in the morning. I simply hop a bus and let someone else curse the slow driver ahead of them or the person that’s yapping away on their cell phone and not paying attention when a red light turns green. And the bus drivers use some pretty colorful language to make up for that lost irritation. Enough to make me blush! And remember you are talking about the girl who couldn’t put up her Christmas tree without letting free a string of expletives that would make Andrew Dice Clay proud.  Using public transportation, I am now able to enjoy a book, my I-pod, and the over-done perfume of the woman sitting next to me, or maybe the guy that didn’t use Dial standing right smack dab in front of me when the bus gets too crowded. Ahh…the smells of Americana.

Whatever the case is…here I am. I made it. I’m riding the bus like a big girl that doesn’t know any better but to wear sky-high-heeled boots on her first day to work only to  be begging for mercy walking the five blocks to her office twenty minutes later. Yes, that was one of my first lessons that I learned here in the fair city of Boston. Not wanting to liken myself to aka Melanie Griffith in “Working Girl” where she wore her Reebocks with skirts and tights, I needed to invest in a much more comfortable yet stylish shoe. Let me just add that to the laundry list of expenses I’ve had to endure  (Did I mention cover charges to clubs, heating bills three times what I’m used to paying, designer “coffee” when you are walking down the street just so you look like you fit in and/or are on your way to somewhere important, and hair products that withstand windtunnels and rainstorms when you aren’t in the confines of your office or T car).  Who I am kidding. Gone are the days of 2.50 Labatt Light drafts. Hell, gone are the days of Labatt Lights! I’m living in the city of Sam Adams and colorful martinis, my friends! And neither are cheap dates. Thank God for wine in grocery stores at 8 bucks a pop.

It’s only been a month and yet I feel pressured to fill you in on stories that you would anticipate happening to me; tripping up the stairs from the T stop, spilling my entire lunch on my skirt in front of new colleagues, making out in a crowded bar with a Red Sox player. Okay. The second did happen to me. Here’s how I reacted: I simply stood up, allowed for the contents of my lunch to roll off the front of my skirt and back onto my plate, and sat back down to continue eating. The third has yet to happen. Give it time! A girl’s gotta grasp her surroundings first before I do something outlandish like make out with a major league baseball player. I’ve done it before, it’s just been with a Cardinal. This Boston team may be a bit trickier to entice coming from a fan who normally bleeds Yankee blue.

I think we have this idea that the point of moving somewhere is also anticipating for something to happen once you do. You know, that exciting, once-in-a-lifetime, I’ve-waited-all-my-life for this kind of moment kind of something.  Well, there is my job; working for one of the country’s top educational powerhouses is pretty amazing. It’s also pretty amazing that none of my new colleagues think that I’m just a complete jackass with a cute smile. Regardless, the professional move was an excellent one – it’s challenging, difficult, and I haven’t used my brain this much since I played Risk with my family at Christmas. You don’t realize that when you are on “auto-pilot” for so long, doing what you have always been used to doing, that your brain is sitting back thinking “really? is this IT? Is this all you’re giving me?” New challenges are always good for the noggin; I go back to work every day thinking, “I can do this, I can do this, I can do this.” Or sometimes I think, “Just fake it, they’ll never know.”  When I swing up onto those bus steps every day, I think to myself, “Leah, you can have a good day or a bad day. Choose to have a good day. The rest will come whether you like it or not.” It’s all about the attitude. And how much wine you bought at the grocery store the night before.

But the earth shattering, ohmigod-my-eyes-are-going- to- meet-someone-else’s-across-the-way-because-now-I’m-in-a -big-city-and-that-happens-in-the-movies-all-the-time moment? Hasn’t happened. But there are other things I’ve been noticing. Especially by looking at and observing people. You see pretty much the same people on the bus every day. Where are they going? Where are they coming from? Do they have a family? A  job? Are they in a relationship? Are they lonely? Depressed? Thinking about moving onto something more exciting? You search their faces for answers, but to no avail. The bus is extremely quiet in the morning. People’s noses are in books, magazines or they are staring off into space thinking about the day ahead or who they may have left behind that morning. Where’s the excitement? The hustle and bustle of being in a big city? The enthusiastic chatter and banter among colleagues? No matter where you hang your hat, whether it’s in a big city or a small town, nobody is big on being enthusiastic in the morning.  Unless of course you’re me at Disney World  when the cast of characters come out on stage in the morning to greet everyone. I broke out into tears the last time that happened, jumping up and down, trying to get a good glimpse of Chip and Dale and Goofy. Now THAT’s enthusiasm.

