The Fear of Success

There’s a certain solace to be found in always falling just short. A comfort offered by the bittersweet longing of “maybe” and “if only”. Failure isn’t what’s scary. Success is. For, when and if we reach our goals – when we find true contentment – even happiness – we then become truly vulnerable.


Deep down, we know that it’s all fleeting and fragile, and can be ripped away in a heartbeat: sudden illness, a car accident, all manner of things over which we have no control. But if we always hover just this side of our dreams, then we somehow feel shielded from the pain and disappointment of having them shattered. Are we just kidding ourselves? I think…maybe…yes.

What I Remember

I originally wrote this several years ago, but...it's that time of year again.  Time to remember....

I remember so much about that day:



I was getting ready for work and had the radio on, a little before 8:00 a.m., CST. The DJ's mentioned something about a plane hitting the World Trade Tower and they were watching it on the Today Show. So I turned on the TV, and was watching the video of the first tower. And as I watched, live, I saw the second plane come in, low and slow, and thought, "Oh my God!" And it hit. And I dropped the brush out of my hand and fell on my knees with my mouth open. After about a minute of just staring at the TV with my hand over my mouth, I got up and went to the phone to call my then-husband. He was out of town for work, in Dallas, working at the airport there. He was still asleep, and I woke him up and told him to turn the TV on. Then realized -- his brother was a pilot for AA, and started getting really worried. He didn't think his brother was flying that day, but I told him I'd try to get ahold of him to be sure. I finished getting ready and left the house, got in the car and turned the radio on. I called my then-BIL and was able to get ahold of him. He was home, safe. So that was a relief. On the radio, they were saying that all flights were being grounded, and one or two were unaccounted for. My route took me past the STL airport, and as I drove east toward and past it, I could see the planes all lined up, heading west, coming in one right after the other. And all I could think was, "Get down, birds. Get down." I know that seems weird, but that was what was in my head.

I pulled into my parking garage around the time the Pentagon was hit. I got out of my car and walked toward my office, looking up at the bright blue September sky, which suddenly seemed empty. And, even though it was warm out, I got the chills. The TV was on in the office, of course. And we all just stood around it, watching. We'd try to go to our desks and do some work, but it was futile. My MIL called me in a panic, because she knew my office was located next to the Arch. I told her I was fine, but we'd gotten word they'd be shutting our building down, and we'd be heading back home. Watched in disbelief as the first tower came down. Then the second. Then left and started the drive back home, still in a state of shock.

Just so happens, I was 7 or 8 weeks pregnant at the time. Got home, and there was a message on the machine from my doctor's office, asking me to call them. I did, and they told me there was a problem with my hormone levels, and I was at risk for miscarrying, so I needed to go pick up a prescription. The realization that my husband was likely to be stuck in Dallas for an indefinite period at that point, and I was pretty much on my own, hit and made me feel very much alone. I got in the car and headed to the pharmacy, and remember thinking to myself how odd it was that it, and the grocery stores, and most businesses were still open and carrying on like it was a regular day. I know the people working there weren't FEELING that way -- it just struck me as odd that, even in the face of this evil, awful thing that was unfolding, we were still plodding ahead with our day. I picked up the prescription and read the warnings, which included all sorts of potential awful things that could happen to the baby, including some mutations. THAT freaked me out. So I called the doctor's office and they reassured me it was okay to take the medicine. So I did. And I sat down on the couch and watched the endless coverage, and wondered what kind of a world my child -- assuming he or she would be okay -- would be born into. And I cried.

I was thousands of miles away from the destruction of that day, but I -- just as everyone else -- was profoundly affected by it. And it's easy, almost 7 years later, to forget just how much, to forget all that was lost that day. We can quibble from now until the end of time over what actions since then were appropriate. And I'm sure we will. It is, perhaps, the largest political football of our lives. But we should never, ever, ever forget that day.

The Heart of the Matter

There's a line from the Don Henley song that's been playing through my head the past few days:

"What are these voices outside love's open door...make us throw off our contentment and beg for something more?"

