A Parental Visit

Parents worry. It's what we do. They do. I saw mine last night in NY for dinner. We were celebrating my mom's 70th birthday. It's been a while since we've all been together. Their visits have waned of late. Not sure why. A minor tiff with my brother? Wanting to be asked more? Just busy? Not 100% sure really. And of course, I haven't exactly made the effort to get back to Philadelphia lately with my kids. In between all the work travel, getting on a plane to use up well earned vacation days in Philly is not my idea of a good time. We went to Maui instead. I'd invited my mom but she declined. It's a long flight. I can't leave your father for that long. Blah blah blah. It's Hawaii! C'mon!

Dinner was nice. We talked politics. They've become more staunchly liberal in hating Mr. Romney; in the face of Mr. Mormon their love of Obama has grown. Mine too. They are disgusted by the rampant and palpable racism that seems to drive Republican pundits' hatred of the President (go Mom and Dad!) They are proud in their non-racism, proud (as they should be) to defend a smart black man who looks a heck of a lot like their grandkids will when they grow up.

We also talked about Sandusky (ew...bad dude) and the relationship between THAT pedophile and the ones from my own sport. Did we have any culpability in not turning them in? Yes. I'd say so. I was a kid bordering on adulthood. I wish I'd done more.

We talked about movies. (See Argo, don't see The Master.)

Most notably they welled with tears upon my just sitting down at the table. It's been too long. I am happy. There are developments in my life - love, primarily - that they haven't appropriately shared in but are thrilled about nonetheless. They were clearly worried about me before; and maybe aren't so much anymore. I have someone that will take care of my heart. What parent doesn't want that for their kid?

To Share or Not To Share

I've always been kind of a sharer. Perhaps an over-sharer - with my friends at least. And I suppose even with strangers. I will admit I'm not always the best at sharing with my partner (hate that word but can't locate another at the moment). That's not what this is about though. More on that in another post. Suffice it to say there are a whole host of reasons why sharing in love has become quite difficult for me though I am fighting like hell to reveal my most over-sharing transparent self in my relationship. Back to my point...

Privacy has never been a major concern. It's just not something I think about a ton. I don't mind not having much of it. I give up a great deal of it willingly, every day. When I was writing my book there were more than a few moments when I took pause and said to myself: I probably shouldn't share this. It's humiliating... or It's ugly. Not a side of myself I want to show.

But I came to the conclusion that the ugliest parts, the most shameful bits, were the parts that I most had to lean into. To share with the most honesty. I find salvation, communion when others share their darkest moments. I inhale memoirs to find these tidbits. It is in Mary Karr's Lit or Caroline Knapp's Drinking A Love Story (despite this list I don't actually have a drinking problem) or listening to Brene Brown talk about her own battles with shame that I find connection. And I feel less ashamed. Less alone. So I figure if I can do this, others who read what I write (no matter how few) will connect and their own shame may dissipate. And I write about personal stuff because it helps to dissolve my own gut ripping self-reproach and gloom. It's as if the air hitting the words diminishes the sharpness of the thing itself.

And so it's just become second nature. To share. To over share. I've paused at times and thought to myself: can this put me in a bad position professionally? Perhaps. The people I work with, for, near may not think highly of a serial blabbermouth. But I said to myself long ago, if anyone wants to banish me for attempting to become a half way not shitty writer, for revealing things that matter to me, that hurt me, that make me joyful, then I suppose I need to rethink my profession. If writing stuff is as important to me as my career, then I should be able to do both at the same time. And I am oh so grateful that I have been afforded that opportunity.

As I was talking to a colleague the other day she was telling me she'd quit Facebook due to privacy concerns. She didn't want work friends friending her. She didn't want everyone knowing everything. She didn't want Facebook knowing everything. I get it. But it's so not me. I stopped in my tracks for a moment to rethink my approach. Am I crazy? Where are my boundaries? What kind of narcissistic exhibitionist puts it all out there, all the time?

I suppose I'll regret it one day - and I have at times when I've "over-shared" something that wasn't necessarily mine to share - but I think any regret will be minor and fairly recoverable. It's a purposeful choice to live my life in this way, to share my thoughts to dissipate the shame. And it works for me.

I'm not talking about posting pictures on Facebook. Who cares. I like to post them so my mom can see what's happening with my kids. I'm talking about sharing all the icky stuff. The sheer panic of being alone for the first time in my adult life. The desperate loneliness of not seeing my kids from Sunday to Tuesday and being terrified they will never want to return to me. The nearly intolerable blackness that overwhelms upon ending a marriage despite knowing it's the right thing to do. The piercing self-disgust of knowing I didn't do it in the right way, if there can be one. Writing about all this stuff makes it a little less hard. A little less frenzied and frantic and devastating and miserable.

