Ozzy, R.I.P.

I underestimated how long it would take me to get over the death of my dog. Today marks one year since I unexpectedly had to make the decision to let him go. It was traumatic. It was the most emotionally painful thing I’ve ever gone through (and I’ve been through some shit). I lost my best friend.

I fully admit to being a “crazy dog lady”. I like dogs better than most people and if there’s a dog at a social event, you’ll find me with it. I knew that losing Ozzy would be hard, but I don’t think I expected real and full grief.

I was in denial. I was angry. I questioned my choice and whether or not anything could have been done. (Nothing could, but I insisted on torturing myself with the “what ifs”.) I spent a few days just above catatonic, moving only to eat and use the bathroom. I saw Ozzy everywhere. I blamed my husband for not being there and blamed him for being the one who ultimately delivered the decision to the vet. (He was out of town for work, but I asked him to call the vet’s office and tell them we were going to let him go). It put a good amount of stress on our marriage.

I was grieving and depressed for months. In some ways I still am. There’s even a new little pup in our household and he is sweet and cute and a total love bug, but he’s no Ozzy.

Ozzy hated pretty much everyone. He would growl, snap, and bite when he was afraid. He didn’t like other dogs (with the exception of our neighbor, Babe, the senior lady Pug) and wasn’t too fond of humans either. He chased squirrels and pigeons and just about anything else. He had to wear a vest that said “Do Not Pet”. But, he was adorable and attracted a lot of attention. He had a deep soul and a lot of spirit. And, at the risk of going into full crazy dog lady land, he had a sense of humor. Seriously, that dog was hilarious. Needless to say, we understood each other on a soul level. I referred to myself as his Emotional Support Human. After he died, I realized just how much emotional support he gave me too.

It’s ok to take the time you need for grief and it’s ok to grieve for the loss of a pet. It’s ok to miss that pet and to tell stories about it and to look at pictures. It’s ok to get another pet. There is no “standard of mourning” as far as I know and, from my experience, the pain will start to lessen, but it might no go away. And that’s ok, too. It’s what makes us human.

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Beauty Fades, Awesome is Forever

On my last visit back to New York, I had a really great catch up dinner with a lifelong friend. I was getting out of her car after saying good night and heard her call out “You look like your mom!” I laughed and thanked her, knowing it was true. My mom is pretty awesome and I know that my friend meant it as a compliment…

BUT…

My mom is in her seventies and now I’m in my forties and, for the first time in my life, I’m acutely aware that I’m aging and that my outer appearance might actually start to reflect this aging.

It starts with no longer being asked for ID and then men in their twenties start calling you “Ma’am”. People automatically assume you’re a Missus and not a Miss. Then you start to feel a bit invisible or disposable or not so important anymore. Maybe you don’t. Maybe I don’t really either, but I am aware that how I’m viewed has changed in the past few years, albeit subtly. I’m sad that this bothers me.

I wasn’t really ever the pretty one. I was the smart one or the funny one or the adventurous one. (And these are all good things!) But I never felt pretty. I don’t remember anyone really telling me I was pretty, least of all myself. I’m a bit embarrassed to say that I tied an awful lot of my self-worth to whether or not my attractiveness could be confirmed by sources that mattered at the time. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit that confirmation of my attractiveness seems to have mattered to me a fair amount.

It’s only in the past few years that I’ve loved myself enough to start to let that go and to revel in what I have, including my intelligence, my sense of humor, my personal style, and the opportunities I have to travel. I’ve also started to appreciate my physical attributes for what they are and try to practice being happy in my skin.

But that skin is changing…literally. A reminder that there are many phases and stops on this journey. Life is a process full of constant growth and change. It is also the beginning of the end from Day One and that’s a concept that I find strangely full of optimism.

Now I’m off to slather on some sunscreen, drink some water and hope for the best. I’m optimistic about that, too.

Comfortable Being Unconventional

I am comfortable being unconventional.

I’ve been using that as a mantra of sorts lately. Self reflection has taken me back in time and helped connect me to my present in some really fantastic ways. It’s led to a peace and acceptance that I’m reveling in.

I’ve always felt different, not like other people…like I move through the world in a way all my own. I’ve spent my life dancing to the music nobody likes. (Back in the day, when all my friends were into Madonna, I thought Neil Diamond was awesome.) I have never, ever felt “normal”. In part, this is because I’ve spent my life defining normal as being like every one else.

I recently read an interview in Darling magazine with musician Melissa Helser and a quote of hers stuck with me: “Give in to the significance of your normal.” Yes, MY normal. A normal just like me and just for me. The unique collection of thoughts, actions, qualities, and characteristics that make me, me. I was looking at normal the wrong way. Normal isn’t a broad definition. It’s not one size fits all. It’s individual and evolves, changes depending on where we are on our life path. We’re always normal. Every single one of us on this planet is normal. (Side note: normal does not equal morally upstanding or good.)

How much time and worry do we devote to living what we think normal should be? Over the course of a lifetime, how many days are spent comparing ourselves to someone else’s normal? How much significance do we give their normal while minimizing the importance of our own?

