All This is Possible Through Spanx

A couple of months ago, Sheryl Sandberg, who is the CEO of Facebook, was on 60 minutes talking about, among other things, women in the workplace. She wrote a book, called, Lean In, which I just finished reading. In the book, Sandberg asserts, apparently controversially, that the way that society and women view themselves affects how many women embrace and or pursue leadership roles – and we’re talking top leadership roles – in corporations. To grossly simplify Sandberg: women are taught to downplay their own ability and success in order to be more likeable, and to accept certain gross inequities as an expected part of the work atmosphere.

I’m not interested in being a top executive of anything, so I am not going to weigh in on whether that’s right/not right, true/not true, etc. I do know, however, that I am guilty of saying a number of things at work that men would never say. Just imagine these things coming out of a dude’s mouth:

1. I just got a promotion! You know what that means? New Shoes!

2. (To another man who just walked into a meeting): I love that suit. Brooks Brothers?

3. Ugh! The humidity really got to my hair in my corporate profile picture.

4. My boss is a feminist pig. She’s in the old girls network, and you know how they promote from within.

5. I was just credited with saving the company a million dollars? Well, I had a lot of help.

6. This sounds like a great opportunity, but I don’t want to outshine my wife.

7. I don’t know I’m the right person for that project. We’re thinking of starting a family.

8. My role in this was small.

9. I’m a husband and father first, and a career man second.

10. He’s the kind of guy who looks at your shoes and bag before he decides if he wants to listen to what you’re saying.

11. (To a friend): Yeah, my boss stares at my junk all the time, but what do you do? Some women are just like that.

12. Did that sound mean? I didn’t mean for it to sound mean.

13. You want me to plan a team outing? I know just the thing: let’s make candles!

14. I’d love to join you for lunch. Let me just change into my flip-flops.

15. I’m probably just going to work until we have kids. My wife really doesn’t want me to work after that.

16. I know this sounds weird, but I’m really good with numbers. And I’m blonde!

17. I don’t need to work, but I do - for clothes and vacations.

18. (To another man): People say things are different now, but we both know that if you want to get anywhere as a man, you have to work twice as hard, and be twice as smart as the women.

19. (When complimented on his suit): All this is possible through Spanx.

20. Golf? No thanks, I don’t play much and I don’t want to hold the rest of you back.

Helicopter Parenting

The other day, my brand new boss innocently asked me if I missed having my son, who is away for the summer working at an amusement park, close by.

“Oh, God, no,” I said, which was not at all the response she was expecting. I am sure that, for a moment, she thought I was a monster who hated her own child. Until I explained.

“I actually think that he does better when he has the opportunity to get out from under my fingertips,” I said. Which is true. I want everything to be perfect, all the time, and, as young people are hapless little bunnies, stumbling around, knowing nothing, I tend to overdirect when I see things going off course.  That's annoying to everyone. My little hapless bunny prefers to put things back on course in his own way, and usually does. Eventually.

Not everyone parents the way I do, however. In my son’s generation, there’s a term called “helicopter parents.” It describes parents who hover over their children, making sure that their kids are never without an advocate, a relentless supporter, and always have someone to fully cushion the inevitable bruises and bumps that occur along the road. In my community, parents were expected to helicopter; that was a sign of good parenting. Here’s the problem: studies are beginning to show that it is not.

I learned this from an article describing a number of studies that have been specifically conducted to assess the impact of helicopter parenting (also known as overparenting). The studies showed, according to this article, that “...parents who felt more anxiety about their children and more regret about their own missed goals led to greater overparenting. At the same time, they found that kids who were overparented were more likely be anxious and narcissistic and to lack coping skills.”

Yipes!

By the time my own child was in high school, I had to almost stop completely engaging with other parents, because of the competitive environment that existed, under the guise that the parents were helping their kids. I actually remember the day I decided this was going to happen: our sons, sixth graders, were playing a youth-league baseball game, and there was concern that our team would not make it into the playoffs, because that would “hurt their chances,” to develop their skills for their (apparently) bright future in baseball. “Well,” I said, stating the obvious, “it’s not like any of these kids are being scouted for the majors.” I cannot tell you how many horrified looks I got. These were parents who had their untalented kids in private lessons, several league teams, and with all of the best equipment available. Guess how many of these kids are in the majors today? None. Guess how many even played on the high school baseball team? Very few.

Something I said frequently to my son, his teachers, and other parents, was this: “I am not trying to raise a successful high-schooler. I’m trying to raise a successful human being.” I’ve always felt that part of that includes letting kids make mistakes – sometimes big ones – and then allowing them to figure out how to fix those mistakes. Is that easy? No! It sucks big ones! But what is better: a child who fails when he is sixteen and learns to get up again, or an adult who fails at age twenty-six, and has no skills to make things right on his own?

