Reading the obituary page is definitely my favorite part of the whole paper. The rest of the paper is all passing news, the scandal of the hour, and no matter how horrifying that particular hour is-well, as someone once said (the Bible?), "This too shall pass." But not the Obits. The Obits will stay the same way forever, and the lives of the people they memorialize are now static. How much easier it is to get a handle on something when you're pretty sure that no new information will be dropped on you at the last minute. Of course that isn't uniformly true. God bless the family that finds out years after a death about some unsavory aspect of the deceased (Grandma's S&M buddy memorializes her as such in his obit), and also those who find out about a heretofore unknown aspect of their loved one's good character (the janitor who saved millions to donate to charity). However, these are probably the exception to the rule. For the most folks, the obit is the final summary of what you did or did not do.
When I scan the obits, I look first for the tragedy. The birth and death dates that aren't far enough apart, the "died suddenly and unexpectedly," the ones that mention the memorial service being held at a high school. Tragedy wakes you up like no cup of coffee ever could, readying you for a day of making sure you get a few things taken care of, telling some folks how much you love (or despise) them, and doing something worth noting for chris'sake! It seems like a mistake to me to think that because I am 23 I have plenty of time to make my death noteworthy and my obit interesting. I've seen many 17-25 year olds in the paper, whose families were obviously struggling to come up with something notable about them without resorting to their remarkable ability to be an ass to their parents, their outrageous acne, their record breaking SAT scores, etc. They end up with something like, "Jessica/Kevin was a friend to everyone she/he met." No, they weren't. Why would they want to be? I much prefer the families who choose to acknowledge what may have been truly remarkable about their kid, but maybe they're the only ones who knew or appreciated it. "Epiphany Asteroid Jones once told her 2nd grade teacher to kiss off, and maintained that attitude ever since, applying it especially vigorously to her cancer." The lucky ones are those whose kids actually did do something that they would have wanted written about. "Mary volunteered as a Ski-for-All guide, helping people who were blind or had no legs to ski." It seems almost more tragic than a premature death when the parents can't think of anything to say about their kid. I don't want to be mean. The last place anyone hopes or plans to spend their creative writing energy is on their child's obit, and unlike the elderly, few teenagers pre-write the obit or mention what they want said. I guess I just hope that if I died right now, no one would censor themselves. Just pour out all the grief and humor you can find in my life and death, and publish it for posterity to dig up in a geneology library some day.
The next set of folks I look for are those who were married for 50+ years. Remarkable. That's something that, if I am hardworking, lucky, and dogged enough to accomplish, I damn sure want noted in my obit. If the spouse is surviving, I am forced to think about them. I have shared a bed with Alex for seven years, and I don't sleep well without his twitches and snorts, and the occasional, precious half-awake declaration of love. It's unimaginable how one would feel after 65 years, whether they were spectacular years or not. I guess for some it could be a sense of relief, but I have to think that for most it's more like losing three of your limbs, all at a go. "John leaves behind his wife of 67 years," is going to be a rarer and rarer sighting on the obit page. Those I read about who reached the 50 year mark were married when they were around 20, sometime in the 1940's. I know very few people now who are married before they're 30, if they marry at all. Those that do eventually marry proceed to get divorced in fairly short order. It seems like 20-25 years is the longest one can hope to be married these days. I certainly hope it's a trend that turns around, that some miracle of good communication skills and loving respect will present itself out of the depths of a nation immersed in bad examples on reality TV. In the meantime, I pay my respects to these hardworking and loyal spouses.
After premature deaths and long-time spouses, I read everyone else. A few minutes spent in meditation on people with no obit, just death notices. A few admiring thoughts for folks who did quirky things they must have caught flack for (collecting 150 antique vacuum cleaners comes to mind), and people who suffered the extraordinary and lived on (a child abducted and never heard from again, a holocaust survivor, any combat vets). I know there are lots of things not said in the obits that might be lovable or despicable, and I spend a minute contemplating what those things might be.
Then I close the paper, and having been reminded of the important stuff, live my life.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Not Much Cookin'
Not much to report at all today. I rode the bus to the shelter, which was great. Buses are fantastic when you have all the time in the world to get where you're going, and a good book to entertain you and keep the weirdos away. It was a perfect fall day here: cool, crisp, blue skies, and a breeze.
The shelter was quiet, and all I did was update obselete forms in an obselete word processing program. I worked with T., my favorite advocate. She is hardworking, up front, and knowledgeable. What more could anyone ask for.
I just finished a pretty good book, called The Beautiful Things that Heaven Bears. And, after spending a few minutes thinking about it, I decided to add a reading list to this blog. I always appreciate a lead on a good book, and my mom has always (really, always-like since 2nd grade) encouraged me to start a reading list. Like many things my mom has encouraged me to do over the years, I regret not having done this sooner. Just trying to remember what I've read over the last few weeks was hard, let alone 2nd grade. I'll always remember Ramona, Nancy Drew, Zel, and unfortuantely and embarrassingly, the Babysitters Club series. Beyond that it's a long, mostly happy blur. The public library doesn't keep a list of what you check out, which is quaint, since I'm sure Homeland Security does.