Maybe when we find ourselves unhappy, unsatisfied, unbalanced, it’s because we’re not letting our own normal hold its weight. Go ahead…take a deep breath…let go and give in. Make friends with your normal. Get to know it. Take it out for coffee or go for a hike. Feel how important it is for you to be your normal. Above all, delight in your normal. Find the joy in it. Let it make you smile.

Then take it one step further and let the world know how normal you are.

Less is More

The above is often said in reference to many things: fashion, food, home decor. I can’t help but think the currently popular Tiny House movement was born directly from these three words.

I’m sure you’ve all seen these minuscule dwellings and their prospective owners. Often young, idealistic couples craving a simpler life unencumbered by unnecessary belongings. The idea is that living with less physical bad stuff gives you more emotional good stuff.

I often watch these shows and am left wanting to see a follow up a year or two down the road. How many of these people stick with the lifestyle (especially those with children or larger pets)? Do they now view it as an interesting, but temporary, experiment or have they committed and made “tiny living” their life?

How many divorces or separations have Tiny Houses caused?

I’ve taken a lesson and inspiration from the idea of living with less. I’ve recently been paring down my belongings in an attempt to have only what I love, use, or need. I’ve found that having too much stuff has lead to a feeling of stagnation, of being overwhelmed, and even some sadness. This year, I’m working on shifting energy and on opening up space in my life to let the good in.

It feels good to release things that no longer serve me and to let go of the negative energy attached to them. It amazes me what I’ve held onto and for how long. Why have I considered these things necessary or, worse yet, why have I not considered them at all for years? Why was I holding on to books that I read once and hated? Why was the back of my closet filled with clothes that feel like costumes now that I have a clearer sense of my personal style? Why, why, why, was my bathroom stuffed with cosmetics products that could possibly be classified as biohazards due to their advanced age?

I’m not sure I have a good answer to these questions. At least, not one that I could come up with without the necessary introspection and questioning. I can say that all of the above mentioned things are now out of the house and have been regifted, donated, or disposed of as appropriate.

It feels good. My small (though not technically tiny) house feels brighter, more open, and nicer to be in. I feel brighter and more receptive to what the world brings my way. Maybe there is something to this living with less thing.

But I still want to see Tiny House two year follow ups.

I Want to be Alone

Greta Garbo said the above in 1932’s “Grand Hotel” and it became a way of life for her after she retired from making films at a relatively young age. She lived the rest of her life as anonymously as possible in New York City, shunning the attention of the press and public.

I can empathize with Ms. Garbo.

Lately I’ve wondered if my tendency toward introversion makes me a bad person. I’ve wondered if I’m more than introverted…maybe I’m misanthropic and anti-social, too. But no, I think it’s just a classic case of choosing to be alone over being an actively engaged with others.

Questioning whether or not I’m a “bad” person because I’m an introvert is probably an incorrect line of self interrogation. I’m not a bad person at all. I love puppies and old ladies and babies. In general, I like most people. I’m a good spouse and doggy mommy. I volunteer. I try to remember and acknowledge people’s birthdays. I donate time and money to causes I believe in. I stand up for what I think is right and help those that are less fortunate when I can. I could go on, but….

What I’m really asking myself is: Does being an introvert make me a bad friend? And is this something I can change or am I just fighting my core nature?

I’ll be honest, my ideal night is me, my dog, Thai food, and “The Golden Girls”. Every once in a while, I don’t mind going out and being with other folks, but, generally, if given the choice, I’ll be home with Dorothy, Blanche, Sophia, Rose, Bangkok 900 takeout, and my fur baby every time. Every. Single. Time.

I never take the initiative to plan events or get togethers. When I have plans, I sometimes secretly hope they’ll be cancelled. At parties, I’m the chick in the corner talking to the host’s dog or cat or baby. I prefer things that have a set start and end time so I know precisely how long I have to be “on” for. I’m rarely the friend that reaches out to others. I’m not a “just calling to see how you’re doing” person. I’m not a person that enjoys talking on the phone. I’m just not.

I feel a little guilty about this and I feel like a bad friend. This is not true. When I’m needed or invited or reached out to, I’m present and engaged and I often enjoy myself. I’m just introverted. (And to be fair, my dog, the Golden Girls, and the Thai restaurant near my house are really awesome.)

I’ve tried playing against type, but it feels inauthentic to me. I’m not good at faking it ’til I make it at most things. I’m even worse when it come to interpersonal interaction. I’m trying to make peace with this part of myself, but it seems to present itself more and more the older I get. (Maybe a subconscious fear of being alone late in life?) I see it as something that needs to be fixed. But if I’m not broke, I don’t need to fix me, right?

So, for now, I’ll own my introversion and make peace with it. I’ll accept that it doesn’t make me a bad person or even a bad friend. There is nothing wrong with me because I draw energy from solitude instead of a crowded room. I’ll work on releasing the guilt I feel surrounding it and I’ll keep being present and connected when I’m out in the world.

Now, if anyone needs me, I’ll be over here with my Tom Yum Goong and a moderately gassy Boston terrier.