Levitate Above

My back is killing me from leaning in.  What can I say?  My hearing isn’t what it used to be…

If you know me, you know I have something to add to all the discussion and debate lately about “Leaning In” and “Why Women Still Can’t Have It All.”

First off, big shout out to the women of the C-Suite:  Melissa, Meg, Sheryl, and my own boss, Margery, etc., etc. (the list is not as long as it should be).  Here’s to your Mt. Everest accomplishments and burning desire to change the world for the women warriors of the work force. We need more of you and more of us doing what you do. 

But, to be honest, if I had to navigate today’s knowledge worker economy, I’d be in real trouble.  Few middle-class kids can afford the unpaid, high-powered internships which are the price of entry for grads today – and where many young pros meet their first real mentors.

I think more middle-income women have an experience a bit closer to mine-- and boy were my “internships” unimpressive (waitress at Porky’s Clam Bar, anyone?).  By the way, most big companies don’t give out entry-level positions for being a really terrific mother’s helper; although that’s probably a more telling marker for future success in business than you might think.

As I reflect on my coming of age during the bloom of 70s Feminism, which arguably changed our country and the world more than most events or social movements of the last century, and consider the pros and cons of all arguments around today’s feminism or lack thereof, I guess I’m a bit ambivalent. This is a tough economy, these are tough issues, and women who need and want to work are really struggling to build careers of meaning and substance.

Here’s my ah-ha moment for the day, however:  The secret sauce for success, in my opinion – the thing that makes it possible for the largest percentage of working women to progress in today’s hugely competitive environment -- is the ability to “levitate above.” 

Because that’s what most women in the real world have to do. We have to consciously fight the gravity field weighted down by forces of the “dark side” and float above it: fear, performance anxiety, politics, prejudice, more privileged peers, pay inequality, family responsibilities, economic distress, age, physical limitations, boredom…stop me before I sound like a socialist.

We have to be detached enough to not take it personally and focus on the work so that we perform that work with pride and commitment and gratitude for the opportunity and the paycheck. 

To levitate above is to make the pragmatic choice.  It may not get you in the C- Suite with the tech titans, but it can feed a family of four and present unexpected opportunities for those who are willing to trust their own instincts, talents and perseverance.  It can force you to detach enough to think bigger, be more innovative, and just perhaps, explore challenging opportunities of your own making.

In a happy coincidence, David Brooks and I seem to be leaning – or levitating – in the same direction today.  In his New York Times column, he argues for the value of “detached” writing about politics and policy.  Couldn’t agree more!  He too believes that detachment better affords the more lasting impact -- to plant the seed and creatively explore underlying concepts and realities surrounding an idea. Ultimately more fun, that. 

Three cheers for those who have the intelligence, energy, youth, connections and fierce ambition to do the “leaning in.” Again, we need you.  But I think I’ll hang with the gals who seek to levitate above.  I can learn more up there.

Pollen Count

Welcome to spring and the coughing, watery eyes and ticklish throats caused by that wonderful yellow stuff from flora and fauna.

My spring allergies are certainly in bloom right now and all the over-the-counter remedies are useless:  I’ve moved through Claritin to Allegra and now to Zyrtec, but I’m still producing semi-automatic rounds of sneezing and hacking coughs that sound tubercular.

In the spirit of the season, and while I pop a lozenge into my mouth – Halls Sugar Free Citrus seems to be the only thing that helps this time of year – I thought I’d share with you a short list of things (n no particular order) that give me hives and other allergic reactions at this moment in time:

·         Anything having to do with Justin Bieber.  Please god, can’t he just go to college already?

·         Twitter.  I’m sorry, I just don’t get it.

·         Conan O’Brian at the White House correspondents’ dinner.  I’m sorry, I just don’t get him.

·         Mitch McConnell – Mr. President, I wouldn’t have a drink with him either.

·         Nicki Minaj, my darlings.

·         Ryan Seacrest.  In fact, anything having to do with American Idol this season.

·         Fox News.

·         My 401 K balance. Enough said.

·         Cancellation of Nashville or Smash, my only 2 reasons for still watching network TV.