Maybe I'll have more exciting things to say soon. If anyone actually reads this blog, post comments now or forever hold your peace when I start posting gory details of my cat's life because I think no one else is reading this....
The shelter was quiet, and all I did was update obselete forms in an obselete word processing program. I worked with T., my favorite advocate. She is hardworking, up front, and knowledgeable. What more could anyone ask for.
I just finished a pretty good book, called The Beautiful Things that Heaven Bears. And, after spending a few minutes thinking about it, I decided to add a reading list to this blog. I always appreciate a lead on a good book, and my mom has always (really, always-like since 2nd grade) encouraged me to start a reading list. Like many things my mom has encouraged me to do over the years, I regret not having done this sooner. Just trying to remember what I've read over the last few weeks was hard, let alone 2nd grade. I'll always remember Ramona, Nancy Drew, Zel, and unfortuantely and embarrassingly, the Babysitters Club series. Beyond that it's a long, mostly happy blur. The public library doesn't keep a list of what you check out, which is quaint, since I'm sure Homeland Security does.
Maybe I'll have more exciting things to say soon. If anyone actually reads this blog, post comments now or forever hold your peace when I start posting gory details of my cat's life because I think no one else is reading this....
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Workaholics, relax-o-matics
I've been thinking a lot about work lately. Some would say I have time to think about it because I haven't been doing that much of it. I think it's part of my lifelong process of self-acceptance. Also, living with and loving the people I do, work is like a 7th house mate, a family member, the juicy friend that's great to gossip about around the dinner table.
Some people work a lot because they must in order to make ends meet. Other people genuinely love what they do for a living. Some feel obligated to work because their work is important to the world. But I've found that the people I know, regardless of their motivation for working or whether they take pride in the work itself, take pride in working a lot.
I'm not so sure working more than necessary is a good thing. Everyone seems to have a rebellious viewpoint on at least one generally excepted socio-cultural norm. My friend Ben thinks that lard is good for you, and damn the surgeon general. Several friends think that monogamy is a terrible and oppressive practice. A few disbelieve in the existence of most mental illness. I take issue with the moral value of work, specifically working a lot.
These work-a-lot types aren't the people I'd think they would be. It's not like they're stock brokers, day traders, ER residents, miners. They're union organizers, teachers, bar tenders, students, retail clerks. Alex, as some of you might know, is definitely a work-a-lot type, and he has so far come up with the best (and most damning) explanation of work-a-lots for me. "If everyone else would just work more, just do their share, I wouldn't have to work so hard." He told me this a few years ago, and I was overcome with guilt. I, through my relaxation, was working him to death. I immediately started a student group, joined a board, started volunteering at a shelter and a hospital. By God, I was going to do my part to save the hard working work-a-lot types from perishing for my relaxation sins. Of course, that is the vastly oversimplified version of events. I really did and still do care about the organizations and projects I am involved in.
Nothing changed except for my level of anxiety and self-loathing. I'm bad at being overworked, and for a long time that has been a source of shame for me. I have an irresistable urge to slack when I am overwhelmed, and it's not as pleasant as it sounds. At my breaking point, it happens like this: I lay down to sleep, at last, around 1am. I have nightmares all night, that make me cry out, thrash, and generally disrupt my own and Alex's sleep (recently, my spine was torn out by an alligator). After weeks of sleep that is basically more exhausting than it is restful, I wake up one morning, crack my eyes, and can't get out of bed. My heart is beating so fast I fear that I will have a heart attack. I know, from various failed attempts at athletic training, what my maximum heart rate is, and I know that I must me approaching it as I lay there sweating and panting, exhausted and unable to do the 8 bazillion things I have promised various committees, the homeless, the abused, my family, my friends, myself, that I will do. It goes on like this, until I close my eyes and wait, submit to the panic, and eventually it passes. If I have any sense, I go climb into the guest bed and go back to sleep. If not, I go get started on the 8 bazillion things, but the truth, I've learned from so many repeats of this episode, is that it's all over at this point. My relax-o-matic kicks in. I can't focus enough to get anything done. In my shame, I don't call or email or text anyone to let them know that I'll be dropping out of society for a few days or weeks. I just stop. Recently, I stopped as I have before, but this time I tried something different. I tried not to hate myself for stopping. The nightmares and the heart attacks continued for a while, but over the last few weeks they've been on the decline.
It's hard not to think of my inability to handle overwork as one of my greatest moral failings. There are all kinds of derogatory labels for people like me, but I know they're others out there. Partly because Alex is not one of them, and he complains frequently about people who all of a sudden, after a period of good work, stop returning his calls and emails, miss deadlines without warning, blow off important meetings. He is mystified, but I know. They're me. It doesn't help a lot on my mission of self-love that these people drive Alex crazy, but whether out of unconditional love or out of ignorance of my true relaxing nature, he loves me. I prefer to think it's the latter that gets us through.