I did a workshop last night with some students on issues of cultural awareness and identity…basically what it means to know “the whole story” on someone.  And what we concluded is that we really “don’t know” (or maybe can never fully know)  the whole story of where someone is coming from just by looking at them on the bus every day. Sure, maybe we can tell what race and gender they are, but we may not know what religion they practice, who they vote for, who they would rather sleep with, if they want children, if they have a home to go home to, if they’re rich, grew up on a farm or never stepped foot out of New York City. When we look at pictures of happy couples in the wedding section of the newspaper, we assume that “everyone is getting engaged” or “it’s  just that easy” for everyone  to meet someone. But what we don’t know is the road that that couple had to travel to get there; what they argue about behind closed doors or if they are truly happy with each other. We don’t know if someone is the “man of our dreams” just because we see that he has great blue eyes and no wedding ring. Just because we spot someone wearing great designer boots and carrying a Starbucks cup with  a Fendi bag doesn’t mean necessarily that they have a glamorous life. Maybe it just means that they are good at faking it. 

Soo..you are probably asking me “Well, what are you telling us…that you’ve found that the grass isn’t necessarily greener?”. I don’t think that any place really has greener grass; just different sorts of vegetation.  It’s up to us to figure out how to navigate it.  When we search for faces on the bus, or missed opportunities moving from place to place, we often miss out on what we aren’t seeing that might be right in front of us.  Please don’t misconstrue this as me regretting the choice that I made. I just think that often we have plans set in place that we think are right and are going to provide us with all the answers we’ve been waiting for, but only to find that maybe our questions have already been answered. We just weren’t listening hard enough. Or maybe, it wasn’t our time to. Whatever the case, I do love it here; I love the people, the activity, the excitement, and the Sam Adams. But I still do love where I just left. I think by leaving I’ve just been able to appreciate it that much more.

Maybe it’s the impending holidays that sparked these feelings; maybe it’s the idea of seeing family and friends and coming home. I “go home” every day to my very cute apartment with my two very emotionally unstable cats. But what it means to really come home is an entirely different story. That feeling is often hard to describe; it’s not about a place; it’s about a feeling, a person, a void that suddenly becomes filled. ”Coming home” can be wrapped up in a hug, a knowing glance, a kiss, a sigh and then a goodbye (or “See  you later!”) all over again. You see home not as you once saw it, but in a different light, now that the story has been filled in a bit. And that makes it all the harder to turn away, stick your nose in a book and ignore. I might just need to be more alert for this one.  I’ll probably keep watching, scanning the crowds, searching for answers. But, I think that the answer truly lies in what is up ahead of us (and perhaps what we left behind), a road map of destinations that we aren’t able to yet see clearly, but eager to arrive at.  Perhaps it’s as simple as now realizing that maybe the “ohmigod-earth-shattering moment” was a look exchanged nine years ago, not on a bus, but from across a crowded room at a party and a ”Hmm…who’s that” has come full circle; a something that has yet to be mapped, a something assumed at first as not possible - and tossed aside momentarily- only to become a new story that now needs to be unravelled. Something that may not be perfect – cause what is?- but something that is pretty damn close. And isn’t that what is so beautiful about life? The continuous unravelling of what is coming up for us and what may be just around the corner. What to do in the meantime? Sit back, listen and make sure you have a good soundtrack. Might I suggest ”Start it Up” by the Rolling Stones. NOW that can get jump start anyone’s morning. Grab a donut…this bus has a long way to go.

Leah A. Flynn, Copyright 2010

Yes, you ARE tall enough to ride this ride.

Well, my friends, it has been awhile. But as any good writer knows, one does need a muse to guide their creative meanderings.  Yet, admist the summer’s end and rush of a new school year, my blog, sadly, got lost in the shuffle. And how dare I! Especially as it’s already past it’s one year anniversary.  Especially when it’s been so very good to me.( and to all of you, I would hope).

October has found me sitting among packing boxes and writing a new chapter into my life. That’s right…this girl’s moving (and now has moved!) to Boston. Landed a job in the land of the Red Sox. That means that I will need to pack my well worn Yankees hat in the bottom of my suitcase where it should probably stay for awhile. Otherwise, I feel like my life would be threatened if I pull it out at a happy hour somewhere in South Boston.  Not that I plan on doing that, because I don’t really feel like getting stuffed in a trunk of a 79′ Chevy sedan just to get later dumped in the Charles by men in dark peacoats and woolen caps. I would rather start my new life in Beantown with a pint in my hand and waxing intellectual with Harvard grads. Okay. Maybe just the pint in my hand and waxing romantic with an Irish bartender. My brother said that he wore a Yankees shirt in Boston one time, and had garbage thrown at him from moving vehicles. For a girl that likes to joke, I’ll stick to tractor stories and cat showers, thank you very much. Sports jokes I will leave to professional columnists.

