Chatting with strangers

by | May 25, 2006 | Uncategorized

With 2 of our daughters on soccer teams which play on alternate nights, we spend a majority of our evenings sitting on the sidelines of soccer fields these days. It’s not a bad way to spend an evening. We usually bike there and back, so it’s been a great way to get the family out for bike rides. It’s been a pleasant spring – very little rain, and just a few really cool days.

Because we usually go as a family, Maddie has no choice but to come along. She doesn’t mind, especially when it’s a field with a play-structure close by or when Julie’s best friend’s little sister is there for her to play with.

Last night was one of those nights when there was neither play structure nor best friend’s little sister in the near vicinity. So, because she’s not particularly enthralled with soccer yet, she had to find her own entertainment.

For awhile, she borrowed books from the mom next to us who’d come well supplied with Dr. Suess books for her young daughter. Then she bugged me to get her soccer ball out of the car (the game was in Lorette – a little far to bike) and she played with that. Then, when she spotted three kids playing not far away, she ran off to join them. Before long, she’d offered up her soccer ball and they were making up soccer “rules” to imitate their older sisters.

Sometimes, I wish I had Maddie’s boldness. She has always assumed people will like her. Unlike our other 2 daughters, she has no qualms about marching up to unfamiliar children and engaging them in play. She happily borrows books from a strange mom, never worrying whether she is doing the “right” thing. She’ll speak to almost anyone, and only has very rare moments of shyness.

The thing is – when you go through life assuming people will like you, people usually DO. People are drawn to confidence and boldness. Maddie has always made friends easily, and so far I haven’t witnessed any kids being turned off by her straightforward approach. She’s not pushy or anything, just friendly. (No, she’s not perfect either – she WAS getting a little bossy with the soccer rules last night. 🙂

I wish, when I entered an unfamiliar place full of unfamiliar faces, that I could be as bold as she is. I wish I could walk in, confident that when I stopped to introduce myself to a stranger, that person would quickly become my friend.

It’s not that I’m particularly insecure. In fact, I think I come across as quite confident. It’s probably a little ironic, though, that I’m more comfortable speaking in front of a large crowd than I am speaking one-on-one with a stranger. That’s probably why people assume that I’m confident – because I’m a fairly natural public speaker.

I’m just not a great conversation starter. I don’t handle small talk well. I worry about not being interesting enough. I worry about tripping over my tongue and coming across as stupid. I rarely assume people will like me, and usually assume they’d rather be talking to someone else.

I work at it, because I know that I’m always glad when someone takes the time to engage me in conversation and so therefore assume they’d be glad when I do the same for them. It’s just not a very natural thing for me, so it makes me feel awkward. Funny, I know, that I’ve chosen a career in communications when I have trouble talking to strangers at a party for fear of tripping over my tongue. The thing is, I can communicate quite confidently and boldly when I KNOW what I’m communicating about. I’ve even talked quite comfortably with Prime Ministers, because I had a purpose (it’s kinda fun telling Prime Ministers what to do :-). I just have trouble when I’m forging unfamiliar territory and “small talk” is my only tool. To tell you the truth, some people probably think I’m snobby, because I come across as confident on the stage, and then I don’t engage well in conversation when I get off the stage.

It’s the same thing for blogs. When I go on the “popular” blogs – the ones with 25 or more comments on a regular basis – I rarely leave comments. I assume they’ve got enough interesting people surrounding them – they don’t need boring old me. If I make chatty comments, and trip over my tongue/keyboard, perhaps they’ll think “what is SHE doing on my blog?” And yet, I KNOW it’s silly, because I know how much I love and value comments, even if it’s just a simple acknowledgement that you’ve been here.

I suppose we all have elements of insecurity. Some people are amazed that I can get up in front of a crowd and speak without stumbling, and then I, in turn, am amazed at how comfortable they are chatting with strangers.

Only 39 things to go

by | May 23, 2006 | Uncategorized

Well, I can strike one thing off the list.
That’s right, I got my nose pierced! On my birthday. I wanted to do this when I was 20, but then I chickened out and convinced myself I didn’t have the right nose for it. Lately, I started wanting it again, and now that I’m 40, it no longer matters whether my nose is “right” or not. That’s the beauty of being 40 – you get a little more comfortable with who you are and a little less concerned about fitting other people’s expectation of you.

