The Words I Hate to Hear

Posted on by stilllearning2b

There are two words that I hate to hear more than anything else:

“I can’t.”

I hear them in the classroom. I read them on Facebook or on my Twitter feed. I hear them from coaching clients.

And I even hear them from myself.

And every time I hear those words, I see someone limiting themselves.

Defeating themselves.

 

“I can’t” doesn’t keep you safe.

It means means you’re afraid to try.

“I can’t” doesn’t mean you are not able.

It means you are uncomfortable.

“I can’t” doesn’t make you happy.

It keeps you from happy.

 

“I can’t” is often a knee jerk reaction. A plea to keep the status quo and resist change.

We become adept at shoring up our “I can’ts” with excuses disguised as reasons.

It’s a shield.

A security blanket.

A delaying tactic.

That only serves to hold us back.

 

The biggest lie we tell ourselves is “I can’t.”

Stop lying.

You can.

 

The Husband Test

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I think I’ve developed a new test to see if a guy is husband material. Now, it’s probably not foolproof and I’m not going to offer a money-back guarantee or anything, but then again, I’m not going to charge you anything for it either.

All you have to do is go car shopping with him. Not looking for a car for you. Or even for a car that is designated to be shared from the outset. But for a car that is going to be his.

I can hear you now, “Lisa, did you hit your head ziplining the other day? Or maybe you’re finally having one of those teacher breakdowns. This is just nuts.”

Hopefully you know by now that I’m anything but normal and you trust me enough to hang with me.

Until 2005, my ex went through an assortment of cars, most of which I never drove. There was the 1956 Chevy without power steering that felt like wrestling the Hulk. There was the 1992 Integra he got from my mom whose clutch was out of reach for my petite femurs. This was followed by a pickup truck whose dimensions and layout intimidated me.

And then in 2005, he decided he wanted a good car. A new car. His own car. He decided on a 4Runner to maintain some of the utility of the truck while gaining the luxury of leather and fully conditioned space.I went with him to the dealership where I briefly test drove the vehicle in a parking lot after my husband took it through its paces on the open road. Even though my name was on the loan and on the title, that was only time I was ever behind the wheel.

Now, in all fairness, some of that was my doing. It was a large vehicle and driving it was out of my comfort zone. But asking to drive it was even more out of my comfort zone. Although generous in many respects, I somehow understood that his car was not mine to drive. It was his domain. And I was always a visitor.

Many years later, I was home sick from work, sleeping on the couch in my apartment. The phone rang, waking me from my feverish slumber. Seeing Brock’s name on the display, I picked up the phone and mumbled a groggy and somewhat irritated, “Hey.”

“I need you to come with me to buy a car.”

“What? I’m sick; I feel like crap. That’s the last thing I want to do,” I complained. I knew his old car was on its last legs and a new purchase was imminent, but seeing that we had only been dating for 6 months, I didn’t see what it had to do with me.

“I found a car I like and that should work, but I won’t buy it if you can’t drive it.”

What else could I do? I put some clothes on and stumbled down the stairs and met him in the parking lot of my complex. On the drive across town, he talked through the purchase, enumerating the pros and cons of the used CRV. I tried to pay attention, but it honestly became a blur. Once at the dealership, he insisted that I drive the car. Not just in a parking lot. But on a road. Certain that I was comfortable (or at least as comfortable as I could be with a raging case of strep throat), we went inside to the offices. I read a book while he handled the negotiations and all the paperwork. This time, I had no financial or legal claim to the vehicle, yet I already felt more like a co-owner than I ever did with the 4Runner.

His initial generosity with the car has continued; I’ve driven it on and off over the years, especially when my car is being naughty. But, at the end of the day, it’s just a Honda. And a used one at that.

The real test actually hit this past week. When we first met, Brock had a motorcycle that he loved. He eventually decided to sell it (I think the fun/danger ratio finally got to him) with the intention of someday buying a Corvette to take its place. I’ll be honest, I never understood the…well, drive for the muscle car. It seemed silly to me, but it was important to him.

Recently, he’s been getting closer to making that dream a reality. And, also recently, my car has been throwing a hissy fit. I saw the two events as basically separate. The ‘Vette, although still a dream, was his baby. And the CRV would frequently be required for his work. My transportation was another issue entirely. So I was shocked yesterday at his proposal, “There’s a Corvette I’m going to look at tomorrow and I want you to come with me. I want to make sure you can drive it.”

He went on to say that if my car’s recent tantrum turned out to be the beginning of the end, we could sell my car and make the Corvette my primary vehicle until I was able to get my own car.

I think my jaw dropped. This was his dream and I was more than just invited. I was being offered the keys.

We test drove the car. And, even as nonchalant as I am about all things car, I have to admit it was pretty freaking awesome. And even better, my foot reaches the clutch.

From there, we went to go pick up my car after its most recent surgery. I’m happy to report that it received a clean bill of health and a prognosis of a long and healthy life ahead.

When it comes down to it, I really don’t care that much about what I drive.

But what I do care about is that I now have a husband that will let me take the driver’s seat.

Even if he does tease me for going too slowly:)

Continuing Karma

Posted on by stilllearning2b

True confession time – I still haven’t watched the actual show:)

Here’s the additional footage from after the show! Sorry for the link; it won’t let me embed directly:(

 

http://www.investigationdiscovery.com/tv-shows/karmas-a-btch/karmas-a-btch-videos/continuing-karma-lisa.htm

I’ll post more when I can!

