One Isn’t the Loneliest Number

 

English: The loneliness of Culloden Culloden i...

The song tells us that one is the loneliest number.

 

The song lies.

 

Because two has the potential to be lonelier than one could ever be.

 

When you’re one – alone and single – you know your position. You harbor no false hopes of connection. You carry no expectations of companionship. You know where you stand.

 

But when you’re two – half of pair – you begin to expect understanding. You look for and anticipate gestures of love. You want and assume that you will be listened to and recognized.

 

When those expectations are not met, when you are standing together yet you feel apart, that is loneliest feeling you can ever have. Those moments when your partner does not seem to see you, those feelings that go unrecognized, can cause you to feel more isolated and invisible than any table for one.

 

Loneliness is a strange beast – we fear it and yet we invite it in to curl up by the hearth. Loneliness is a choice. You cannot control how others respond to you but you can change how you respond in turn. Be honest with yourself – are you inviting loneliness in? Is your ego preventing you from accepting help? Are you sending signals that you want to be left alone? Are you failing to recognize the signs that someone is reaching out to you? Are your expectations blinding you?

 

Are you failing to make decisions because you are afraid of being lonely? Do you isolate yourself rather than take the risk of companionship? Do you assume your partner isn’t listening and you turn away in anticipation? Do you build up walls and then lament that no one tries to demolish them?

 

The truth is, regardless of outward appearances, we are all lonely at times. It doesn’t matter how many Facebook friends you have or how many roses your partner buys you. We all feel separate at times, misunderstood. It’s normal. Unless we perfect telepathy (Sookie Stackhouse, I’m looking at you!), we are the only ones who inhabit ourselves.

Alone doesn’t have to mean lonely.

 

Loneliness is a choice. We only become invisible when allow ourselves to be. Loneliness comes from within; it is a perception and an insecurity with oneself. It is a self-feeding emotion. The more you welcome it in, the more it takes up residence. Recognize it. Acknowledge it. And then try acting as though it isn’t there. It’s funny- when you no longer focus on how lonely you are, you often forget that feel alone.

 

One isn’t the loneliest number.

 

And really, neither is two.

 

You have a choice to make any number lonely or not. It’s up to you.

 

 

 

 

 

A Cynic’s Guide to Valentine’s Day

Valentine's Day Flowers

So you thought you were safe? You survived the holiday season and you were beginning to settle back into normalcy. And then. Wham! Back with the sappy commercials. Out come the gaudy decorations. The messages of material happiness are yet again bombarding our senses from every direction.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

I don’t think there’s any holiday that is viewed with as much dread as Valentine’s Day. For the single, it is an acute awareness of their uncoupled state. For the partnered, it is a day fraught with expectations that are unattainable. And for those in undefined relationships, it is a holiday filled with questions and a delicate dance of protocol.

So who is this holiday even for anyway? According to the media, men end up spending money on diamonds or chocolates (or PajamaGrams) that represent their love. They then surprise their mate with their gift. Upon receiving the gift, the women swoon over their partner, their adoring eyes gazing up at their man. The subtext is obvious. Men – if you don’t give your partner something, she will be upset. Women – if you receive nothing, you are unloved.

Or at least that’s the way the commercials explain it. The expectations for perfection and romance have been elevated to laughable levels.

Unless you’re a millionaire Calvin Klein model who has the ability and inclination to whisk your girlfriend off to Paris where you can propose at the base of the Eiffel tower, you’ll fall short. Women are primed to believe that their man does not love them if they do not receive some tangible proof on a predetermined day on the calender. This notion is absurd.

When your coworker receives some elaborate bouquet, do not assume it is because her husband is a contender for a starring role in a romantic comedy. Perhaps the roses are a mea culpa for a major screw up. Or maybe he is some narcissistic jerk who wants others to fawn over his generosity.The truth is that a single gift, no matter how elaborate or romantic, is not a sign of love.

Love should be ongoing and omnipresent. It is the tiny crinkle in the corner of his eye when he sees you. It’s the comforting presence of a hand of your back when you’re feeling unsure. It’s the encouraging word, the passionate kiss and the understanding nod. It’s the embrace that eases all tension. Love cannot be bought and sold. It does not exist in a single day. It doesn’t need sparkle or a candy coated shell to dress it up.

I remember in elementary school, we would all exchange cards until we had a hand made envelope bulging with terms of endearment. We would eat candy and take a break from school work to laugh and talk and play. It didn’t matter if you were male or female. Single or had recently wed with a foil ring under the swings. Those were some of my favorite Valentine’s Days. No high expectations, just a day to celebrate togetherness and laughter. A time to share notes about what we loved and appreciated in others. And that’s a Valentine’s Day that can make even a cynic smile.

Here are my non-cynical Valentine wishes for you:

Let go of expectations.  Enjoy the moments in the day.  Celebrate your beauty and worth.  Kiss a dog.  Or cat.  Or baby.  Treat yourself to a breathe of fresh air.  Pamper yourself.  Perform an act of kindness for another.  Laugh.  Make a gratitude list.  And, if all else fails, remember that the next day is the 15th.