But I digress. I have now moved to a new place, a new job, a new city and a whole ‘nother way of looking at life through a big city lens.  When I was younger, I would beg to go on  roller coasters at amusement parks as soon I was tall enough to ride. (Nothing is more humilating than getting up to the line just to be rejected from riding because you’re too short. And your other friends are allowed to go on. Talk about a punch to the gut! It’s like seeing the man of your dreams in a bar and he hits on your friend instead). From down below on solid ground, roller coasters looked amazingly fun, exciting and thrilling. I felt that taking a ride on one would offer me a totally new perspective and also properly churn up in my stomach the ice cream and hot dog I had downed only an hour before. I would wait in line with my mom or dad, and the closer I would get to the front of the line, the heavier the hot dog would feel in my stomach. Suddenly, I didn’t want to go anymore.  Nausea would hit and I would get nervous and shaky. I kept saying to my mom “I don’t want to go anymore, I don’t want to go anymore. I changed my mind.” And my mother would say “Now, Leah, you begged me to stand in line and go on this ride with you. We are going. You got this far. Just try it.”  After being strapped in the car and the metal bars pressed against my non-existent chest, tears would well up in my eyes and the butterflies in my stomach suddently turned into eagles with wide wing spans. I would squeeze my eyes tight as the train of cars hitched up the track, inching closer and closer to the first drop. And suddenly, I would feel the drop and the sense of weightlessness it gave me as it zoomed into a loop and a double loop and then up and down another hill. When it was all over, I was laughing and no longer nervous. I would beg mom to go on again, but she declined, looking a little green around the gills.  I haven’t felt this feeling again until now. It was exciting at first, but then it became all too real. It hit me. I was moving. And not just across town. I was moving out of state, and away from a place I have called home for the past nine years.

I wanted to move to Boston about 8 years ago. In 2002, I looked at my then-boss and said “I’m giving you one  year here [at my current job], and then I’m out. I’m going to the big city.” And she just nodded, smirked, and said, “Okay.” Well, here I am. I was all set to go, and then God (or it could have been my BFF Carrie) grabbed the back of my shirt and said “Uh-uh. Not yet. You have some stuff to learn before I let you loose somewhere like Boston .” Funny how things work out that way. Because you see, without me realizing it, my chapter had only just begun at that point. My experiences in Syracuse can never be unwritten; my work, my students, (especially my students, God bless them) my romantic life, my friends. My friends! I sit here with a half-broken heart — excited to go, but bittersweet about who I will be leaving.  Best friends, past flames, family, students…it’s all what shaped me to be who I am today. And I’m postive that they have paved the way for me to get where I wanted to go in the first place.

This past month has been a whirlwind of emotion; excitement, anticipation, heartbreak, tears and goodbyes. Although, I’m never one to say goodbye. I always choose to say “see you later”. Goodbyes are such finalities! Even at funerals, I feel like saying ”goodbye” to the deceased still can pass for a “see you later”. Because, at some point, I’ll hopefully end up where they are and I can ask them how the pizza is or if the cutie on Cloud 9 is single (what? You don’t think people flirt in heaven?).  Every time I have experienced a long, drawn-out goodbye with someone, I end up bumping into them at the shopping mall two days later. And then, at that point, you kind of want to avoid them instead of going through the whole good bye process all over again. It’s a lot of work. And it’s a small world. Guaranteed, the people that you say goodbye to and wave a scarf out a train window at, you will see again sometime in your life. And often, it’s sooner than you think. Don’t assume that I have left not recognizing and appreciating what I have left behind. Au contraire. Again, those people and experiences have made me who I am. And let’s be frank. It’s what has made this blog.

Of course, God has a funny sense of humor. You would be surprised about who pops up right when you have sealed the tape on the box of CD’s, framed photos, and wine glasses. What timing when the ink isn’t even dry on your letter of resignation! And then, there is the fork in the road. You choose to take the path that has just suddenly been set and put in motion, but the forks that lie ahead of you is often what trips us up a bit. I ask myself, why can’t things just be cut and dry? Why, when someone has given me the opportunity to move forward, are there things that continue to draw us back a bit?  Have no doubt, I will have left with a clear mind and an open, albeit heavy, heart, but it’s not that the heart is without it’s mended seams. And those seams break  a bit. And just when you aren’t looking, a curveball is thrown your way…and makes you wish that the pitcher would choke on their own tobacco juice.