·         The reality that one day I’ll have to stop 2-process coloring my hair.

What’s on your list?

 

MrsSedd@Sixty: Rockin' the 80s

MrsSedd@Sixty: Rockin' the 80s: Today was ‘80s dress-up day at my daughter’s school.   Crimped hair kept in place with a fat headband featuring a floppy bow…Madonna fin...

Rockin' the 80s

Today was ‘80s dress-up day at my daughter’s school.  Crimped hair kept in place with a fat headband featuring a floppy bow…Madonna fingerless gloves…a “Flashdance” shirt and leggings...yup, my daughter nailed her 80s look as she headed out the door this morning.

Remember the 80s? Those were the days for me of big, bad hair, big shoulders, a skinny waistline and skinnier paychecks, bad economics, Reaganistas, and really disappointing boyfriends. 

My husband probably would say it was a decade of crappy music, too, but I don’t think so….just consider The Joshua Tree, Purple Rain and Thriller, the Clash and Born in the USA.  Madonna shook things up and David Byrne made existential, suburban crisis cool and hummable.

It was the decade of my first grown-up acquisitions:  A stripped down Nissan Sentra with vinyl seats and a stick shift that my former high school boyfriend taught me to drive on the 495 Beltway around Washington…terrifying.  I bought my first home for $28,000, a 375-square-foot co-op efficiency in a roach-infested building in Rosslyn, VA.   And my first little mink jacket (sorry, PETA fans, but I do love fur) came from SEARS of all places for $400. 

Some of the big ‘80s cultural icons are back in favor now, believe it or not.  Composer Cyndi Lauer has a huge Broadway hit on her hands, and a stage version of Flashdance isn’t far behind.   The dysfunctional Ewings are shaking up Dallas once again, in a revival produced by my former Hollywood neighbor from late 70s. 

Everything old is new again, which is always kind of fun.  Since starting this blog, I’ve heard from folks I haven’t heard from – or seen, for that matter – in more than 25, 30 or more years.  Since….the 80s, that’s right.

On his 80s single, “Boys of Summer,” Don Henley sang that you can never look back, but I disagree.  As I do so now, I think it was a pretty consequential period in my life --  the time when I finally accepted adulthood.  The true beginning of my career.  The start of some wonderful, enduring friendships and the loss of others.   

During the course of those 10 years, I started to morph into the person I am today.  What a feelin’. 

Next stop,  Graceland.  But NOT for a good long time to come, I hope.

Corner Office

Today is “Take Your Child to Work Day” and I was a little stunned when my daughter expressed interest in coming to the office with me.  In the past when I’ve tried to explain to her what I do in my “other” job, her eyes would glaze over and she’d shrug and turn her attention back to texting or TV.

In fact, it’s been quite a while since she’s even seen my office, but boy what a difference 4 years make.  Her eyes widened when she entered our big, gleaming white office lobby with its large reception desk, multiple LED screens and spacious conference rooms.  When we passed behind the security door into the inner sanctum where the real work spaces are, she saw people typing away furiously at their desktop computers and whispered, “Wow, they’re working already.”

I walked her around the hallways so she could be re-introduced to my buddies --old timers at my company, like me, who’d last seen her when she was 38 inches tall, if that -- and new kids on the block, cool-looking young women and men dressed like the ambitious, early career professionals they are.

We went to my office – which is pretty large compared to others and not a cubicle for no other real reason than longevity at this point – and she nodded approvingly.  “Nice, Mom.”

And then I noticed our CEO standing in the hallway outside her office and I waved at her to stay put for a minute (which is hard to do because when she’s not in a foreign country on business, she’s in a meeting, in transit to a meeting or on a conference call).  I grabbed my daughter and we raced down the hall to the boss’ corner office.

My daughter extended her hand (when did she learn to do that?) and said to my CEO, “It’s so nice to meet you again,” followed by a dazzling smile and an appreciative nod: “You have a really beautiful office.”