Valentine's Day Flowers

Work is Like a Gas

Chemistry 1965

Work is like a gas.

It expands to fill its allotted space.

As a teacher, I have fixed hours: 8:30-4:30 M-F. That time is entirely consumed with meetings, conferences, tutoring and, let’s not forget, instruction. That means that I have to find time outside of that window to prepare lessons, write materials and grade papers.

In my old life, I let that work expand unbounded into all areas of my life. I showed up at work at 7:00 when the custodians were the only other life in the building.  I worked in the evenings, grading papers while watching a movie with my husband. Half of my Saturday would be spent in front of the computer, planning lessons and writing materials. Even vacations weren’t sacred – I would frequently have a bag of work by my feet as we drove off to some destination.

During the divorce, I realized that I needed to set boundaries. I still came into school early, but I refused to take work home. I liked that morning time – it was bound by the bell that started the day. Much to my surprise, I found that I could still get done much of what I needed to. The lessons weren’t as fleshed out, but my years of experience had long since made that unneccessary. The activities weren’t as neat and typo-free, but it turns out that 8th graders don’t really care (or even notice) and a type doesn’t limit learning. Occasionally, I felt rushed or unprepared when something came up unexpectedly at the last moment. But that happened when I worked all of the time, too.

Last year, when I started my 28 day mediation challenge, I pushed my start time back to 7:30 so that I a few precious moments in the morning where I could meditate without having to get up at an even more ridiculous time. It was heaven. I arrived at work rested and calm. The centered mind more than made up for the missing half hour.

This year, I told myself that I would start the year by going in at 7:00 to allow time for the added workload of the beginning of the school year. I promised myself that I would move that back to 7:30 by the end of the 1st quarter.

It’s now the 3rd quarter and I’ve only walked through the doors after 7:00 a handful of times. In fact, it’s been closer to 6:45 on most mornings.

What went wrong? Why am I allowing this time? Do I really need it or am I just afraid that I will fall behind if I do not allow that extra half hour? I’ve been feeling unbalanced with work this year – it’s taking more energy and causing more stress than I would like.

What would happen if I narrow its container? Bound it with walls that restrict its flow? Would that found time restore balance?

I intend to find out.

Beginning today.

Learning to Trust Myself

New Orleans. Mardi Gras. And Super Bowl!
New Orleans. Mardi Gras. And Super Bowl!

 

The hardest part of learning to trust after betrayal has been learning to trust myself.

My fiance and his cousin, both huge Ravens fans, were lucky enough to score tickets to the Super Bowl. In New Orleans. During Mardi Gras. Talk about the ultimate boy’s weekend!

Brock came back into town Monday night but due to his exhaustion on Monday and our crazy schedules on Tuesday, we really didn’t have a chance to connect until last night.

We went to one of our favorite eating spots, ordered our food and he set up his iPad to show me the pictures from the weekend. It was a bit of a deja vu experience for me.

Almost four years ago, I sat in a similar restaurant with my husband, a MacBook Pro open in front of us as he showed me pictures of his recent 10 day trip to Brazil. On the surface, much was the same between those two days. Underneath? Nothing in common at all.

Just weeks before leaving the marriage, my husband returned from what I thought was a business trip in Brazil. I was told that he was there to work with a frequent client of his and the specified show he was supposed to be working was in Sao Paulo That was true. The rest was not. The details he told me about the build and his frustrations with the Brazilian labor were complete lies. The names of people he was working with were utter fabrications. Instead of a work trip, it was actually a pre honeymoon with his soon-to-be second wife.

I didn’t know any of this until later.

I completely trusted my husband. It never would have entered my mind that he culled pictures to make a file that was “Lisa” safe, removing all evidence of his fiancee. I never thought to carefully examine the “work” pictures in the mix, looking for signs that they were pulled from the internet or from earlier shows.

My brain trusted my husband completely. Yet, my gut was unsettled during that entire trip. I was anxious, restless, filled with concern for his safety. It knew something.

Last weekend could not have been more different. My fiance was at the ultimate party and I was completely calm. I had no anxiety. No unease.  I looked at his pictures with complete calm, enjoying his enjoyment.

It’s crazy to think that I used to trust my husband more than I trusted myself. I believed him more that I believed my own instincts. I have learned how to trust myself. I have tuned in to my instincts and I am less inclined to rationalize any twinges that I feel. There is no guarantee that I will never be betrayed again, but at least I know that I won’t be the one to do it.

Life Whisperer

photo-212

I started watching The Dog Whisperer about a year after my sudden divorce. Much to my surprise, I learned even more about myself from Cesar Millan than I did about my dog. He always says in his show that he “rehabilitates dogs,” but he “trains people.” In my case, he helped to rehabilitate me after a particularly difficult time in my life. Here are the life lessons I learned from the Dog Whisperer:

Read the rest on the Huffington Post.