Upon thinking this through - again - I feel reaffirmed in this choice for myself. And I find myself in a bit of a conundrum as I embark on a new life with someone who values his privacy, our privacy above most things. I love that he feels this way. He cherishes the moments we have as ours and ours alone. But I find myself at a loss for words as I sit down here now because I don't want to violate his sense of privacy to share my own happy, my own angst, my own anything because what's mine is ours now. But I still want to share. Something.

I will re-navigate these waters. I will find the right balance. I won't violate his trust. But I will find a way to use this approach that works for me, this telegraphing of emotion to free myself of humiliation and remorse, this sharing that softens the edges of my own dark moments, this self-centered amplification of my joy... I'll work it out. We'll work it out. Together we will balance his need for privacy with my chronic urgent compulsion to blab.

Reuniting

This past weekend was my 20th college reunion. At the risk of sounding, well - like everyone, I can't believe college happened 20 years ago. I've been to every reunion so far seeing as I live fairly close to campus. A quick 40 minute drive provides no reason NOT to go. And I loved college. For me, college was a turning point. It was for many, I know. But for me, it was the first time I was not a gymnast. I met people with varied interests. I was perceived as someone who could do things other than flip. I developed an identity that would be more me than the one I already had.

I loved seeing everyone this weekend. I've stayed in touch with many friends since then. But we are never all together. What a treat.

I still consider the friends I made at Stanford some of my best. I was privileged to have met some of the most interesting people I know, to this day. Smart, ambitious, kind, funny. June who runs the Ted Conference. Alex who writes New Yorker cartoons and other more widely seen and read commercial things. What a group!

And what luck that they let me in to this bastion of intellectual endeavor (the #1 university the year I was admitted), in all likelihood because I was good at doing tricks on the balance beam. Not that kind of tricks. A more altogether useless kind.

I waited every day to be found out. To be identified as the mistake. To have some official come knocking at my door and say: I'm sorry. We're going to have to ask you to leave. You are simply not smart enough to be here. Somehow I escaped that fate by secretly studying when everyone else (in the Humanities) seemed to skate by. People in pre-Med studied. People in Engineering studied. But not people in Communications (what's that?!) or Political Science (my two inauspicious majors - I added a second out of sheer fear of being lame).

The Tuesday night before the weekend of the reunion I saw my first Stanford friend - Lance. He lived in my freshman dorm. We became friends fast. We dated. He came out. It set me up for a life of falling for gay men. We're still friends. Though Lance is the type that is friends with EVERYONE so it is always hard to know where you stand. Am I an acquaintance? Am I the BFF? Does it matter?

Here's us with the (my) boyfriend:

Daniel, the boyfriend, is the brother of a fellow Stanford-ite. My class. He came with me to all the festivities perhaps thinking that there might be a person or two he'd know from having visited. That turned out to not really be true but he was a good sport, smiled and met everyone. And read a book when it all got too boring. I can't imagine how boring it was to watch me ... "Hi! [hug] How are you? Where do you live these days? How many kids? Ok I see _______! Gotta go!" But he did it. With a smile.

This guy is a keeper. As everyone noted.

I spent Friday night and most of Saturday with "my girls". We talked, we laughed, we made a little fun. We investigated the passings of the short list of those identified as no longer with us. Not uncommonly, I suppose, a large percentage of the deceased died by suicide. I guess at this age, what could still be considered "early death", accidents and suicides are often the cause.

We were grateful to all be together. They loved Daniel, of course. And this part - the more intimate part with "the girls" - was conceivably less boring for him as these ladies know his brother. We were "of a group" - one of the ladies having actually dated the brother. Yes it's all very weird. But makes sense in a karmic kind of way.

There were many locals in attendance. We promised to hang out soon. We may. We may not. I will inevitably continue to see the ones I see and talk to already. Sweet Rae. June of Ted fame. Lance, my first gay. Fraize, when I visit Chicago which I assume will happen more now (more than never) as Daniel's parents live there.

I have no grand point to make here other than to say I love my friends. Stanford provided me with the opportunity to meet some truly remarkable people. I'm honored that they let me in and that these fine folks have opted to stay friends with me through thick and thin.

On a side note, divorce was not an uncommon theme at this reunion. I suppose it's the time. Many married in their early thirties. We're in our early forties. Ten years? If it's not gonna work it is time to call it. The admission was often met with an almost congratulatory tone. The tone of those that know that marriage can be hard. And sometimes it's too hard for it to be right or worth it. I'm in awe of those who still make it work. Good pickin'.