 

You’re Getting Warmer

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Do you ever react defensively to someone’s words?

I know I do.

I’m the queen of, “Yeah, but” and “I can’t” and “You don’t understand.”

Someone says something that justifies my ex’s actions and I respond with anger and righteousness (actually, this is not so true anymore, but it was for a long time!).

Someone else tells me that I can make this whole elderly car thing work out for the best and I want to stomp my feet like a frustrated two-year-old and scream in indignation.

Even Brock is not immune. When giving advice on my new career in real estate based upon his years of successful sales experience, I felt myself shutting down and becoming defensive rather than receptive.

So why do I respond this way?

It’s certainly not adaptive.

Or rational.

But there is a reason.

In every one of these cases (and in countless others), I picked up the armor and shield (and, yeah, sometimes a sword too) because the person was getting warmer.

They were dangerously close to touching on some hidden fear. Some inner wound that I preferred to protect rather than expose.

The remarks about my ex used to tweak that nerve that still stung with the betrayal and his words that I was the one responsible. I was still struggling to separate myself from his claims and actions and accept myself as whole and lovable and deserving. When someone validated him in some way, I saw it as reinforcing his false blames and devaluing me in the process.

The claims about my future triumph over the conundrum of reliable transportation triggers my deep-seated fears and shame around money and debt. I’ve been a bit head-in-the-sand about my car. I chose to focus on the assurances that it still has years of life remaining while not wanting to face the realities of its aging body. I take it to the mechanic’s and pay the bills as though I’m making a virgin sacrifice to the car gods – I will burn this $500 and in return, you will give me 12 more months of carefree driving. So I don’t always appreciate it when reality buts in.

And the advice from Brock? That tickled yet another insecurity. You see, Brock is a salesman. An excellent salesmen. And me? I literally freeze at the thought of making a cold call. In fact, I get nervous making any kind of call. Luckily, real estate is not sales in the purest sense. In fact, I see it as more customer service, an where I excel. But I’m still insecure, especially as I begin my career while overhearing Brock, confident in his, negotiate with the best of them. So, at the moment, I’m a bit oversensitive until I gain my footing.

In all of these cases, I have worked to address my deep-seated fears that triggered the defensive response. I’ve been very successful with that in terms of my ex and I’ve made progress on the financial anxieties. As for real estate? I suggest you approach with caution:)

Pay attention to your own protective reactions.

Be alert to when your guard goes up.

Or you respond with a firm, “I can’t.”

Because often, those reactions occur right at the area where you have work to do.

So instead of simply building walls and turning away, use that instinct as a sign to dig a little deeper and begin the needed repairs.

When you respond defensively, it means you’re getting warmer.

Keep searching.

You’ll find it.

 

 

 

 

Let it Go

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I’ve been in the classroom for thirteen years. And, in those years, I have accumulated a lot of…stuff. I have games and cards for curriculum I haven’t taught in many years. I have boxes filled with files that speak of units past. I have workbooks and textbooks, long since retired, that no longer correspond to the math that I (or anyone in the state for that matter!) teach. I have hundreds of labeled bags filled with measured out amounts of random items – pennies, pipe cleaners, little foam blocks – all used for math labs that are now curricular dinosaurs.

For years, I’ve carted around more than a dozen file boxes filled with these materials. I held onto them at first because I trusted that the educational pendulum would swing back and I would again be responsible for the teaching of polynomials and imaginary numbers. But with each election and each testing mandate, the chances became more and more slim that those topics would again trickle down to the middle school level.

But even as I let go of the notion of teaching these units again, I still held on to the boxes. Because those boxes held more than just paper and plastic; they contained the years that I considered my best in the classroom.

For a few precious years, I had the perfect storm in education: great curriculum, great class sizes and great students. By holding on to those boxes, I was holding on to the idea that the perfect storm may brew again and I could teach higher-level concepts to small groups of hard working kids. Every time I would move or sort through those boxes, I would grow sad, reminiscing about what was and what was no longer. The newer units didn’t hold the same appeal, not because they were worse but because the older ones were rose-tinted with memory, idealized in time. And with the old taking up permanent residence in my classroom, it was impossible not to compare.

I finally realized this year that keeping those boxes in my classroom is pretty much the equivalent of keeping my old wedding photos on my wall.

Uhh…no thanks.

It’s amazing the mental choreography we will create to attempt to rationalize grasping on to the old. We pretend that we may need it again in some, as yet, unknown future. Anxiety and worry speaking the language of “what ifs” in order to keep us prisoner to the detritus of our pasts. We claim that it serves as a reminder of the good times, even though its presence dulls the new. We allow memory and hope to create value where there is none and, even worse, waste energy and other resources on lugging around the boxes, both real and metaphorical,  from our former lives.

So this morning, I sorted through thirteen years of lessons and saved projects. I filled recycle bins and garbage bags and re-gifted the plastic tubs to a new home.

It’s a little scary.

Letting go always is.

But you can’t reach the next rung until you’re willing to release the last.

And it’s also freeing.

Letting go always is.

Because it’s only in releasing our grasp on the past that we are able to fly towards our future.

8a0001272065287cc7e5c51536b59326