One option that I've considered in the past is that other people only pretend to work harder than I find possible, unkindly fibbing me into attempting the unreasonable. Sadly, that theory has been disproved my my current acquaintances. In the interest of their privacy, I won't go into specifics of their schedules, but suffice to say that no one works merely 40 hours a week. Relaxation is a priority for no one. Reading the paper leisurely while drinking a hot cup of coffee, contemplatively staring out the window for a few minutes, browsing dusty corners of the local public library-none of this is penciled into their schedules. Some of them try, sometimes subtly, sometimes cuttingly, to make me feel like a bit of a loser for partaking in these activities. Lately, I refuse. I refuse to feel guilty. Not that I have reached Buddha-like peace with myself on this issue. I'm still just a little jealous of other people's capacity for work, but lately I've been hoping that they are a tad jealous of my capacity for doing nothing.
Some people work a lot because they must in order to make ends meet. Other people genuinely love what they do for a living. Some feel obligated to work because their work is important to the world. But I've found that the people I know, regardless of their motivation for working or whether they take pride in the work itself, take pride in working a lot.
I'm not so sure working more than necessary is a good thing. Everyone seems to have a rebellious viewpoint on at least one generally excepted socio-cultural norm. My friend Ben thinks that lard is good for you, and damn the surgeon general. Several friends think that monogamy is a terrible and oppressive practice. A few disbelieve in the existence of most mental illness. I take issue with the moral value of work, specifically working a lot.
These work-a-lot types aren't the people I'd think they would be. It's not like they're stock brokers, day traders, ER residents, miners. They're union organizers, teachers, bar tenders, students, retail clerks. Alex, as some of you might know, is definitely a work-a-lot type, and he has so far come up with the best (and most damning) explanation of work-a-lots for me. "If everyone else would just work more, just do their share, I wouldn't have to work so hard." He told me this a few years ago, and I was overcome with guilt. I, through my relaxation, was working him to death. I immediately started a student group, joined a board, started volunteering at a shelter and a hospital. By God, I was going to do my part to save the hard working work-a-lot types from perishing for my relaxation sins. Of course, that is the vastly oversimplified version of events. I really did and still do care about the organizations and projects I am involved in.
Nothing changed except for my level of anxiety and self-loathing. I'm bad at being overworked, and for a long time that has been a source of shame for me. I have an irresistable urge to slack when I am overwhelmed, and it's not as pleasant as it sounds. At my breaking point, it happens like this: I lay down to sleep, at last, around 1am. I have nightmares all night, that make me cry out, thrash, and generally disrupt my own and Alex's sleep (recently, my spine was torn out by an alligator). After weeks of sleep that is basically more exhausting than it is restful, I wake up one morning, crack my eyes, and can't get out of bed. My heart is beating so fast I fear that I will have a heart attack. I know, from various failed attempts at athletic training, what my maximum heart rate is, and I know that I must me approaching it as I lay there sweating and panting, exhausted and unable to do the 8 bazillion things I have promised various committees, the homeless, the abused, my family, my friends, myself, that I will do. It goes on like this, until I close my eyes and wait, submit to the panic, and eventually it passes. If I have any sense, I go climb into the guest bed and go back to sleep. If not, I go get started on the 8 bazillion things, but the truth, I've learned from so many repeats of this episode, is that it's all over at this point. My relax-o-matic kicks in. I can't focus enough to get anything done. In my shame, I don't call or email or text anyone to let them know that I'll be dropping out of society for a few days or weeks. I just stop. Recently, I stopped as I have before, but this time I tried something different. I tried not to hate myself for stopping. The nightmares and the heart attacks continued for a while, but over the last few weeks they've been on the decline.
It's hard not to think of my inability to handle overwork as one of my greatest moral failings. There are all kinds of derogatory labels for people like me, but I know they're others out there. Partly because Alex is not one of them, and he complains frequently about people who all of a sudden, after a period of good work, stop returning his calls and emails, miss deadlines without warning, blow off important meetings. He is mystified, but I know. They're me. It doesn't help a lot on my mission of self-love that these people drive Alex crazy, but whether out of unconditional love or out of ignorance of my true relaxing nature, he loves me. I prefer to think it's the latter that gets us through.
One option that I've considered in the past is that other people only pretend to work harder than I find possible, unkindly fibbing me into attempting the unreasonable. Sadly, that theory has been disproved my my current acquaintances. In the interest of their privacy, I won't go into specifics of their schedules, but suffice to say that no one works merely 40 hours a week. Relaxation is a priority for no one. Reading the paper leisurely while drinking a hot cup of coffee, contemplatively staring out the window for a few minutes, browsing dusty corners of the local public library-none of this is penciled into their schedules. Some of them try, sometimes subtly, sometimes cuttingly, to make me feel like a bit of a loser for partaking in these activities. Lately, I refuse. I refuse to feel guilty. Not that I have reached Buddha-like peace with myself on this issue. I'm still just a little jealous of other people's capacity for work, but lately I've been hoping that they are a tad jealous of my capacity for doing nothing.
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