It's calling to mind a blog I wrote elsewhere, almost two years ago.  I think it's time for a re-tread:

"Redefining Happiness" -- May 22, 2008

I’ll have to ask forgiveness of those who don’t watch Grey’s Anatomy, as what I am about to say won’t make quite as much sense without that frame of reference.   I do think the big picture will become clear, though…

I’ve been thinking lately, about happiness.  About what it means.  About the ways in which we pursue it.  We each have our own definition of it.  But while there may be many little things in life which qualify (raindrops on roses, two kinds of ice cream…), the happiness we pursue is that which colors our dreams; the thing (or things) which take up residence in our heart of hearts. 

Which is why it’s so intriguing to me that, after Life and Liberty, our Founding Fathers chose to name the pursuit of Happiness as one of those inalienable rights with which we are endowed by our Creator.   Isn’t the pursuit of happiness a somewhat gooey concept?  Did the founders of our country have an Oprah moment?  Or did they simply recognize that, along with the will to live and the yen for freedom, the quest for happiness is a crucial part of our existence?  It sustains us. 

We often hear it said that there’s no guarantee of happiness in this life.  And most of us learn to live somewhat removed from it, rather than safely ensconced within it.  We tell ourselves that if we can find contentment, well, that’s good enough.  And usually, it is.  But it doesn’t stop us from trying to sneak a peek at happiness anyway.  After all, our dreams are not colored by contentment. 

Sometimes, though, we’re brought up short with the realization that that which does live in our heart of hearts truly may not be viable outside those confines.  That the ragged edges of our external realities are simply inhospitable to the happiness for which we long, and it is not just out of reach -- it is an impossibility.  And when we come to that realization, we are faced with a choice: Do we let go of it?  Somehow, learn to redefine our happiness, so that it encompasses that which is within our reach?  Or do we hang on anyway, and continue with our pursuit?

I was pondering all this earlier today.  Then, tonight, I watched Derek Shepard (a/k/a “McDreamy”) attempt to let go, and redefine his happiness.  He decided to sell his land.  And when his friends, surprised by this, reminded him how much he loved it, and that he was the guy who held onto such dreams, and believed in ferry boats, his response was:  “Ferry boats crash.”  And he’s right -- they do.  And patients die.  And clinical trials fail.  And loves let us down.  And happiness escapes us.

When that happens, unless we resign ourselves to curling up in the fetal position and sobbing about the unfairness of it all (or, perhaps, after doing same), we must find a way to move on.  Do we redraw the lines of happiness to fit more neatly within the reality we’ve been dealt?  Is that even possible when the vision of happiness we’ve been pursuing has been the same one for most – if not all – of our lives?

I asked myself that just today, and realized that I’m not sure that it is – or that I want it to be.   Happiness, as I’ve defined it for so very long -- I wouldn’t know where to go with myself, how to be, how to live, without it – the pursuit of it and the hope for it -- in my life.  I may define it a certain way, but in a sense, it also defines me.  And the thought of redefining it brings with it this sense of settling.  Of accepting a life that’s ordinary.  Of losing some of that spark that keeps me going and the hope that sustains me. 

In the end, McDreamy wasn’t forced to redefine his happiness.  Instead, that which had seemed impossible suddenly found its way into and became part of his reality.  Which is all well and good in TV Land.  But, as I noted in the Grey’s thread last week:  It's hard to live happily ever after in this world.  Because, for most, it is the pursuit of it which actually sustains us.  What do we do when and if we’re fortunate enough to actually achieve it?   Hopefully, we don’t try to redefine it.  Hopefully, we find a way to live in it and hold onto it without crushing it.  To continue pursuing it, even while we partake of it.

Tonight, Meredith said to Derek, “I believe we can be extraordinary together, rather than ordinary apart.”  And I believe she’s right.  Yes, I recognize how woefully and pitifully a romantic this paints me, but I wish them well in their pursuit.  And I in mine.  Maybe someday, I’ll be able and willing to redefine happiness for myself.  ‘Til then, I suppose I’ll just keep pursuing it, as presently defined.  I’d like to claim that’s me, being patriotic, and upholding the ideals set forth in the Declaration of Independence.  Really, though, it’s probably just me being stubborn.

One Foot in Front of the Other

I ran a half marathon on Sunday.  It wasn't the first one I ran, and probably won't be my last.  But, at the time, I thought it might be.  My training hadn't gone all that well this time around -- especially not the last few weeks.  I managed to acquire a nasty cough that put my lungs through the shredder.  I only churned out a few short runs in those last weeks.  And they weren't great.  