The beauty of non-helicoptering is this: as my hapless bunny’s 20th birthday approaches, I can say to him, more and more often, “You did this.” When he gets a job, signs a lease, pays his bills, prioritizes, solves problems, fixes things, and (finally!) gets good grades, I know that it’s because he has done it, not me. Isn’t that what parents really want, anyway? For our kids to develop wings of their own – short and stubby though they may be at first – rather than always have to hitch a ride on our helicopters?

The Tourism Board Welcomes You

Because I grew up in a family that liked to travel by car, I have visited all but twelve of the United States. Some I visited for a day or longer, some I just passed through, having a meal or waiting for my parents to fill up the tank. I have an impression of every state, based on my visit there, but unfortunately, I have only my guesses about what the remaining states are like. Here are my impressions, let me know if I’m right or not:

Alaska – Full of convicts on the run, bears, Palins, and natural beauty that the aforementioned Palins would like to ruin. Drill, baby, drill!

Hawaii – Tourists everywhere, bugs the size of tennis racquets. One thing I know: do NOT take the tiki idols.

Idaho – Everyone has a gun and an underground bunker.

Maine – Lots of monosyllabic creeps who are not above murder. Damn you, Stephen King!

Montana – My guess is that Montana is the Alaska of the lower 48. Not a lot of people, and don’t ask a lot of questions. Also: Montana purports to have a capital city (Helena) and a most populous city (Billings), but the only place anyone mentions is Missoula. So, I suspect that those other cities just have those old-timey western-town store fronts that have nothing behind them. Just a guess.

New Hampshire – I am pretty sure my neighbor is from New Hampshire. I just learned this about six months ago, and my immediate response was, “I didn’t know your state was real.”

North Dakota – Pregnant police officers, wood chippers, and inept criminals. Wonder where I got that impression.

Oregon – Wet.

South Dakota –Listen to these landmarks: the Black Hills, Mount Rushmore, The Badlands, Wind Cave, Deadwood, Crazy Horse. I want to go to there.

Vermont – I don’t like syrup, so I’ve never been interested in this state. Also: I think George Washington was an ass. Everyone says he was so great for confessing to chopping down the cherry tree. Everyone overlooks the fact that that little sociopath chopped down a cherry tree for no good reason. Jerk.

Wisconsin – Mmmmmm. Cheese. Now, I have never been a fan of Brett Favre, but I am a fan of Aaron Rodgers (he’s cute!), and, of course, Laverne and Shirley. That is enough recommendation for me.

Wyoming – I am pretty sure that Jellystone Park is in Wyoming, as well as its lesser-known counterpart, Yellowstone Park. I have never heard that there is anything else in this state.

26 Fist Bumps

My friend Trisha and I ran a marathon last weekend – a first for both of us. We’d decided, in a fit of endorphin-fueled madness following a successful half marathon, that we should train for a full, and before we knew it, we were at the start line of the Flying Pig marathon in Cincinnati.

Just before the race started, I suggested to Trisha that we fist bump to commemorate every mile that we passed. I could tell she thought it was stupid, but she agreed, because she indulges me being stupid, as long as I shut the fuck up and keep running. Here’s how our 26 fist bumps unfolded:

Bump 1: Fist bump on the middle of a bridge from Cincinnati to Covington, Kentucky. “Twenty five more fist bumps to go!” I said. Trisha rolled her eyes. In her defense, 25 is a lot of fist bumps.

Bump 2: Another bridge. Did you know that bridges slope upwards? I mean, for half of them. Then they slope downwards.

Bump 3: Guess what? Another bridge, this one headed back into Ohio, and covered with uniformed police officers. I had already lost one of my gel packs at this point, so from here on out, I obsessively checked for my other pack and my iPod (which I still insist on calling my Walkman) every ten seconds.

Bump 4: We saw Trisha’s husband Brad in the crowd! Full disclosure, I couldn’t pick my own son out of a crowd, (as we learned on mile 18 – but more about that later), so I didn’t see him until we were halfway past. Hence the pictures of me where I look like a sneezing horse.

Bump 5: Downtown. We’d been steadily going uphill the whole time, and I knew that the big climb was approaching.

Bump 6: No lie, during this fist bump, there were people on the side of the road, screaming, “You’re headed for The Climb! “ in the same way that someone would scream, “You’re headed into the arms of a hungry Yeti!”

Bump 7: “19 fist bumps to go,” I panted. We were in the middle of a hill. “We’re in the teens.” The first nine miles of the race are uphill, and miles 6 – 9 are significantly uphill. We’d decided long ago that we weren’t too proud to walk the hills, but at the last minute, changed our plans and decided that we were, in fact, too proud to walk the hills.

Bump 8: The most beautiful fist bump in the whole race, looking down across the city and at the beautiful Ohio River. So breathtaking that we almost forgot that we were still climbing.

