Help me pick out new frames from Warby Parker.
There’s the green:
Or the black (oversized, which I kind of like):
Or these crazy orange ones. (Crazy like a fox?)
In a good way, I hasten to add. But still: strange.
It started with the publication of my first New York Times essay. Which was shared widely on Facebook and Twitter, and garnered a ton of comments — and not just by my friends.
A few hours after the article was published, I flew down to Fort Lauderdale to spend time with my extended family. While sitting on the beach in the glorious, Floridian sunshine, I got an email from a producer of The Judith Regan Show. Judith Regan herself (!) apparently loved my essay, and wanted me to call in to her show the following evening to weigh in (ahem) on this article by another mother of a daughter.
It was like living someone else’s life for a little while — the sun, the ocean, chatting with Judith Regan. (If you’d like to listen, I come on at 13:28.)
It was a great week, but I’m glad to be home.
This thing, here. I’m very happy about it, all of it — working with a fantastically fabulous editor, tackling a subject I’ve been thinking about for a long time, and having the opportunity to tackle it in a powerful platform.
The best part? The comments — which I totally didn’t expect. I was a little gun-shy about reading them, I have to admit — I used to be a regular contributor at a couple of AOL sites, and let’s just say I developed a healthy fear of the online commenter. And yes, there were a few who apparently feel that having body insecurities means you have a body worthy of insecurity (talk about missing the point), but the majority seem to have read the essay in the spirit in which it was written, and reading their responses has been amazing.
And now on to the next thing.
A few days ago, my friends Amy, Megan, Sarah, and I were having coffee at Sip, as we try to do about once a week. We start out talking about our writing goals, but of course it’s also a big schmooze fest.
At some point the conversation turned to a piece of pivotal advice that my mom gave me a long time ago. I can no longer recall why she said it, or what the circumstances were, but it stuck with me: Err on the side of generosity. If you’re going to make a mistake, have it be that you were too generous (or open, or loving), rather than not enough.
Amy took that advice and ran with it in this beautiful post of hers. As she recounted the various important ways that opening herself to human connection — taking a risk, really — has enriched her life, I began quietly ticking off my own life-changing moments that began with openness and generosity, whether on my end or someone else’s. Many of my deepest friendships started with an act of generosity, and maybe a little risk — it can feel risky to reach out. It’s not just about relationships, though. Making the decision to leave a job you hate, or to move to a new area where you know no one, can also be an act of generosity with yourself, a way of giving yourself the room you need to expand. So much of what’s important starts out with a moment of courage and openness. Or, as Woody Allen put it, “Ninety percent of life is just showing up.”
So…thanks, Mom. “Always err on the side of generosity.” You know you will err, but at least you’re more likely to end up richer for it.
Guest post about my thrifting obsession over at Lauren’s style blog, Stylemammal. Perhaps you can tell from the photo that my children, just outside the camera frame, are driving me kah-ray-zee.
My friend Lauren has launched a terrific new blog focusing on personal style. Lauren has a dry sense of humor, excellent writing chops, and a great eye for clothes, making this a must-read for anyone who takes pleasure in putting together an outfit. And guess who got to be one of her first interviewees? Yours truly. But if you read only one post of Lauren’s, make it this one, because she articulates something that I think many of us understand innately but have trouble putting into words.
My friend Amy Gutman writes this excellent blog called Plan B Nation — a rundown of what life is like for those of us laid off during the Great Recession. My friend Karen Brown interviewed Amy (and me!) for our local NPR affiliate.
Something I said to Karen — which may sound a little Pollyanna but is the absolute truth — is that life is so much better for me now, here in Plan B. I am happier, a better mother, a more satisfied writer, and feel far more potential in my career than I did at my last job. If I had known back then what life would be like now, I might have left Plan A voluntarily. But I guess that’s the point of Plan B — you never get there by choice. It’s something that happens to you, for better or for worse. I’m happy to say that for some of us, it’s for better.
Beach baby.
Let me be clear, with myself as much as with anyone else: I do not want another baby. I am finished with the whole parenting-a-baby thing. Sometimes I felt like I was doing it very well, other times I felt like I was failing profoundly, but in any case, done is done. And I do mean done. Even toddlerhood and the preschool years are distant images in the rearview mirror.
But.
Lately I find myself arrested by sudden echoes of those early years. A snippet of a song that I used to sing to them, or the scent of a treat I used to make. And I realize that while I do not want another baby, at times I long for my babies, for the diapered heft that I nestled against my hip, for the laden-down stroller I would always have at least one hand upon. I miss the quiet rhythm of those days. And while I recall resenting it at the time, part of me even misses that encumbered feeling — that sense that everything, everything, would take at least twice as long as it does for anyone else, and that even my physical presence wasn’t really mine, but out on permanent loan.
The other day my daughter looked at me and suddenly grinned, and I flashed back to ten years ago, right after 9/11, when I was nursing her in the rocker in her bedroom. It was a gorgeous fall day, and I had spent all morning crying, but I was calm, and I looked down at her as she nursed, her eyelids starting to flutter their way to a nap. Then she popped her eyes open, locked her gaze onto mine, pulled away, and grinned. It was the very same expression.