Still, I showed up to the Start on Sunday morning with my game face on. Well, after a brief detour through Sauget.  No.  Really.  See...after picking up my friend T at West County Centre at 5:30, we then collected my sister and brother from my sister's house in Clayton, then proceeded down Highway 40.  My intention was to exit at 6th Street since we were going to use my parking pass and park at Stadium East -- I'd checked to make sure the exit wasn't listed as blocked off for the race, and it wasn't.  Traffic was AWFUL at Jefferson and 14th, but we sailed by.  And then discovered that the 6th Street ramp WAS blocked off.  For those who don't know, that ramp is more commonly known as "The Last Missouri Exit."  Because it is.  Once you pass it, you're heading to Illinois, whether you want to or not.  And what's just across the river in Illinois?  Sauget.  Armpit of the universe.  Home to the all night clubs and trashy strip joints.  Oh, the brain cells and dollar bills that have been lost there......

As we realized the involuntary detour we'd be taking, we did at least note the humor in actually heading TO the East Side at 6:00 a.m., rather than skulking away from it.  The nice thing about Sauget at that time of the morning, though, is they don't really care if you make a U-Turn on Route 3.  Which I did, and soon enough, we were back on the right side of the Mississippi, and parking in the garage.  After a brief potty break (or eight) at The Hilton, we made our way up to the Start.  And waited with the throngs of cattle trying to file through the chute.  

Finally, at 7:11, we were off.  Or on.  Plodding away.  My brother quickly worked his way up ahead of us.  T and my sister and I stayed together.  Actually, it was more like we triangulated -- the two of them ran ahead, chattering away, getting to know one another, while I tagged along behind.  The pace was fine, but I was in no mood to chat.  I just listened to the two of them, and occasionally interjected a comment to let them know they hadn't lost me. 

As we rounded the brewery, I couldn't help thinking that 10 more miles was more than I could handle.  As we turned west up Choteau and began climbing that hill, I muttered that I might have to walk, but my sister called back and told me I could do it.  And I did.  I ran it.  But it about killed me.  And all I could think of as we ran past City Hall at Mile 6 was how easy it would be to just stop there, since it was so close to the Finish line, and wait for the rest of the gang to finish.  

But I kept going.  On the phone the night before, B reminded me to just keep putting one foot in front of the other, and that's what I did.  We made it up one hill on Olive, and then I looked up and saw Mt. McKinley stretching out in front of us, and knew I just couldn't.  I couldn't run it.  My lungs rebelled, and I hollered to my sister and T to let them know I was going to walk.  I did run some of it -- maybe half.  But I was no match for that monster.  

Still, walking also involves putting one foot in front of the other.  Just at a slightly slower pace. The important thing was...I kept moving forward, although with 6 more miles to go at that point, I really wasn't optimistic as to how long I could keep that up.  I rounded the corner and discovered that T had decided wait up for me.  It occurred to me at that moment, how funny and strange life can be.  If someone had told me 23+ years ago, that a boy I met and befriended the first day of college would be dragging my sorry ass through a 13 mile run when we were in our 40's, I'd have sworn they were nuts.  Or high.  Or both.  But there he was.  And God bless him for his patience, for I'm quite certain he didn't aspire to walk-running and turning in a 2:30 + time for a half marathon.  But he was a good enough sport to let me walk the rest of the hills.  Even the one that was only a quarter mile out from the Finish line.  Once we topped that, though, we turned on the jets and sprinted that last downhill.  That part almost made me giddy. 

Always love that feeling -- of crossing that Finish line.  Of knowing that I actually DID it.  13.1 miles.  I DID keep putting one foot in front of the other, and they got me to where I needed to go.  It wasn't just my feet that got me there, though.  It was my sister and brother-in-law first convincing me several years ago that I could do something like this, and my sister, so often, running by my side (on the left!) to help me train.  It was my brother, running his first half-marathon at 52.  My parents, coming down to watch the race and cheer us all on.  It was B's words of encouragement, and T's enthusiasm and patience.  And the support of so many of my other friends.

