Lipstick On a Pig

Posted on by stilllearning2b

It was just an ordinary day. But my reaction was anything but ordinary.

It started out innocently enough. My now-ex-husband and I were walking through the mall on a cold, rainy Saturday afternoon when he posed an innocuous question:

“How many stores here apart from department stores do you think sell lipstick?”

I pondered for a moment, mentally cataloging the Brookstone and Ambercrombies,  before responding, “I don’t think any more than three or four.”

“I disagree. I’ll bet there’s at least five.”

It became a challenge. What should have been a fun, mall version of Slugbug or logging truck tallying turned into an all-out war.

At least for me.

 

I started out confidently enough as we passed store after store that did not display any lipstick on its shelves.

But then my assurance was shaken when we found two stores in a row that promoted lip coloring products: Spencer’s Gifts had black lipstick for those that leaned towards Goth and a store that appeared to cater to strippers had a small lipstick display with the accessories.

We hadn’t even walked a full wing of the mall and the count was already almost halfway there.

He kept it light, teasing and joking and laughing.

I didn’t.

After a third store, a place that sold upscale handbags and scarves, proved to have lipstick, I grew obsessed.

 

For some reason, this became about more than lipstick to me.

It wasn’t even so much about needing to be right.

It was about wanting him to be wrong.

 

As I think back now on my first marriage, I realize that I had a tendency to point out his mistakes or misdirections.

Rather than simply turning off the oven, I felt the need to inform him that he left it on.

Instead of simply securing an unlocked door, I felt the need to point out that the door was left unbolted.

 

Now, I fully recognize that this was not an attractive trait I carried. I accept full weight of that fact. I fight sometimes with a need to be right, an insecurity found in wrong answers that was fortified with a drive for good grades in school.

But there’s more to the lipstick story than that.

 

Because I have never been that prone to point out mistakes with anyone else. In fact, I generally am more apt to avoid confrontation and do a behind-the-scenes cover-up than to announce someone’s mistake.

So why did I act that way with my ex?

 

I think it was because he never admitted his own wrongs.

He never copped to forgetting something.

He hated to reveal any weakness and would strive to cover it up.

He always seemed to know everything.

Be able to do everything.

And so I felt a need to prove him wrong.

To show that, like all of us, he had areas of strength and areas of deficiency.

To bring him down from a pedestal to a human level.

 

 

Interestingly enough, one of the traits that Brock possesses that attracted me was his ease with admitting fault.

Because in order to fix anything, we have to first accept our responsibility.

Otherwise, all we’re doing is putting lipstick on a pig.

 

 

Side note: I am fully aware that this inability to admit fault and the need to be perceived as all-knowing is a characteristic of narcissism. I refrain from labeling him. Here’s why.

 

 

 

 

Term Limits

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I have several people in my life who are at the difficult stage of having to make the decision to put a beloved family pet to sleep. I feel for them and I know that I will join them soon with my own Miss Kitty.

It’s hard – we take in these creatures and they become an integral part of our lives. They lick tears off our faces when we’re sad, comfort us when we’re sick and greet us with a smile even when the world seems to have nothing but harsh words for us. They follow us through life transitions – vetting dates, sniffing infants as they arrive from the hospital and filling a void when children leave. They are the trusted confidants of the entire family. The house clown and the soft teddy bear.

We take them on knowing full well that they will only be with us for 10 years. Or 15. Or, if we’re really lucky, a few more. But we still know that their time with us has a limit. And that no matter when it arrives, the end will come before we are ready.

On my evening run today, thoughts of our animals swirled around with thoughts of marriage. I was just coming off an interesting Twitter discussion with @survivinglimbo and @OMGchronicles where we were debating the concept of divorce as a failure. Here is Surviving Limbo’s take. And here is Vicki Larson’s, aka OMG Chronicles, perspective.

I think I’m somewhere in between. Here’s what I’ve written in the past, before marriage #2. I know I don’t view my first marriage as a failure even though it ended. I guess to me it was good (at least from what I knew) while it lasted and I learned from its ending. That’s not a failure in my book. At the same time, I experience discomfort with Vicki’s concept that maybe a marriage should be term limited with an option to renew the contract at a particular point. Perhaps I’m still naive or idealistic, but I continue to hold onto the intent of a marriage lasting a lifetime (even though I am well aware that the reality may be different).

But maybe sometimes marriage is not unlike our animals. It comes in, occupies every corner of our lives. It brings smiles and joy. And then (sometimes) it fades away. Maybe in 10 years. Or 15. Or for those that are very lucky, a few more.

For me, I like the idea of a lifetime commitment. To doing all that I can do make it work. I don’t like living with the end in mind.

But even when ends come, it just means the term limit has expired.

It says nothing about the term itself.

 

Teamwork

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Sometimes I want to smack myself.

No, really.

You see, I’m good at seeing patterns in other people’s behavior or actions, but always so good at spotting it when it hits closer to home.

Sort of a psychological case of farsightedness.

And when it finally comes into focus, it seems so obvious. So clear.

That it just about smacks me across the face.

 

The new patio table (to replace the one shattered by the neighbor’s tree) arrived on Wednesday. Even though we were both tired, Brock and I made the decision to assemble the table that afternoon so that we could finally put the tree event behind us. I changed into shorts while he cued up some tunes. Over the next hour or so, we unwrapped and untied. Carried and bolted. And, finally, just as the sun slid behind the tall trees, we placed the cushions on the seats.

And through it all, we barely spoke.

Not because we were angry. Or upset. Or distant.

But because no words were needed. We split up to conquer individual tasks only to reunite to tackle challenges that required more than two hands. We catered to strengths and anticipated needs.

It was awesome.

 

And it was also new.