There is no doubt that I feel that a new city will not only bring a bright new job on the horizon – Ivy League, baby!- but, I would be kidding you all if I didn’t think that a big city also means more fish in the pond. However, the man upstairs always has a way of reminding me that I’m clearly not the one in charge around here. Regardless of what faith you may personally practice, I have tried to wrench the wheel from God a whole bunch of times. Doesn’t help. In fact, it only steers me further off my intended course. I can clearly see Him sighing with exasperation, saying “will you just please let me do this?” The time I have spent trying to figure out why things happen the way that they do, I could have spent that energy concentrating on the physics of splitting an atom. Wait, does an atom even have physics? See what I’m saying? I could be more knowledgeable on these things if I didn’t waste my time sitting around trying to figure out why people are put in our lives at the time that they are.

There have been times when I’ve thought; timing is everything. And there are times when I’ve thought; timing just sucks. The answer, I’m sure, is somewhere in between. If someone comes into my life right before a major life change, and makes me laugh, smile, feel safe in his arms and beautiful under the watchfulness of his warm eyes, …I give up wondering why the hell that happened. At some point, there is a method to all this madness. Perhaps it’s to show me the type of person I should be looking for in this bigger pond; perhaps it’s to simply demonstrate that it will happen when I least expect it. Perhaps its to test the boundaries of long distance. Or perhaps its just to show me that I’m capable of being loved again. And maybe that’s the biggest reason of all. Does there have to be a reason? Maybe the reason was to just allow myself to let go and enjoy myself. There was no pressure, no waiting around for him to call – cause let’s be clear, I have been packing, tying up loose ends up at work, saying my own shares of “see you laters”, there was no anxiety of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because, it already had. I was moving. And nothing was changing that. So anything that came after that, was completely up for both of us to grab. Mr. Right? I’m not sure. I’m not even sure if a  Mr. Right exists for any of us. However, I do know how I feel and how he made me feel. So let’s just call him Mr. Pretty Damn Close.

A week ago, I kissed Mr. Pretty Damn Close goodbye. I watched him walk down my steps and get into his car under the streetlamp on a street that is no longer my address. I saw him turn to look at me, wave and say “see you later”. I heard myself say “definitely”. Cause, you never know. You never know where the ride will take you next. But here’s a piece of advice; if you turn back and not take a chance, you will always wonder what if. And spending your life thinking about the what ifs are never as fun as the ride itself.

So, my friends, this blog continues; the spinning wheel spins. Stay with me in Boston, a place rich in history, culture and a love of their athletic teams. Buckle up; it will be fun! I promise. 

Leah A. Flynn, Copyright 2010

Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water; the case of An Innocent Man.

Jaws, 1975

 Here we are in the midst of summer…it’s hot, steamy and we  could all use a good swim in the ocean. Cue John William’s classic theme of Jaws as you dip  your feet into the cold Atlantic or Pacific or Mediterrean or wherever you may find yourself this summer.  But do it on your own accord and proceed with caution. Sweep your feet for jellyfish and keep watch for that tell-tale triangular fin that may appear in between the waves and catch you off guard when you least expect it. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you….  “Show me the way to go home…I’m tired and I want to go to bed…I had a little drink ’bout an hour ago and it’s gone right to my head”…suddenly, you hear a bell ringing in the distance, a yellow tank pops up, speeding along in the midnight black water and heading straight for…

Well, you get the picture.  The opening scene of Jaws continues to scare the living daylights out of  all of us.   The pure, guttural fear heard in the young woman’s screams as her lower half is shred to pieces is enough to have you cancel your week in the Cape and dial up the pool man instead. I much prefer to take my shark grilled with melted butter, instead of the other way around.  My mom was pregnant with me when the movie first came out in the theatres. It’s a wonder that that scene didn’t put her into labor right then and there.  Regardless of it being my favorite of movie of all time, I still believe that the ocean looks just lovely from my perch on a beach chair, toes dug firmly into the sand, thank you very much.

 

When I first sat down to write this blog, I was veering more towards talking about me getting back into the dating world the past couple of years, post heart ache (or two). Hence the first part of the title. However, the more I thought about it, the more I  think that sometimes I’m the killer shark rather than the innocent girl clinging to the buoy.  Billy Joel, another fave of mine, croons a classic called “An Innocent Man” http://www.lyrics007.com/Billy%20Joel%20Lyrics/An%20Innocent%20Man%20Lyrics.html, describing his frustration in trying to love someone that’s had her heart broken too many times; he sings “Some people stay far away from the door; If there’s a chance of it opening up; They hear a voice in the hall outside ;And hope that it just passes by ;Some people live with the fear of a touch ;And the anger of having been a fool ;They will not listen to anyone ;So nobody tells them a lie..” The song has often caused me pause.  The lyrics alone are smart (I mean, come on, it’s Billy Joel, DWI’s aside) and extremely honest. In a society where we often paint women as victims and men as heartless fools, we  forget to turn the tables around and consider the flip side of the coin. I mean, we’ve all got our baggage.  This I’ve made clear in past posts. And at some point, we’ve all got to unpack it and show someone it’s guts. That’s really the only way that a relationship can spark, and frankly, maintain itself.  Now, I’m not saying you have to pour your heart out on the first date; actually that is strongly not recommended.  Who wants to hear how often you think you’ve screwed up, or how someone else was a jerk, or that you’ve been pining away at home with your cats, all while trying to enjoy red wine and bruschetta. Yeah, no one.

