What I'm Thankful for: Women

This Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for the women.

This is not a let’s trash men treatise. Let’s be clear, just because I’m thankful for women does not mean I’m not thankful for men, (and the fact that I feel a need to say this is bananas by the way). I love the men in my life. But this year I’m shouting out to the women.

To all of them.

We are kind and competitive, fierce and compassionate, confident and apologetic, brave and timid, incomparable and forever comparing, funny and funnier, brilliant and brilliant-er. We are magnificent in our complexities with so many facets that we cannot help but shine.

And yet…

And yet.

We must forever prove ourselves worthy of the space we take up. While, for the most part, for our counterparts, competence and excellence are assumed (I’m not saying you don't have it hard sometimes gentlemen, again bananas that I feel the need to include this qualifier), we truly do have to dance backwards in high heels.

I’m an improviser, have been for 35 years. I’m pretty good at it too. I’m not going to add false modesty here, because I’ve worked really hard at it over the years, and I am, for probably the first time in my life, going to own my excellence. For all of those 35 years, I have known and will continue to know that everytime I step in front of an audience, they see me as a woman first, and their first thought, conscious or unconscious, is that I need to prove that I’m funny. It might just be for a second, they might not even register it, but they clock it on some level. And, these days they see that I am a woman in her 50’s, which is a whole other track full of hurdles to clear before I can be accepted as funny. Yes, it’s better than it used to be, but it's still there. In the court of comedy, I am unfunny until proven hilarious.

The next thing they will clock is how I look. Am I pretty enough? Am I overweight? How’s my makeup? Does my haircut fit my face? How do I look in my pants? Yes it’s better than it used to be, but it’s still there.

And this is obviously not unique to comedy. This scenario can be universally translated to any vocation, profession or day to day existence. We’re used to it. We plan for it. We curate our daily dressing habits for it. We equivocate our contributions to almost everything with apologies and disclaimers (to whit, reference above parenthetical disclaimers). Most of the time I don’t even think about it because it’s so ingrained into my every day. It’s just standard operating procedure. This is not a “poor me” plug, I honestly don’t think about it because it is so normal. 

It does however dull those facets I mentioned earlier. The performative measures we take to be the women the world is ready for right now, only allows glimpses at those facets. Perhaps because unleashing all of them at once is a light too bright to take in. So we only show the ones we’re told to. Which often leads us to believe that those are the only ones we possess. So we shrink our dreams, diminish our accomplishments, and never feel like we are enough. And there are voices out there, loud ones, foolish ones, that want to keep us feeling that way.

But, oh my god, when I look at the women who fill my life, the world is lit in a miraculous way. 

• When I see what they carry and how they carry it, I see a bravery that is as unparalleled as it is unheralded.
• When I see what they create, I understand the intricacies of what it is to be human better than I did the day before.
• When I hear what they think, neurons fire and new worlds appear.
• When I witness what they manage, awe takes on a new meaning.
• When I see what they have endured and overcome, I see a strength that cannot be denied.
• When I see them fight, I see solidity.
• When I see their hearts I see the world’s salvation.

To do what we have done with, as Captain Marvel says, “one hand tied behind our back,” oh imagine what we can do when all the facets see the light of day.

So this Thanksgiving, I give thanks for the women. All of them. Because we are enough, we are vital, and we are not going back.

Election Night's Secret Sauce

I’m very excited to vote tomorrow.

I’m excited and stressed.

I’m excited and stressed and terrified.

But mostly excited.

I have my voting plan, and I also have my election night plan. I’ll be spending election night at improv rehearsal; more specifically, at ComedySportz Philly. Partly as a distraction, partly to escape what will undoubtedly be rampant stress eating and drinking, but mostly because it is the secret sauce of it all. And it hinges on two words: Yes, and.

Let me first acknowledge the desire to roll your eyes and bring up the countless gifs of jokes at its expense. I acknowledge the perceived cliche of those two words. And I still put that secret sauce on everything.

At its root it means to accept the reality given to you and take the next step. So let's take it in parts.

Yes-Accepting the reality given to you. In order to accept that reality, you first need to acknowledge it. Not deny it. Not spin it. Not twist it to suit your preferred narrative. You must acknowledge it. And, even in improv, the reality of the moment is not always unicorns and puppies; sometimes it is a hot mess. It is never perfect. It is never perfect because reality is built by the humans who walk through it, and humans are miraculously imperfect. So there is no perfect reality; no perfect person, or candidate, or choice. But there is the promise of a more perfect reality. That is where the and comes in.

The and is what you bring to the next step. The and is the first step through the hot mess.

It is how you take the next step that often determines the length of your stay in said hot mess. The and is the choice you make, which springs from all that you are, know, feel and aspire to. It is the hope and trust you bring to the next step. The and is the best offer you can make for the people who are improvising with you every moment of every day. The and is not just about you getting out of the hot mess, it’s about extending a hand to find a way out of the hot mess together.