She’s right.  My CEO’s work space is large, sunny and well-appointed, befitting a woman of her considerable accomplishments.  I’ll confess:  I was deeply pleased that my daughter was impressed with the corner office because it will help me to slowly, quietly but consistently remind her to always see her possibilities in new ways – as the leader of a company, the director of a music video, the vet, the teacher, or the owner of her own small business. 

When we went back to my office, which isn’t as beautiful or as grand as my CEO’s space but is filled with photos of my delightful child and quite comfortable to me, she said as if I needed to hear it, “I like your office too, Mom.”  While the size or décor of one’s office is hardly the measure of a women or man, it can be one small but tantalizing clue to the resident’s aspirations for their life.

I know the years ahead will deliver challenges and some tough lessons, to be sure.  And the corner office may not be in my daughter’s future, but here’s hoping that she’ll define and navigate her own successful path to her own “corner office” – whatever that looks like -- with courage, caring and self-confidence.

MrsSedd@Sixty: Flexitarianism

MrsSedd@Sixty: Flexitarianism: When I quit smoking at 52 – yes, I know, way past the time when I should have – I knew that weight control would be a struggle for the r...

Flexitarianism

When I quit smoking at 52 – yes, I know, way past the time when I should have – I knew that weight control would be a struggle for the rest of my life.  At the same time, though, I really came to love cooking in a way that I never had before:  Maybe it was because I now had the responsibility of feeding a child, or maybe it was because I always felt hungry, but on Thursday nights, I’d slough off the work week’s worries by cooking something modestly challenging or, at minimum, chopped, with the aid and inspiration of a new recipe.

I also became an avid cookbook and cooking magazine reader.  And, although I usually found the recipes too obscure and difficult, I became a devotee of the New York Times food section. 
So, for you foodies out there, check out a new food column in today’s NYT called, “The Flexitarian.”

The flexitarian is a “moderate, conscious eater” of food with a tilt toward veggies, grains, legumes, fruits, fish and, occasionally, meat.  Neither a vegetarian nor an omnivore, the flexitarian -- in the words of NYT food columnist Mark Bittman -- knows he needs “to eat better” but wants that food to be tasty. 

After making the case for his columns to come, Bittman starts us off slowly today with fairly simple recipes for pasta with clams, vanilla-fruit smoothies and chopped salad with “salted” veggies (although those with blood pressure problems may have to go in another direction).  Anyway, it all sounds pretty yummy to me with dishes that satisfy even the most discriminating palate (husband, sometimes picky kid).

I thought I’d bring this to your attention for a few reasons:  1) It's a sensible approach to eating, and who doesn’t need that? 2) Bittman’s recipes seem like they can work for cooks who don’t have gourmet kitchens, or juicers, or 3 different sizes of food processors and 3) because I like the word and what it connotes:  Someone willing to embrace change through better habits.  Someone willing to move past “dogma” in order to be “well-informed.” 

But I don’t think it needs to stop there.  Flexitarianism can be a whole new point of view that not only helps to improve my diet but informs other parts of my life:  Like taking up yoga, joining a book club, refusing to engage in extreme political arguments or buying Rosetta Stone to relearn the French of my high school and early college days, among many, many other things.

Cool.  Call me a flexitarian.

 

 

Bad Behavior

Reese Witherspoon and her husband clearly had a few too many cocktails when out on the town Sunday evening.  Her husband was driving erratically enroute home, and when a cop signaled him to the side of the road on suspicion of DUI, the Oscar-winning actress pulled a Diva move and started harassing him (“Do you KNOW who I am?”).  Well, not one to be bullied by a movie star who hasn’t had a good film in some time, the law man hauled Ms. Witherspoon and hubby to the hoosegow for glamour “perp” shots and a booking. 

 Demonstrating how well aware of who she is she was, Ms. Witherspoon quickly issued a Monday morning apology by confessing to “one drink too many” and her subsequent deep embarrassment.  She’s married to her manager, so she obviously understands the cost of misjudging the special alchemy that exists between performers and their audience.  While we may admire, for example, the acting technique of a young Jennifer Lawrence or the chameleon-like Daniel Day Lewis, what we really applaud is when they stumble to the podium because of an impossibly poofy gown, or are funny and self-deprecating about their “mythic” talent when they’re handed the Oscar.