I guess you could call it a mid-life crisis. At least it’s cheaper than a fast car, and less disruptive (not to mention stupid) than an affair. 🙂

Lucky me

by | May 21, 2006 | Uncategorized

I have the greatest sister in the world. She did 2 awesome things for my birthday. She posted this cool list of great moments we’ve shared. And she gave me these 40 things for my birthday…

As she mentions in the list, we’ve been to 3 plays together in London and 3 in New York, so a Playbill bag is just the COOLEST!

Thanks, ccap!

Ode to my 40 year old body, on its birthday

by | May 20, 2006 | Uncategorized

To my hands
You’ve been ever so faithful, all of these years. You’ve soothed the brows of feverish children, you’ve washed alot of dishes, and scrubbed alot of floors. You’ve carried burdens, and gotten dirt under your finger nails. You’ve proudly worn your wedding ring for nearly 13 years. You don’t look so young any more – you look well used. It’s the way you should look at 40. You’ve written alot of stories, with pen or keyboard. You may not be the originator of thoughts, but you’ve put them to paper many, many times.

To my feet, my lovely little feet
I’ve always loved you, my little ones. You’ve carried me so many places. You’ve climbed mountains and held me up on waterskis. You’ve run to catch airplanes and trains. You were always my pride and joy. I particularly loved the way you often fit into bargain bin shoes that most people couldn’t squeeze into. You’ve let me down a little lately, though – made me buy orthotics and expensive shoes. I guess you’re making up for all the money you saved me. But maybe I let you down by not taking enough care of you in my youth – by squeezing you into shoes that were too narrow. I put you to the test early on already – forcing you to walk more than 20 miles in the walk-a-thon when you were only six. Thanks for putting up with my need to wander.

To my eyes
Ah, my lovely eyes. I’ve always been happy that you were blue, and that you were steady and strong, never needing glasses (yet). You’ve seen alot of things these 40 years. You’ve stopped me in my tracks so that I wouldn’t miss the beauty of a rainbow or a shimmering butterfly. You’ve cried alot of tears – tears of sadness, pain, joy, frustration, and shame. You’ve kept watch over our children and helped protect them from danger. You are faithful and true, my lovely blue eyes.

To my breasts
I’ll be frank, my dear breasts – I’ve never been particularly fond of you. You’re too big, too floppy, and you sag nearly to my waist. I’ve never been able to squeeze you into department store bras. You made me go to specialty stores to buy genuine over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders. You’ve caused permanent indentations in my shoulders because of your wieght. You are a burden. Ah, but perhaps I’ve been unfair, dear old things. You’ve patiently suckled three babies and provided plenty of milk to keep them healthy and happy. You were faithful and true, even when you ached or the nurses said your nipples were too flat to properly feed a baby. (Boy, did YOU prove them wrong!) You’ve carried the pain of unused milk when our little Matthew died. You’ve been steadfast and reliable, and I thank you for that, dear old breasts.

To the little crease between my eyebrows
I’m not quite sure what I think of you, little crease. You’re one of the latest additions to this 40 year old body. You look a lot like a worry line, and I was sure I’d have laugh lines before I’d get worry lines. I’m a little surprised at you, permanently embedding yourself into the architecture of my face. But perhaps I should be proud of you. Perhaps I should wear you with pride. You show the pain I’ve lived through – pain of loss, of death, of heartache. You carry my worries and proclaim to the world that I have survived. I won’t botox you away, little crease. You give me depth and paint wisdom on my face.

To my mouth
Ah, dear mouth, we’ve had alot of fun together, you and I. We’ve eaten much, talked much, and laughed much. You’ve comforted children with soothing tones. You’ve spoken to crowds and offered advice to lots of people. You’ve smiled at your husband and offered him kisses and encouragement. You never figured out how to sing well, but I forgive you for that. You’ve given me contentment as I offered you delicious food. Sometimes we got a little carried away, you and I, and didn’t know when enough was enough. But we’re still learning, even after 40 years of trying to get it right. You are good to me, dear mouth.

To my body
We’ve lived through 40 years together, dear body of mine. I admit, I haven’t always been fair to you. I forced you to carry too much weight, and then berated you for being heavy. I’m sorry for that. I’ll try to do better in the next 40 years. But it’s been good, hasn’t it, dear body? We’ve seen alot of interesting places, carried babies – both inside and out, worked hard, played well, rested now and then, and found contentment. We’ve found ways to indulge our passions, satisfy our curiosity, please our friends, and live a good life. Here’s to the next 40 years together. May they be as good as the last 40 have been.

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