And that is why those words are the secret sauce. And that is why I am spending election night at improv rehearsal…after I vote for Kamala.

And no matter what happens, I got your back.

Empathy with a Kidney Bean

It  didn’t seem strange to have empathy with the kidney bean left in the can after the initial dumping. I had to rinse them before putting them in the chili, and all but one made their way into the sieve. I could have just rinsed it into the sink, you know, because I am a responsible recycler and rinse my cans. (I had to weigh the insufferability of that last phrase against my guilt for so many years of not rinsing, as if that helps the planet). I didn’t rinse it down the sink though, I rinsed it into the sieve, because I didn’t want it to feel unworthy. I literally had that thought. I was concerned about the kidney bean’s feelings. 

To clarify, I do not believe beans have feelings. I do not believe vegetables have feelings. And, I eat meat, so it is safe to say I am not concerned with bacon’s feelings. And yet, I wanted this kidney bean to feel wanted, appreciated, and trusted to perform that for which it was canned in the first place.

I can’t decide if this is a strength or a hindrance. 

I blame the golden rule for this confusion. It’s so simple: “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” But does that really extend to kidney beans? What exactly was I hoping for from this kidney bean, which I was about to cook, by the way? Or was I blending or confusing the golden rule and karma. If I value this kidney bean, I too will feel valued. And by valued, I don’t just mean valued, but valued in the way that I think I need. That’s a lot to put on a kidney bean.

Empathy is a tricky virtue, and virtue is a tricky trap. 

Often we wield empathy as a tool. We’re not always conscious of it, but sometimes we are. It is the trident of martyrs. I empathize, therefore I sacrifice, therefore I am worthy, therefore I should be considered worthier, therefore attention must be paid. I, 100%, have been guilty of that more times than I’m comfortable with. If I’m nice, if I offer to help, if I ease, save, solve, I will receive the same in return. In which case I am making empathy a transaction with conditional expectations. Who was I to assume that this kidney bean needed solving or saving? This is not empathy, this is emotional consumerism. This is virtue heraldry. This does not serve the kidney bean.

Or…

Who was I really empathizing with? The kidney bean or myself. It’s possible I was projecting my historic sense of loneliness onto this kidney bean. I was imposing a narrative on their experience that was my own. It is highly likely that this kidney bean did not feel like the least interesting person at the Thanksgiving table as a young sprout. And I’m sure they don’t feel a sense of inadequacy when their fellow kidney beans talk about the latest article from the Sunday Times which they still get delivered. And it is doubtful that this kidney bean takes notice of how much narrower the other kidney beans’ waists are. I know nothing of this kidney bean’s story, nor did I take the time to find out. This is not empathy. This is narrative piracy. This does not serve the kidney bean.

Or...

Perhaps it was one of those rare moments when, free from ego or agenda, I did not want that kidney bean to die alone, but, instead, be eaten with their friends. Empathy requires past experience. It demands the personalization that is the result of living through something. And, after the recognition of that, it also requires the act of getting out of the way. Of releasing expectation of reward. Of shedding solution seeking. It demands the extraordinary act of absolute stillness. Of simply being with another human in the thick of a lived moment and understanding because you’ve lived a similar moment. It’s the act of being present without being prescriptive or proactive. It’s the extraordinary privilege of sharing the peace that we truly are not alone, and the pain or ache or stagnation or anger or fear is more manageable when shared; just as the joy, surprise and awe is more magnificent when shared.

So, in fact, empathy is not a hindrance, but an act of bravery; because sharing one’s heart is scary and risky and vulnerable, and has the power to connect all of the different us-es, no matter who we are. And though it may seem silly to empathize with a kidney bean, especially considering the irony of ultimately eating it, I will not resist the impulse any time it arises, because the more I practice, the better equipped I’ll be when empathy is required on a personal, local, national and even global level.

Emma Thompson Would Be So Disappointed in Me

 Emma Thompson would be so disappointed in me. 

Starting today, that is my new response to my body loathing routine. My usual response is to call myself Fatty McFatterson, so I feel like this is a step in, at the very least, a more interesting direction. Emma (we’re on a first name basis in my universe) has and continues to speak so honestly and eloquently about not wasting time worrying about how you look, reason number 3582 that I love her. 

        “Don’t waste your time, don’t waste your life’s purpose worrying about your body.”

                         -Emma Thompson, Stephen Colbert Show, 2022

So, yes, she would be disappointed in me, in a plucky, loving, encouraging way, but still disappointed, because I have wasted and continue to waste so much time worrying, hating, and being disgusted by my body. 