This is a painful lesson that poor Matt Lauer has had to relearn every day since Ann Curry shed her final “Today Show” tear.  This too is the sacred compact with the public that Mitt Romney never fully grasped:  Americans loath arrogance and will turn away when they sense it.  Likeability, however, sells lots of tickets, wins blue and red states, and dominates ratings.  Not a deep insight, I know, but important to keep in mind if you need the public to care about you.

I suspect, however, Ms. Witherspoon also knows that Americans love to forgive.  (Matt Lauer is hoping that’s true while being forced to endure on-air auditions with replacement candidates like Ryan Seacrest.  Humbling experience.)

We are a nation of second chances and triumph over adversity or weakness.  So look for Reese Witherspoon to engage her public in the right way, with just the right amount of self-deprecation once the shame passes and the reality of her next movie’s imminent opening forces her to sit down with David Letterman, the only late night host with the right mix of checkered past, smarty-pants knowingness and sixty-something gravitas to be truly worthy of her regret.  If she’s smart (and I think she is), she’ll mean it when she says, “Oh Dave, boy I’m really sorry I was such a [BLEEP].” 

As for Matt Lauer, the jury’s out.

Bad Juju

Shortly before her 7^th birthday, our daughter started to press her case for having a puppy because she knew a sibling was out of the question. I was 100 percent in support of the idea and my wonderful husband, who loves dogs but doesn't love walking them, caved in to his women and found an adorable, award-worthy, blue blooded Shit-Zhu for our family.

Her parents were champions, but Shasha was barely a pound of hair and scaredy-cat love:  She shivered and shook when we peeled her away from her guardian breeders and brought her home, thinking she could walk on a little leash, but quickly learning that this girl was for carrying. 

One year in, we had her spayed along with a little nip and tuck on a tiny hernia that is common with little dogs.   

Six months later, we had the “bad juju” event. 

It was early June and one day Shasha just stopped walking.  And peeing and pooping.  We raced her to the vet and numerous tests later, we learned that she had a crimped bowel, that a necrosis was setting in, and that she could die if we didn’t have immediate open-dog surgery.  Because with little dogs, it’s all or nothing. 

And then , there was the discussion of the bill.  $2000 for the tests.  Nearly $6000 for the surgery.  Ugh.

But of course, she was family.  We did what we needed to do.  I handed our puppy over to the godlike young vet who would cut her open.  And he found…. 

NOTHING.  Not a crimp.  Not a necrosis.  Nada.  Zip.  Zero. 

But she miraculously FELT BETTER.  Of course, she needed lots of expensive drugs to get over the trauma to her system and she had to wear that crazy cone to keep from licking and chewing at her stiches, but she was our Shasha – a little older, a little wiser perhaps, but still our fur-ball of unconditional love. 

After a week of recovery, I took her to the vet for her post-op exam and he  confessed his surprise at finding her organs and intestines as they should be. And he said, “Sometimes you just have to open them up and get out the bad juju.” 

There's a life lesson in that statement:  While it may seem easier to carry on with a bad situation, nasty old stuff only gets worse. Confronting demons doesn't make them disappear, but staring them in the face usually produces some small amount of closure, some decision-making, some peace of mind.  

At this stage of life that just feels right to me. I see friends grappling with the changes that seem to come with turning 60 - in relationships with spouses or kids, or with their jobs, their finances or their own health - and it's hard to change. But I also see them solving problems instead of whining about them, putting one foot in front of the other, making plans, leaning forward.  

They're opening themselves up and clearing out the bad juju. And that's a beautiful thing.

Boston, Bombs and Birthdays

In many ways the birthplace of America, Boston doesn’t take its enemies lightly – from Redcoats to Mafia to baseball rivals.  And more than any recent episode of CSI, today’s events in Boston demonstrate that this city is dogged and relentless in its pursuit of justice.

Justice won’t replace arms or legs or feet destroyed by a bomb, of course, but it does demonstrate that this country is –always – dedicated to rule of law enforced by brave, selfless individuals who, for their private reasons and the greater good, are driven to protect life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. 