But that’s not to say that you have to keep yourself closed off to sharing a bit about how you’ve gotten to where you are. And it’s not a bad thing.  We all have our stories to tell. However, I’ve recently discovered that I have been afraid to tell them – at least the ones that don’t involve me running tractors into barns or wearing a bikini at inopportune moments. Cause those are just funny. I’m talking about the more serious side of me. I think sometimes that if I just continue to be funny and easy-going, then the attraction will stay, right? No unnecessary drama, and I’ll not risk myself becoming vulnerable and saying something that might scare someone else away. Wrong.  In fact, the less that I reveal of myself – inner core and all – the more I turn into someone that I’m not. I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve, but as of late, I’ve clammed up when it comes to spilling my guts all over the dock.  And that’s just not who I am. I’m the one who will tell you my life story in a grocery store line; the one that becomes so passionately involved in a movie or a concert that I actually think that I’m on stage; the one that has never been afraid to say  “hey, I’m falling for you” or ” you know what? I think you’re pretty great”.  But I don’t find myself doing that much anymore. Only because I’ve mistaken unexpected responses for rejection. 

But, here I go anyway, heading back out into the dating world, and frankly, sometimes having no business being there, swimming into shallow waters and gobbling up people that I have no business flirting with.  Let’s be real; if I’m not ready to deal with the consequences, I should stick to plankton.  If I can’t focus on what I truly want from a relationship or what I’m even looking for, than I really shouldn’t start lining up the possibilities like it’s a dinner menu.  There’s been guys who have tried to date me; those who are emotionally available and who I choose to close myself off from.  Instead, I choose to prey on those in other states – geographically or emotionally, or sometimes, both.  Cause, that’s easier. It’s easier to get over someone who isn’t right in front of you.  It’s easy to head out of your own waters, and invade waters you shouldn’t.  This only lands me back to square one. And that’s with myself.  Someone that I’ve been afraid to face all along.  When did I forget how to actually talk to someone I’m interested in, to get past the surface talk, and actually get to the real deal of who I am?  We all think we are really good at doing this, until you look back on past conversations and realize, “you know, they really didn’t know me at all”. I mean, let’s be clear. With me, what you see is what you get. But at times, the inner core of my heart stays wrapped up tight, something that can only be revealed at the most intimate of moments. I’m not talking about sex here either; I’m talking about an intimacy that’s developed with someone where the other knows you so well that he/she can finish your sentence or be able to identify the pain in your eyes when you’ve been hurt or know when a hug is appropriate and a kiss is sometimes even better.  To, me intimacy has become a stranger, and something I’ve been pulling away from. A shark may be an animal with warm-blood running through it’s veins, but somewhere along the way, I’ve let mine grow cold.

There are plenty of “innocent men” out there (or women, whichever you prefer)… and it’s up to us to not let them stand up on the witness stand any longer than necessary.  Let’s give them a break; let’s give ourselves a break.  If we continue to close ourselves off to possiblities of true intimacy and the development of genuine relationships; where does that leave us? So what…we had our heart broken or have been let down a few times. That is nothing new. Shit happens. But let’s not make the mistake of setting our expectations about a potential someone in such an unrealistic manner that we instead continue to see the demise of it as rejection.  And no, I’m not talking about settling. I’m talking about being real.  Identifying what we want before we open our big fat Jaws and chomp away at something that we had no business chasing anyway. We can continue to bitch and moan about not having a date on Saturday night, or someone to go to a wedding with, or have as a golf partner…but really, when the finger points back to us, that’s when we need to swallow our pride and take a good look in the mirror.

I think about the song again; I think about how frustrated Billy is and actually, how tiring it  might be for the woman he’s singing to as well. It takes even more energy to hold back on revealing what’s made you you, than the energy it takes for letting it all hang out somewhere along the way. What’s the difference between shutting the door compared to keeping it open? If we constantly see ourselves as someone clinging to a buoy, then we’re bound to always be a victim.   My sister is always saying to me, “Just be yourself!” and i’m like “dammit, I am!” But now I know what she means. 

You might be the girl in the ocean, or the shark yanking on her foot. But for god sakes, if someone is taking a midnight swim, let em’ alone. Go pick on someone your own size. Better yet, go discover uncharted waters that you have yet to travel.  It may not include a  smorgasboard of  beachcombers that you were expecting, but it may be a whole ‘nother school of fish ready and waiting. Now that’s worth sinking your teeth into.
 