Just as in the rest of life.  It's hard, sometimes, to remember to put one foot in front of the other.  To tuck your head down, and keep moving forward, when all you really want to do is stop, curl up in a ball, and rest.  Sometimes, it's only with the help of your friends and family that you're able to keep those feet moving.  Sometimes, you feel like you've been walking around in circles.  And other times, you realize that, in fact, you haven't.  You've just been fortunate enough to cross paths with certain people more than once.  

If It Makes You Happy

Earlier tonight, I proudly proclaimed to my FB friends that having the windows open and the ceiling fans whirring makes me happy.  It occurred to me as I hit "Share" that it's been quite a long time since I actually said that  -- that I was happy -- out loud.  (Well, to the extent that posting it on the internet counts as saying it "out loud.")  A really long time.  Too long.  

And it was such a simple thing, this happy maker.  Just some warm, fresh air.  Probably didn't hurt that I finally feel as though I've turned the corner on this cough, and I definitely had more energy tonight than I've had in several days.  But it got me to thinking about all the simple things that make me happy:

My daughter's giggle; the kitties purring; the silly grin my dog sometimes sports; a well-cooked meal; a cold glass of Riesling; the smell of steaks on the grill; relaxing in my hot tub; a clean kitchen; a clutter-free house; the smell of dryer exhaust; fresh clean sheets on my bed; completing a project; checking things off my To Do list; crossing the finish line; happy hour with friends; girls' nights out; an impromptu road trip; long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days. Okay - I stole that last bit from Bull Durham.  But it's true. 

The point is...well, I kind of forgot my point now.  But it's good to remember them more than once in awhile -- the simple, sweet things that make us happy.   

Observations from Springcleanapaloozathon

That there are items in your medicine cabinet which are two to three years past their expiration dates is a good indication you need to clean it out a bit more frequently.

Old, stubby eyeliner pencils and used up mascara tubes serve no purpose, other than creating the illusion that one’s makeup basket/collection is a veritable cornucopia of beauty – yet, the primary aim of makeup is to create the illusion that you really aren’t wearing (don’t need) much.
 
There’s something marginally depressing about realizing your “lingerie chest” would actually be more appropriately referred to as your “repository for random racing gear and winter wardrobe accessories,” and that most of the items in it which actually do qualify it as a lingerie chest are virtual strangers to you.
 
Tossing old socks and undies in the trash feels wasteful, but what are ya gonna do?

Picking up other power cords off the floor before you vacuum is not a pointless exercise; corollary: black electrical tape is a wonderful invention.

Your closet never seems big until you contemplate going through everything in it.  

No one should own more than five pair of sweatpants.  Really.  And they certainly shouldn’t still own any that they can vividly recall wearing in the summer of 1986, or that sport remnants of cat hair belonging to a cat who’s been chasing mice around Kitty Heaven since 1997.  Not that I know anyone who does…

What exactly do you do with the large, boxy, bright yellow sweater, sporting a panda which your mother knitted for you (and the matching white turtle neck with panda prints), which you proudly and regularly wore (along with black and white houndstooth slacks) while in college, but of which you are pretty certain there is no photographic proof?

Cowl-necked sweaters really aren’t all that flattering. They probably make for good bibs when you’re old, though.

It makes little sense to hold onto a cardigan sweater you haven’t worn in approximately twenty years because you wore it the night you said goodbye to someone you’ve since said “hello” (and “goodbye”) to several times.  

A large-brimmed straw hat is a cute and whimsical beach accessory.  But where in the hell do you store it for the 99.9% of your life which isn’t spent on the beach trying to appear cute and whimsical?  

The snakeskin-print bikini top with the shear white blouse and black leather pants get-up might arguably have looked edgy and hot out at the clubs 12 years ago (setting aside the question of how believable it looked on yours truly, even then), but sporting such a look over 40 would scream “DESPERATE COUGAR!!” so loudly, it’d likely rob me of the rest of my hearing. Into the donation pile it goes.  Some young sassy thang out there is in luck!

Not that I’m pitching everything edgy and hot – not by a long shot.  I do, however, think I should probably be ashamed of the fact that my closet sports no less than 60 tank/camisole/halter-type tops while I live in a place that isn’t even remotely tropical. 

I have a lot of very nice blouses I rarely have occasion to wear.  I wonder if any of them would look good under a black robe?

Are pit stains really necessary?! Seriously?