In that spirit, I will close today’s post by saluting life… the messy, wonderful, unpredictable life which goes on in the face of manhunts, unhappy clients, political unrest, grumpy spouses and children, and misguided young men who choose terror over comity.

There are 2 very important birthdays for me to celebrate today and tomorrow…our sweet puppy Shasha, who today is a middle-aged 6 years of age, and my beautiful and brilliant niece Laura, whose sweetness, intelligence, compassion and dedication to those she loves augur well for the next generation of my family’s human experience.

More about Laura and Shasha to come.  And now, with the rest of the world, I’ll return my attention to Boston.

   

Star Spangled Girl

It’s been a tough week for the country.  The Boston bombing is a vivid reminder that when terrorists wish to infect your life with their sinister brand of hatred and fear they can do it easily enough.  Ricin-laced mail for the Odd Couple targets of a Democratic President and Tea Party Mississippian  – even if a faux threat – underscores the low thrum of unease lurking in the aftermath of  Boston.  Add to this week's toxic stew a little fertilizer, a big explosion and a decimated town in West Texas; the slavish devotion of 46 Senators to the United States of NRA;  and gloom and doom on Wall Street after the YTD reassuring rally -- all enough to make you think that, darn it, life is getting scarily unpredictable again (even if it really has been all along).

 

This bad karma led me to a momentous 6am decision:  Time to pull out the sparkly, powder blue sweater set for today's work ensemble.  Tiny round, silvery blue sprinkles  on soft, inexpensive cashmire from Talbot's -- the perfect thing for a bus ride to the Atlantic City casinos if I was retired, desperate, or had the inclination.  Ok, on me it's a bit matronly, but that makes it age-appropriate.  I was alluring enough, however, for the security guard at his marble desk in the marble atrium of my company’s office building to smile and wink his approval when I twirled through the revolving door this morning in all my gleaming glory.   

Yup, I needed a little bit of glitter to dispel the gloom of the last few days.  A small gesture of defiance.

 

So, for today, I am a star spangled girl in my twinkly twin set wearing my own little flag-wave and affirmation that tough times pass, bad guys get caught and punished, and the powerful forces of reason and love usually, ultimately prevail.  

 

 

Dizzy Dame

One June morning, about three months after my marriage at the ripe middle-age of 46, I sat up in bed -- and immediately flopped backward, my head spinning madly. I thought I was dying.  I couldn't sit, I couldn't lie down, I couldn't eat.  All I could do was "spin."

So began my  relationship with vertigo, an unrelenting dizziness that most doctors believe is caused by an inner ear problem.  It is considered to be mostly benign and short-lived  (unless, of course, it's associated with a stroke or brain tumor, in which case the patient is likely to be short-lived) but it is neither.

For me, vertigo has hovered like a guilty conscience for nearly 14 years.  Some days, it's relatively mild, and after a wobbly walk from the bed to the bath, clutching onto walls and furniture in an attempt to remain upright, my brain course-corrects enough so I can power through the day ahead in a perfectly normal manner.  Other times, however, my brain feels like a dervish, whirling away while my stomach lurches in response.

I've had all the tests and many of the treatments you can have:  The claustrophobic MRI and auditory neurological exams ruled out the tumor, the stroke, the Meniere's Disease.
The neurologist said what I have is "situational."

My situation is "middle age."  And I'm stunned by the number of women in my age group whom I've come to learn suffer from this condition too.

I think we need to organize:  Dizzy Dames Demand a Cure. Join me.  Or if you've found a cure, share it with me.

A Day Like Any Other...

Four months into my 60th year on the planet I've decided to blog...to write about the next act in my life...the joy and challenge of being the mother of a 12-and-a-half year-old daughter...the life of a wife...and the curiosity of a kid who's at the beginning of the 6th Decade.  So, for today, which is a day like most others at work and at home, I'll be brief as I figure out my path through social media, social security, and senior citizenship.  Hope someone will join me on the journey.  I know you're out there.