Bump 9: Downhill. Phew! For months, whenever Trisha and I would mention that we were running the Pig, non-runners would look at us knowingly, and say, “You know those hills are killers, right?” For the record, that’s not a helpful thing to say. Next time you’re doing something difficult, say, having a baby, I’ll be sure to come into the delivery room and say, “You know that baby’s head is going to rip your vagina, right?” See how you like it.

Bump 10: This is where the half marathoners split from the marathoners. We were with the marathoners!!!!! We ate a gel pack, made our first water stop, and simultaneously realized that our armpits were chafed. Sixteen more miles of chafed armpits couldn’t be that bad, right?

Bump 11: I PTSD blocked this mile. Chafed armpits are, in fact, that bad.

Bump 12: Fact: If you are incapable of hitting the toilet with your poop in a port-a-potty, you shouldn’t be allowed to leave your house, much less run a marathon. We stopped for Vaseline on a stick to put on our armpits. Spoiler alert: after the race, the greatest pain I had was in my damn armpits. Looked like I’d gotten run over by a corn thresher.

Bump 13: I don’t think I even bothered saying anything like, “Halfway there!” because it was fucking depressing that we still had an entire half marathon to go. That’s what I remember from fist bump 13. Also, this may have been the point when a middle-aged lady turned around after passing a young, shirtless man, and yelled at him, “You’re really cut!” His response, “Well, as you can see, it’s not helping me right now.” Oh, we laughed.

Bump 14: PTSD blocked. At this point, I started wondering where in the hell my son Jude was. He’d driven down from Columbus with his bike in the back of the car, and planned to meet us at several points in the race. Now, planned is the operative word, because the kid scarcely Googled directions to Cincy, much less made an actual plan or actually learned where the actual course was. So, if he found it, it would more likely be because he’d accidentally stumbled into the course. And he hadn’t stumbled on yet.

Bump 15: Without a doubt, this was the most down I was during the entire race. I suggested that we put on our Walkmans for ten songs, just to get us through to mile 18. By song eight, and in a cruel twist of fate, Trisha’s Walkman died, so in solidarity, I took my tunes off and put my Walkman away, too. Thankfully, we saw Brad, which gave us both a little more pep. He took a picture of us, which revealed that Trisha and I run laughably close to each other. No wonder we bump into each other so much.

Bump 16: Another Brad sighting. He told us that Jude would be at mile 18 and offered us a gel pack. We decided to wait until 18.

Bump 17: “We’re in the single digits of fist bumps!” I screamed. Part of the reason why I screamed was because I was still wearing my Walkman at this point. Elated from being in the single digits, we floated through this mile.

Bump 18: Huge, steep hill that came out of nowhere to laugh at us. We weren’t too proud to walk this one, and from there, we merged onto the freeway, got a gel pack, and had our first Jude spotting of the race (full disclosure, Trisha spotted him. I would have missed him completely despite the fact that he’s 6’4”, was wearing a bright orange shirt, was on a bike, and was yelling, “Go Mom!!! Go Trisha!!!!) We also started randomly eating oranges whenever they were offered. The rule is that you should NEVER do anything in a marathon that you hadn’t tried before, but living dangerously seemed like the right move.

Bump 19: If you join a training club, you can get a coach to run alongside you for some or all of the race. One such coach was perched at mile 19, waiting for runners from the club to go by so he could run with them for a bit and give them some encouragement. “Hey, wanna run with us?” we yelled when he broke off from his runner. “Sure!” he said, and ran with us for most of the mile. Thank you, stranger!

Bump 20: “Uncharted territory,” we repeated several times. Our longest training run had been twenty miles, and Trisha had done that run with a temperature of 102, so she probably didn’t remember that one. Anything from here on out was new ground.

Bump 21: “We’re down to one hand, Trisha,” I said. Five miles to go.

Bump 22: “Any idiot can run four miles, Trisha.” We stopped after the gel pack station to stretch out our backs and hips, and we must have looked like we were dying, because a race monitor approached us to see if we needed him to call out the stretcher. “I’d run four miles on a broken leg if I had to,” Trisha muttered as we began to run again. Ditto.

Bump 23: “Just a 5K to go!” My son yelled, flying out of nowhere on his bike. “I’ll see youuuuuuu at the finishhhhhhhhhhhh lineeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” his voice trailed back, as he pedaled away, headed for the end.

Bump 24: “This is what separates the boys from the men,” Trisha said through gritted teeth. We stopped walking through the water stations. Water wasn’t going to help us now.

Bump 25: “This is the glory mile!” the man at the mile marker yelled as we passed. “Enjoy it, ladies!”

Bump 26: “Last fist bump!” we shouted, able to see the finish line up ahead. Suddenly, the pain, the fatigue, the chafed armpits, the broken Walkman, the horrible mile 15, and everything else faded away. We had done it! “You’re not just runners, you’re marathoners!” a sign read. Yep. I’ll fist bump to that.