• I compare myself to friends, which always helps and is obviously an accurate one-to-one since we have identical body chemistry, genetic history and emotional relationships to food. 
• First thing I do when I get out of bed is check my paunch
• When waiting at a red light, my gaze wanders over to the pooling fat at my elbows, and, ewwww.
• While brushing my teeth, I turn my head to confirm the lack of definition in my jawline and then move on to the crinkly crepeing of my once not so bad decolletage. You know, just to set the tone for the day.
• I unjustly turn against Nicole Kidman and Julia Roberts. Why them? Because we’re the same age, so it’s obviously a rational comparison. I cynically say to myself- they have time and money and resources to have a trainer and a nutritionist and go to spas and get facials and walk into empty movie theaters in sparkly pinstripe suits, so, of course they look great. And then I get super judgy and say they look too thin. And then, most likely after the second glass of wine, I move onto sisterly empathy for how much pressure they’re under all the time to look good, and when was the last time they could look at a meal and just enjoy it without wondering what repercussions it would have on the rest of their career?

And these are just scratching the surface of how I waste time hating my body. I’m so sorry Emma. 

I don’t passively loathe my imperfections. I do exercise. I do eat healthy meals. I have Noomed successfully, and de-Noomed successfully. I am reckoning with my post-menopausal chemistry. I also still snack like a teenager, enjoy wine more than I should, and need something sweet every day. I do not take any of these to excess. I don’t eat an entire bag of chips or a full sleeve of cookies, or an entire bottle of wine. I do, however, eat the full sandwich. I know eating only half would improve my chances of borrowing Nicole’s pinstripe suit one day, but if I’m going to commit to ordering a sandwich, I’m going to enjoy the full sandwich. Bottom line, I’m not loathing myself while doing nothing about it; it's just that what I’m doing doesn’t work as well as it used to, with the exception of the loathing.

I know what you’re going to say Emma. “Just stop it. Stop wasting your time worrying about it.” You are right. I know this. It’s the how of it that I must find the effort for. Not the eating healthy, exercising, understanding my relationship to food ‘how,’ but the retraining how I think about my body ‘how’.  And so, I am beginning with my aforementioned new mantra “Emma Thompson would be so disappointed in me,” because, I simply cannot have that. I love her absolutely, and her disappointment would crush me.

I will not use this as an excuse to stop exercising or eating healthily Emma, I promise, but I will use it to stop wasting time aspiring to an impossible ideal that perfect happiness comes with a perfect body. I will use it to remind myself to spend my time doing the things that bring me happiness and feed my passions and purpose, one of which is enjoying a delicious meal. I will use it to remind myself that life is to be lived and experienced, not postponed until “someday.” And I will use it, when I stumble, and catch a truthful reflection of what my upper arms really look like, and remember not to mourn what once was but to see and value all that came before to help me arrive at right now; to remember that the imperfections hold stories of the unique moments lived through, felt through and survived and thrived through which make me different than anyone else out there.

And one day, Emma, when you are enjoying a martini and I am enjoying a of glass wine, made sweeter by the incredible deal I got on it, I will thank you in a witty and charming way that will remind us both that we’ve been best friends for so long without even knowing it.

The Hoax of the Jinx

 Often when people ask me how my kids are doing I do one of two things:

1. I tell them details of how they’re doing well, and then immediately knock wood so as not to jinx the upward trend.
2. Or, I just report the facts without emotion, commentary or reaction, much like newscasters from the 50’s and 60’s, so as not to tempt fate.

I tell offsprings #1 & #2 that I am proud of them all the time, but when it comes to celebrating their accomplishments to the world, I operate under a near constant fear that my pride will bring about their fall. Because I’m just that powerful, right?

The thing is, I’ve never wrapped my kids in bubble wrap. I let them eat a cookie that fell on the floor. I didn’t make them wash their hands every five minutes. I didn’t dote over every cut, scrape and literal fall. But when it came and comes to their emotional well-being or their confidence, well, I suppose I bubble wrap that a bit. I did, and do still protect them from that kind of pain too much. And I clearly did not do that well since they have both had their fair share of falls in that department. 

• Their hearts have been broken, their confidence crushed.
• Their anxieties have constructed false or exaggerated narratives many times. 
• They have been misunderstood, and therefore mistreated. 
• They have misunderstood and mistreated.
• They have made bad choices
• They have miscalculated.
• They have failed.
• They have doubted.
• They have given up.
• And they will do it all again

And

They have survived

And

Thrived.

They say, as a parent, you are only as happy as your unhappiest child. It is true. I feel their pain and uncertainty physically; it takes up residence in the acreage between my throat and my heart. And during the heart of their storm, literally nothing else is as important to me. I surrender to the sound and fury, which always ends up signifying nothing because they weather it. Time and again, they weather it. So, it seems silly to fear the jinx and try to control fate with the knocking of what is probably pressed manufactured IKEA wood, because celebrating a 3.89 GPA or a well-earned apprenticeship is not just holding up the shiny result, it’s giving a standing ovation to the struggle that led to the fortitude to persevere when 3.89’s and apprenticeships seemed impossible.

So, on this Mother’s Day of 2024, I celebrate the struggles, the failings, the impossibles and the falls that have shaped the two humans I am beyond proud to call my sons. I will always try to be there to catch you; and if I’m not, I know you know how to get back up again.