 

 Copyright 2010, Leah A. Flynn

 

America: The land of the free?

A few weeks ago, I ventured a hop, skip and a jump across “the pond” and onto Europe to visit a dear friend of  mine in Barcelona, Spain.  Beautiful country, beautiful people and beautiful food.  I believe I may have eaten my way through every pastry shop along my travels and  engorged myself on paella, pork sandwiches, cheese, bread and wine.  Let us not forget the cheap wine. AH! God - Barcelona is where you hide the cheap wine! And I thank you.  Hiding a sleeve of plastic cups in your friend’s man bag along with a long loaf of bread and a bottle of red wine (all essential travel items) as you pretend to play the tourist and not a shameless drunk as you teeter through alleys to take in old cathedrals, gothic architecture and tapas bars is the way to see this city, my friends. And let us also not forget the white sandy Mediterrean beaches.  Do you know that they sell cans of beer on the beach? Brilliant. Taking a 45 minute train ride after an afternoon of downing numerous cervezas? Not so brilliant. Especially when the bathroom is occupied the entire time.  Word of advice:  One with a full bladder should not walk about the train, particularly as it lurches to a sudden stop. It makes you miss your seat and mess your pants.  Remember, I have a knack for peeing my pants at inopportune times. (if you forgot that post, make sure to revisit “Grace is Overrated”).

But let’s talk about the beaches, shall we? In Barcelona, there are certain beaches where people wear only the clothes that the good Lord gave them.  It took me awhile to grow accustomed to this; I mean, let’s be clear, when I go to the gym locker room, I’m  still able to take my bra off without completely taking off my shirt; this act is usually done by facing the lockers, my back to others, one arm out of the sleeve, while I shimmy my bra off down the other and through its sleeve. Ta-da! No need to show everyone my boobs before they hit the Nautilus machines.  This is a handy trick all of us learn in  7th grade gym class. (although, I feel that the older you get, the less you care about this trick. I’ve seen a lot of 75 year old boobs at the gym. And it ain’t pretty.)   In any case, folks in Barcelona feel very free to walk around, their business hanging out while lounging on the beach, swimming in the ocean and reading a novel.  Frankly, I would find it challenging to get wrapped up in a book while my private bits are frying in the sun like they are on a grill at a 4th of July party.  And  bits I saw aplenty; it was like a bad car accident. You couldn’t at times pull your eyes away from the very exposed European “turtlenecks” or saggy parts meant to be held up by something other than gravity (and let me tell you, to an Irish-Catholic farm girl from Upstate, those anatonomical turtlenecks serve as quite a learning lesson).  Let’s not leave out the “twin” sets let loose from their “cardigan” bikini tops; that week I saw more Mary Kate and Ashleys than a rehab clinic. However, after a couple of days at the beach, I began to focus more on my tan and laughing with my friends than blinking an eye at the show around me. Although, at times, I have to be honest that I wish my eyes would have averted elsewhere, especially after raising my head from my magazine only to be eye level with something that looked more like it should behind a deli case rather than resting upon a beach towel. SUNBLOCK, people, SUNBLOCK!

But, I digress. On the other stretch of beaches, I  discovered other walks of life. Here, I found that Barcelona was full of lots of elderly couples. And these were not old couples that were being wheeled around in wheelchairs by hospice workers or hobbling along on canes.  These couples were walking hand in hand, stopping along the way to talk to friends, walking their dogs or simply watching the world go by. One evening, I found myself walking along the busy sidewalk that ran along the beachfront, taking in the the throngs of beach-goers savoring the day’s last bits of daylight, playing volleyball, splashing in the ocean or lounging in the sand.  Lining the sidewalk were dozens of benches that faced the beach, all full of mostly old couples sitting and watching the sun begin it’s descent into the ocean.  Some spoke to each other, some held hands, and some just sat together and  people-watched, watching children chase each other down the beach or groups of teenagers volley a ball over nets.  I watched them in wonder. As I watched them look out at the more younger generations enjoying the beach, I  saw them ignore the commotion and noise and instead focus on the calmness of the sea itself, the pure beauty of a sunset and basking in the glow of the many miles they’ve walked and the stories that the lines in their faces could tell. 

That’s what made me think about my own home country. In Barcelona, afternoon siestas are a daily ritual; food is an event that is enjoyed slowly and passionately; walking along city streets is leisurely and not rushed.  It made me think that this may be the recipe to youth; the savoring and enjoying moments of life instead of being rushed onto to the next thing. Slowing down is something that I believe Americans have lost sight of.  The opportunity to sit and take in a sunset, share a conversation with friends or to just let your thoughts become quiet can set more people free than the Declaration of Independence.  And I believe that is what truly propels, literally, these couples to get up every day and enjoy the moments of life instead of making themselves priosner to Wheel of Fortune and dinner on TV trays night after night.

