Diane Mierzwik

November 29, 2009

It began some eighteen years ago one morning when I came into the kitchen to grab a bowl of Cheerios before heading off to teach eighth graders the virtues of avoiding dangling modifiers when my husband asked, “Are you wearing that to work?”

I was seven months pregnant. Having barely shown the first six months, I hadn’t bought any maternity clothes and had scoffed the offering of friends with infants, choosing instead to simply wear large, long shirts and elastic waist band pants.

“I was. Why?”

“No reason. Just wondering.”

I scampered back to our bedroom and took a long look at myself and decided I looked fine, great actually, given my pregnant status and headed out for work, unaffected by my husband’s question, except to wonder what bug had crawled up his butt that morning.

Three short years later, a cherub of a ninth grader asked me during a loll in the invigorating discussion of multiple pronoun and verb agreement, how old one was when “they” began to quit worrying about how “they” looked. Immediately I took purview of my outfit: tennis shoes, blue pants, matching blue sweater over a contrasting turtle neck with my hair poofed out to rival Miss America’s during the gown walk. Obviously he wasn’t talking about me.

“I don’t know. Who is ‘they’?”

I always told myself I would age with grace. But, that has proven to be like the time I told myself I could give up chocolate for a year, even betting my neighbor a hundred bucks I could do it. Albert caught me at Valentine’s, after I had been eating chocolate for five of the six weeks since New Year’s. I have yet to cough up that hundred bucks either.

And so it is that with alarming regularity, my teenage sons asks, “Are you wearing that out?”

I look in the mirror and think I look fine, no, that’s a lie. I think I look fabulous, not a day over 24 and still weighing my marriage weight of 112.

I keep wondering where the disconnect is? What does he see? What do I see?

And so, I think I am suffering, more severely now than 18 years ago, from reverse dysmorphia. I look in the mirror and see a woman who looks fabulous, even in a bikini, while my husband offers to pay for a tanning salon conveniently located at the local gym. “I could throw in a gym membership, on me, if you’re interested,” he calls after me as I sashay to my lounge chair without wrapping my towel around my waist as all the other middle aged wives tastefully do.

I’m not sure how to combat this disease, and I’m convinced it is an epidemic. Just yesterday, I stood behind a woman in the grocery store who still wore her hair in a beehive. Oh, but for the grace of God… except when I caught a snatch of the movie When Harry Met Sally the other day, I have the exact haircut as Meg Ryan did in the 80’s.

“But it still looks good on me, right?” I ask my husband who tells me of course it does because he hopes to get lucky later.

The only time things seem clear to me is when I see pictures of myself and think, “Wow, am I that wide?” Then I remember – the camera adds 15 pounds. Still, I avoid the scale.

Perhaps being diagnosed with reverse dysmorphia isn’t such a bad thing after all. I mean, really, who could go bravely into their mid-forties without some slight suffering of delusions. Graying hair, sagging skin, pouchy skin, creaky bones all look better in candlelight or in the flickering light of those delicious misperceptions.

This week, I will age gracefully, even if it means going against what I believe the mirror is telling me and listening to my teenage son when he gives me fashion advice.

November 22, 2009

I spent the day reviewing chapters of a book I’m working on that I had taken to my critique group over the past year. I know most of the members of the group are dutiful and embrace or reject the suggestions and edits soon after we meet. I, on the other hand, have my own system. I stick the pile of papers in a filing cabinet drawer, until I have “time”.

Today, I decided I had “time”. I never really have “time” any more. I just prioritize. I give up one thing to do another. Today, instead of working in the yard and enjoying the gorgeous fall day, I sat at my desk and went through my critique buddies’ marks and suggestions and reworked chapter after chapter after chapter.

It reminded me of a time when I did have time – high school. I was on a week long trip with my church group to the river. One evening as the sun set, my friends and I were hanging out at the river’s edge, talking about important things – like who should play us in a movie about us!

But things did turn serious when the talk turned to an absent friend and how that person could imporve himself. “If only he would…” the conversation went. All I could think was, I wonder what they say about me when I’m not around. So I asked. “If you could improve one thing about me, what would it be?”

Mostly everyone looked mortified. Some laughed nervously. “No, seriously!” I implored. Still nothing.

In his book, “Biology of Belief”, Dr. Bruce Lipton puts forth the thesis that we are run by 40 million subconscious tracks and are only able to hold 40 conscious thoughts at a time. The argument goes that changing who were are is difficult – like a million to one difficult.

It reminded me of that day so long ago when I asked my friends about things I do, things they thought should be changed that I was probably not even aware of because the choice was being made by my subconscious mind, not the conscious one.