Given that “grunge” went out 12-15 years ago, I think it’s okay to let go of the red/green/black/white extra large plaid flannel shirt from the Gap, and its equally colorful blue/green/yellow/white twin.  Also, I have a long history of plaid abuse. 

No one needs more than eight pair of black, strappy high heels. Okay.  Maybe ten.

Either I or the people who love me (or have claimed to over the years) have REALLY bad taste in jewelry.  Or both.  But even bad gold jewelry has some value now, right?

Women’s collar pins – they’re never coming back.  

I have a Kate Spade purse (or a knock-off) that I bought at a purse party several years ago, and have never used.  I’m not really a trendy-purse girl.  I probably shouldn’t attend purse parties.

Cleaning out a purse you haven’t used in three years is a lot like opening a time capsule.

Trying on jeans you haven’t worn in several years is always an adventure.  High-waisted jeans flatter no one.  The black leather jeans – which are high-waisted and look seriously tacky — still fit.   I’m keeping them.

It’s going to take me longer than a weekend to complete Springcleanapaloozathon….

The Ides of March

"Beware the Ides of March."  It's one of the better-known lines from Julius Caesar, and I suppose that's where I first encountered it.  As it quite rightly served as fair warning to Caesar of his impending doom, I always took it to be a rather ominous sort of thing, and March the 15th to be an "unlucky" day, in the same vein as Friday the 13th.  Funny thing about that, though:  Friday the 13th has always been a "lucky" day in my family -- my parents were married, almost 54 years ago, on a Friday the 13th.  And they still seem to like each other.  

So, it shouldn't have come as much of a surprise that March the 15th would also become a "lucky" day for me.  No, the real surprise was that a little girl who wasn't due to make her arrival until April 26, 2002, decided to show up almost a month-and-a-half earlier.  I so wasn't ready.  Not that I'm sure you can ever truly be ready to go through childbirth -- at least not the first time around.  But I really wasn't ready -- I had a court appearance scheduled for that morning; we had a big case getting ready to go to trial; I hadn't had a chance to really update any of my files and make a list of things that would need to be covered by others while I was out on maternity leave.  And I'd had these grand plans of taking off a few days prior to the due date and spending them at home, getting her room ready, and finally getting around to putting my decades' worth of photographs into albums.  That seemed like such a nice, calming way to prepare myself for the whole labor/delivery/oh-my-gosh-I'm-a-mom-now thing.  

Well, there's another famous literary line about "the best laid plans of mice and men," and go oft awry they did.  I still remember realizing how odd it was that this child I'd thought would be a Taurus, had skipped right over Aries and would, instead, be a Pisces.  That didn't worry me quite so much, as some of my most favorite people in the world were (and still are) Pisces.  What did worry me was whether I'd be able to get everything handled that needed to be at work, whether she'd be healthy, and whether I'd be an okay mom.  

I needn't have worried quite so much about work -- we found a way to muddle through it all and the world didn't stop, though it did take a lot of frantic phone calls, sometimes with the hospital room phone in one ear and my cell in the other, to get it all squared away.   (I still recall the anesthesiologist arriving to rescue me with the epidural, cocking an eyebrow at my telephonic double fisting, and remarking, "Oh - you're one of those 'Type A' people, aren't you?"  I felt compelled to roundly deny the charge, but I'm not quite certain I convinced him.)   

And the "mom" part, well, I'm still a work in progress, but I think I can lay claim to "okay" without warranting an accusation of arrogance.  The "healthy" part?  That took a little time to get to.  23 days in the NICU isn't the ideal way to start one's life, but she toughed it out and doesn't appear to have any residual negative effects from it.  Aside from baby pictures with lots of tubes and wires and eye patches which tended to take a bit away from the "Awww -- isn't she a cutie?!" quotient.  I may be a bit biased, but I think she more than makes up for that most days.

But setting aside her somewhat rocky introduction to the world, I am extraordinarily happy to be the proud mother of an amazing, incredible, intelligent, wonderful, beautiful, thoughtful eight year old little girl.  She is the light of my life, and it is my privilege to be the person she calls, "Mommy," (or, more often, these days, "Mom".)  

So, when I hear people say, "Beware the Ides of March," I can't help but smile.  What a blessed day it has become in my life.  Happy Birthday, Riley Jayne.  I love you.