So, I ask you my friends, are we truly the land of the free? Are we so free that in my hurry to pack and wrap up things at work by putting hours in overtime  (just so I can take a vacation) that I forgot to call one of my best friends from college on her birthday? Are we so free that we wolf in our food at our desks, in front of the TV or at the kitchen counter as we write bills or answer phone calls? Are we so free that we take cross-country business trips with our families and call it a vacation because the hotel and food is paid for?  Are we so free that our country has made us afraid to show anyone who we really are so we instead hide our selves in closets and under sweaters?

Maybe it would take a huge cultural overhaul to get Americans to slow down, take naps in the afternoon and breathe in fresh air for a moment or two.  Or maybe it should just be as simple as turning off our phones, our televisions, our laptops and sitting and just being.  To take the hands of the ones we love for a stroll on a Monday evening, to throw out a blanket in our backyard and count the stars or to enjoy a pastry without having to balance it between the steering wheel and styrofoam cup of coffee.  Every day, night after night, the sun, the ocean, the people…they are all still there. The sun will always rise and set, the ocean will break its waves upon the shore and the people will continue to either choose to ignore and rush past nature’s consistent moments or instead choose to sit on a bench for a moment and take it all in for the simple beauty that it provides.

To be truly free is to not to take for granted.  Whatever life hands you each day, you have a choice to either embrace it or ignore it.  To be able to embrace is a gift, to ignore is a shame.  Both take the same energy. So let’s embrace, shall we? For one day, let’s try to take a moment to tune out the noise and turn off distractions.  To plan our next vacation. To make a meal slowly and deliberately.  To walk to instead of drive to.  To take back the personal freedoms that our country is held accountable for.  To count our blessings. 

And  to do all of that, you can still keep your top on.  Ole`!

Leah A. Flynn, Copyright 2010

Hell hath no fury like a cougar scorned.

Recently, I met up with a gentlemen friend - or a handsome companion, if you will – not too long ago at a local watering hole. This friend, we’ll call him “Jersey”, not because he’s from the state, but because he’s all of the fist-pumping good time that you can imagine packed into his Gold’s Gym toned body and thousand-watt smile. When someone is also a fan of “X-Treme Tanning” on Facebook, there’s also a pretty good chance that this guy could rival those loveable characters of Jersey Shore. But…he’s entertaining.  And he also happens to attract cougars like flies to berry pie.

Now, I’m not talking about cougars like the actual animal. No, my friends, I’m speaking of the term we affectionately give women between the ages of 40-50 that take their boyfriends in sizes below the age of 30.  Now, you have to hand it to these women…they like what they see and know what they like. Haven’t older men been chasing younger women around for years? So what if the tables have turned and these women enjoy hanging around with their younger counterparts once in awhile? It’s all in the name of fun…right? …

So this one evening I met up with Jersey for a couple of drinks. Here we were enjoying ourselves, him cracking jokes about my dress (I was a little overdressed as I had come from a wedding reception — -what? Like you’re supposed to go home after those?)  and me shaking my head at him in wonder at the diamond stud he wore in his ear (“Really, Jers? REALLY???? A diamond stud? Are you in a boy band now?”) and then, out of nowhere, this older woman approaches him and grabs his arm. She announces that she is ready to leave, and apparently she assumes that so is he. He ignores her. I look at him with an amused look on my face…apparently this bar didn’t get it’s nickname “The Cougar Den” for nothing.  He also ignored my look.  She continued to pull at his arm and he continued to face the other way. I tried to not stare and get caught up in what I felt like for sure was going to turn into an episode of Dallas.  Clearly frustrated by him ignoring her, she took one look at me in my strapless dress and high heels and then said to him – still not taking her eyes off of me -  “What’s THIS all about?”. Uh-oh. I could imagine my eyes growing wide. I felt like the loud music that had been pumping out of the speakers suddenly came to a screeching halt.  Jersey continued to not respond…not even when “Cougar” got right in his face, yelling and calling him all sorts of names.  He kept nodding, mumbling “whatever” under his breath, his back still turned to her. Well, Jers, that’s where you probably made your first – and last – mistake. Don’t ever underestimate the power.  Cougar proceeded to pick up an entire full bottle of beer from a nearby table and  pour it directly over the unsuspecting head of Jersey.  NOW the bar was really paying attention. Still facing away, he turned to the bartender and politely asked for a towel as beer dripped down his face, off the tip of his nose, and onto his polo. Cougar, in a huff, turned on her heel and stomped out, not without her first wishing me well with Jersey.