No one would answer for a long time. I persisted until Charles, bless his heart, had the courage to say, “Now, don’t take this wrong…”

“What? Tell me.”

“You promise you won’t get mad?”

“Of course.”

“When you think you are right, there is no telling you otherwise. You are stubborn to the point of being stupid … sometimes.”

“Really? Give me an example.” Of course I couldn’t be happy with the idea, I also needed proof. And, of course, I have completely forgotten the proof – but I do remember the point.

To this day, 27 years later, I still think of Charles and how brave he was to tell me one of those subconscious things I do that I’m not even aware of.

And today, as I was reviewing my notes from my critique buddies, I was also impressed by how brave they are.

Writing requires a person to be very vulnerable on the page. The fact that I have a group of writing buddies who trust me with their first drafts and who are willing to force my dark, dank first drafts into the light is a gift. We writers know that the subconscious often shows up on the page unbeknowst to us but quite obvious to our readers.

The subconscious will do everything it can to evade being exposed – through ego, through humor, through tears, through anger, but when the subterfuge is finally ended, my writing is better for it.

I’d like to say that I no longer am stubborn about whether or not I’m right since this is one subconscious track brought to the light so many years ago, but I’d be fibbing. I can tell you that I try, really I try, to listen to the other side of an argument, to accept that memory is fallible and to agree to disagree when I really can’t let something go.

So at the end of a long day of revisions I am so thankful for my writing buddies, and for Charles! May I be blessed with more people in my life who are willing to point out how I might be self-sabatoging through subconscious subterfuge – when invited. Really, wait to be asked. Really!

This week, I will try to improve my odds of 1 to a million for making changes in my life.

November 15, 2009

Have you ever tried to grab a fistful of water? It doesn’t work. The only way to gather water is to cup your hands, not grab at it.

I’ve been told that catching success is the same – you can’t grab at it. But you do have to find water before you can even cup your hands to catch it.

So I have committed myself to learning as much as possible about being successful – trying to emulate the masters.

It’s easy to do the basic things – positive thinking, creating appropriate fung shei and nurturing a money tree.

There are other more technical things you can try – and I have.

In 2005, with the publication of my first books, I took a course about how to make your book an Amazon bestseller. The jist of the course was to get as many people as possible to buy your book on one day by offering freebies if people order the book on that one day. You spend several months preparing for that one day – lining up your freebies, getting a mailing list and preparing your website for advertisement. Then the official day comes.

I got very little sleep the night before. Woke up early to begin tracking my progress. I stumbled to my office and found my money tree in the middle of the floor, leaves spread all over, dirt spilled and a tree on its side. It was an omen.

I did better than I would have done if I hadn’t made the effort – sold a few books. But, the amazon bestseller list, I did not make.

Four years later, my money tree is flourishing in my office, and yet, many of my recent projects are winding down. I keep finding water and I am not dying of thirst, but neither am I soaked in good fortune.

I wonder, having I been grabbing at good fortune though I tell myself I am cupping my hands and thankful for whatever good fortune lands there.

Winter is around the corner, a time to hibernate, rest and snuggle down with those you love. I think this will be true of me and my projects. Time to regroup, take an honest look at what I was able to accomplish, what went wrong and what lessons I learned. 

Though my money tree flourishes, I have to remember that it is indoors, protected from the world. I, on the other hand, have put myself out there, and a bit worse for wear because of it.

This week I read in Buddha’s Brain: the practical neuroscience of happiness, love & wisdom  that one cannot seek happiness, but it must grow out of doing.

I keep thinking I’m doing all the things that will bring me success and happiness, but perhaps doing with the expectation is the problem. So, for the next few months, I plan on not doing and not seeking, but being.

Once I get over this cold and finish my half-marathon in January and get that one manuscript completed and…

Okay, so I’m working on it, not doing it.

This week I will enjoy the time to hibernate and replenish my resources.

November 8, 2009

Occasionally I think it’s time to upgrade.

As most of you know, we recently retired the Honda Civic and upgraded to a Jaguar.  Six years ago we traded in our perfectly good Country Club home for a mansion (mansion to us anyway) in the boondocks. Three years ago I traded in my jeans and sweaters wardrobe for slacks and jackets.

Trading up has generally served me well. But there are some things that have remained exactly the same.

Take my husband. (No really, take my husband – sorry, I couldn’t resist!) Though what hair he has left is greying, and there is more of him to love these days – especially around the love handle area, I am convinced that hanging onto him is well worth it. I mean, really, what is there to trade up to?

Who else would offer to make my cup of coffee in the morning, explaining that he knows exactly how I like it and then when I decline, offer to allow me to make his? “There are only four easy steps to making me a perfect cup of coffee.” He’s so helpful, and not the least bit affected by my dirty looks and worse language when he proffers such an offer.