 

I used to grow frustrated when undertaking a project with Brock. I remembered working smoothly, effortlessly with my ex and tasks attempted with Brock always seemed to take too long and require too much emotional effort. Of course, I attributed this to him. After all, I had been able to work in concert with someone else, so it couldn’t be because of any deficits or traits of mine. Sometimes I missed the easy nature of working on a shared task that I had with my ex, but I also accepted that this was not an area of strength for Brock and I.

But I made a mistake in my reasoning. I was comparing how my ex and I were after many years (and the endless projects of a fixer-upper house) to how Brock and I were after only a few years with fewer projects. And I had conveniently forgotten the frustrations that my ex and I encountered as we learned to work together. As with anything in a relationship, teamwork is formed, not found. The frustrations that Brock and I felt had little to do with our different approaches and unique perspectives and much more to do with a lack of practice.

And practice makes better.

Even in marriage.

 

 

 

Free Advice

Posted on by stilllearning2b

At some point in the past year or so, Brock and I (sometimes independently, but often together) have become the go-tos for relationship advice for our friends. It’s a bit funny, really – Brock with his later-in-life first marriage and alpha male exterior and me with minimal dating experience and a spectacularly failed first marriage – giving advice. But our Mutt and Jeff approach seems to work. I have a tendency to listen and gently probe into underlying themes while Brock has a good instinct and an ability to drive straight into the issue at hand. I think we’re good at it for the same reason I’m good at teaching math – we had to work to get to where we are. And there’s a lot of thought and intent that accompanies that struggle.

Here’s an assemblage of some of the dispensed advice over the past year or so. Maybe a piece will speak to you.

On Being a Knight

There’s a high that comes from being a recuser, from being needed. It feeds the ego and lends a sense of security born of dependence. For the rescued, it is a way to avoid responsibility and yet have ones needs met. A relationship founded on this dynamic will always have a power and responsibility imbalance. By all means, help. But don’t enable. Because when you help someone more than they help themselves, you end up hurting both of you. 

On Having the Right Friends

The people you surround yourself with matters. Not only do they reflect upon you, they shape you. Before you sign up for online dating or scour your networks for a potential partner, examine your social circle. Do they embody the sort of life you want for yourself? Are they helping you become the best you possible or are they holding you back? As Brock says, “I’m the bobber on the water and I refuse to attach to anyone who wants to pull me under.”

On the Oxygen Mask Theory

“I know she’s in a rough place and I don’t want to leave her knowing that it will get worse.” My response? “You are not responsible for someone else’s well-being. That’s her job. Your job is to treat the relationship with respect and to take care of you.” I then told him how I used to tell my ex that he made me happy. And why that was a huge mistake.

On Making Changes

Brock was the guy that nobody every thought would marry. And then he made some significant changes in his life that led him to where he is now. I’m often asked, “How did you get him to change?” I didn’t. He made that choice and started on that path before I was ever in the picture. You can’t change another person no matter how long you wait. If you don’t like them as they are, move on. They’ll change when they’re ready, not when you are.

On Trust and Honesty 

“Relationships are built on trust. How can you ever establish a relationship when it is built on lies?” questioned Brock. Lying has a tendency to become a way of approaching the world and attempting to solve (or avoid) conflict. If someone is dishonest to others, don’t assume they are truthful to you.

On Fear

Cutting straight to the heart of it all, “Relationships that are held together by fear will never last.” And Brock is right. Whether it’s fear of being alone or fear being abandoned or the fear of not being needed, it leads to grasping, not loving. It’s sort of strange that only when you are in a position where don’t “need” the other person that you can allow yourself to truly be with them.

 

 

The Limitations of Empathy

Posted on by stilllearning2b

“Put yourself in his or her shoes,” I often find myself saying to my students in order to encourage them to respond kindly and with compassion. And in some cases, that works, especially when the recipient of my advice has had a similar experience to that of the student in question. If I’m asking a kid to empathize with the disappointment of a failing grade or the misery of the flu, they will come through with greater understanding and tolerance.

But what if I ask them to empathize with something they’ve never experienced?

Sure, they can try to imagine what it would be like to be Anne Frank trembling in the attic with Nazi soldiers below as they read her story. They can write letters from the perspective of Civil War soldiers, relating their experiences to their families back at home. Or, much more recently, they can listen to the adults in their lives tell the story of 9/11 and they can follow along and perhaps name emotions felt on that day.

But they can’t truly emphasize because they lack the underlying experiences.

With kids, I’m aware of and (usually) patient of their limitations in empathy. With adults? It’s harder.I sometimes forget that not everyone has had similar experiences. Not everyone has the background to be able to slip into another’s shoes.

I felt this acutely when Brock and I started dating. He didn’t seem to able to grasp the depth of the betrayal and loss I experienced. It made us both frustrated – me because I felt misunderstood and him because he wanted to understand, but couldn’t. It bothered me, but it was never a major issue. After all, I had a support system for dealing with my past and he wasn’t the primary support beam. And even though he didn’t always understand, he always treated me (and my issues!) with respect and concern.

And then, out of the blue, he recently surprised me. He initiated a conversation about how difficult a divorce must be and how it impacts every area of someone’s life. Now that we’ve been married almost a year (how time does fly!) and he has experienced the intimacy and intertwining that comes from allowing oneself to be vulnerable and open, he realizes what can be lost.

And now he can empathize.

I know he still doesn’t understand the extent of my ex’s pathology (whatever it may be) or the brutality of the betrayal, but I hope he never does. Those are experiences I hope he never has.

Even if it means he will never completely understand.

And that’s the thing about empathy. It has its limitations. After all, you can put on someone else’s shoes, but you still won’t have walked in their past steps.

The Four Worst Things to Say to a Friend Who Is Suffering