Folks, there’s not many occasions where I’m speechless. But I gotta tell you. I had no words for this.  Jersey turned to me and said “That’s the first time someone ever poured a drink on me! I can’t believe she did that! She’s crazy!!” And I responded, “Really? Really? Because you kind of strike me as the kind of guy that might get a drink or two poured over his head once in awhile”.  He just looked at me and glared while I had a good laugh at his disposition.  These are one of those times where I ask myself “How do I get myself into these situations?” and also a time where I tell myself “Damn – you can’t MAKE UP this stuff!”.  (just as an FYI, this blog post will be immediately followed by a phone call from my mother (after reading the post) who will lecture me on the dangers of getting myself into such situations, etc., etc. who are these people that you hang out with, etc. etc., why do you go to such places, etc.etc.etc.  Remember me putting my face in the rye-dip bowl years ago at a New Years Eve party? My mom gave me a ten minute lecture on that last month. And it happened in like 2002).

Well, we’ve all been there, haven’t we? We’ve all been in Cougar’s position where, with our most dramatic flair, we would like to throw a drink in someone’s face. Punching or hitting just won’t do. There’s something immensely satisfying about actually taking a drink and pouring it on someone. A punch lasts a second…but you can drag out a good drink pouring over someone to last at least 30 seconds.  But it’s got to be at that right moment. You also have to be particular about what you are wearing for such occasion…or how you do your hair. Take for instance when I was a bridesmaid in Carrie’s wedding. I asked for the “up-do” for my hair to have more “volume” and not to be stretched back to the point where my eyebrows ended up in their own zipcode. Well, the hairdresser gave me volume alright. She pulled my hair up into such a bouffant do’ that I gained a few inches. I walked over to where Carrie was getting her hair done, and she looked at me and said without skipping a beat,  ”What, are we on Dynasty? You look like you’re going to throw a drink in someone’s face or push someone into a pool”. I had to admit, my hair was a little big.  I didn’t throw a drink in someone’s face that evening, but I bet no one would bat an eyelash if I did. It would go along with the territory.

I wasn’t entirely surprised that Cougar poured a drink on Jersey. He probably had it coming. And let’s be clear – she probably had a few years too many of taking  B.S. from men. Cougar had reached her boiling point. In your early 20′s you’re still all apologetic and forgiving when guys pull the wool over your eyes…but when you get a little older and wiser, you suddenly realize that getting shoveled lines of manure by guys in their late 20′s who tan for a hobby and work out 10 times a week, isn’t so fun anymore. In fact, it makes you draw a pretty clear line of what you are able to take. And you make sure that at that line, your drinks are lined up.  A slap won’t do in this case. Nope.  A good old fashioned drink throwing says so much more. It says, “not only am I going to ruin your clothes, but I’m going to make you smell like the trash that I think you are” or something dramatic like that.  And you need to announce a phrase like this – not just say it -, with your chin in the air. After the drink throwing, it is also imperative that you leave the establishment immediately. Who sticks around after pouring a drink on someone? You had a dramatic entrance, you need to make a dramatic departure. And that departure should come quickly and leave people guessing. 

I think it’s safe to say that Jersey probably didn’t learn his lesson. But Cougar made her point. And she made it publicly. Now, I’m not advocating for this kind of behavior or that this is a good way to solve conflicts. (that would be a messy and expensive way of always expressing your anger). But, once in awhile, there’s a time and place that calls for a little public humiliation, nothing hurtful, but just enough to make a statement. Cougar didn’t look like the crazy woman Jersey made her out to be — I mean, she wasn’t the one standing in the middle of the bar with beer dripping off of her face and clothes. But, unfortunately for me, I was still standing next to him. And I had no idea why.

Sometimes we lose our way. We think someone’s attractive and fun and we get caught up in the moment of loving that kind of attention by someone we know that’s always been good at giving it.  Deep in the back of our brains, where we are able to store the unthinkables and the things we don’t want to face, is where our sensibilities about guys like Jersey live. We don’t want to believe that he’s giving these flattering lines out to others and that we’re just another pretty girl for him to buy a drink. But sometimes, we are steered back on track by someone completely  out of the blue, making her own statement but clearly sending us an intentional message. Cougar’s was clear. And…where ever you are out there,thank you. The Jersey’s and “Mr. Right Now’s” of the world may be fun for awhile, but I’m still figuring out how to draw my own lines and call them how I see them. Sometimes it takes our fellow females — younger (and I have my good friend “Lolita” to thank for her advice) or older – to line up our drinks for us at that line. And, also to carry a big “up-do”. Cause, you know, the higher the hair, the closer to God.

Plus…I say a drink always looks much classier sitting in your hand than poured over your head.

Leah A. Flynn, Copyright 2010