Who else would do all those chores I find so loathsome, like attend the parent meetings and make small talk with the neighbors and call people on the phone to RSVP for parties? “I figured you didn’t want any part of that.” And he is so right.

Who else would tell me 30 pounds later that I am so skinny I’m verging on being sickly skinny? “Your jeans are hanging on you.” Although it does make me wonder exactly who he is comparing me to.

Who else would eat the last piece of chocolate and explain that he was doing me a favor. “I figured I was saving you calories.” How thoughtful.

Still, there are days…

Like the other day when I bought blistex rather than my favorite chapstick. The blistex came in a fruit smoothie flavor and was not at all waxy like chapstick can be. I felt young and exciting and couldn’t get over how tasty just licking my own lips was. I thought I was in heaven.

Until I woke up the next morning with chapped lips. I told myself it had been unseasonable windy the day before, applied my fruit smoothie blistex and went on my way. Until two hours later when the blistex ran out because I was applying it so often because it tasted so good I was licking it off at a pace faster than I could keep it applied, and I began to look for a drug store.

I found a local corner store and bought six chapsticks. One for my purse, one for my backpack, one for my pocket, one for my nightstand, one for my car and one for emergencies.

I twisted open the cherry chapstick and rubbed waxy emoillent all over my lips, onto part of my chin and into my upper lip – just to be safe.

Later in the day, my husband announced, “There’s something on your chin.” Instead of wiping it off, I rubbed it in vigorously.

“Thanks. It’s just chapstick.” I answered.

“Sure, I thought it was a booger,” he replied, smiling at me not at all repulsed at the idea that I might have a booger on my chin and not the least bit worried about how a booger had gotten onto my chin.

Somethings cannot be improved upon. My husband and chapstick, those are two I’m sticking with.

This week I will appreciate the tried and true.

November 1, 2009

I have a new favorite word. You guessed it, snarky.

I heard it used to describe the runaway best sellers, Diary of a Wimpy Kid. I’d been eyeing those books for months now, a fan of Captain Underpants when my son was young. But my son is now a belligerent teenager who won’t sit and read books with his mom, so I’ve resisted buying them. That is until snarky was used to describe them, as in, “Well, they are a bit snarky, but you can’t help but laugh at them.”

I haven’t read the books yet. But I have already embraced the word “snarky.”

I thought I would use the word to describe myself to others. Then I looked the word up. The definitions included words like impertinent and rude. Kind of a rough edge to those words. It also included sarcastic, which is what I tend to be, but I thought snarky had a kinder sound to it, like describing a nose as regal rather than huge.

The definition also had the word irreverent in it, which I fully embrace, in the right company.  And that has been the difficult thing about sobriety (four years and counting) for me, finding the right company.

When you are in the company of drunk people, irreverence works well because everything tends to have a funny edge to it when drunk. And my drunk friends tended to forget most of what I said the night before anyway. Actually, I tended to forget most of what I said the night before too. Hence, sobriety.

Finding the right crowd to be irreverent in takes a bit of aptitude I have never worked at gaining. I was too busy shoving limes down the necks of Coronas.

So there are times, more frequently than I would like to admit, when my irreverence gets me in trouble. Lately a friend of mine, who usually laughs at my irreverent remarks, has been making cat noises at me. As in “Aren’t you being catty?” 

Catty? No. Snarky? Yes.  

I tried snarky out on a facebook friend and was defriended (opposite of befriended?). I tried snarky out on a new friend while we were at lunch and she just stared at me, then quickly changed the subject to more neutral subjects, “Isn’t the sky a beautiful shade of blue?” To which I wanted to reply, “Isn’t that question a boring shade of boring?”

And my friend making cat noises at me, only does so because I have been making sarcastic remarks about things she holds dear to her heart. Her children – like they aren’t just going to ditch her when she’s old – I don’t know why she is so sensitive!

I think I will try snarky out for awhile. When people give me a dirty look after I’ve made a “joke” I’ll reply, “Don’t you understand snarky?” and leave it at that. I am tired of apologizing for using humor to be critical of what is generally accepted and respected. You know, slavery was once a generally accepted and respected practice. So was keeping your woman barefoot and pregnant.

I hope that I will find a whole posse of people who enjoy being snarky and enjoy my snarkiness. Like the latest person who befriended me on Facebook. His info page actually has the words, “lighten up” tagged behind a snarky remark.

So, snarky it is. After all, in my brand of spirituality, all that is required of me is to be the best I can be at who I am. And I happen to be very good at sarcastic, impertinent and irreverent. Perhaps I could be the best at snarky.

This week, I will time my snarky remarks to those moments when only I can hear them.