I secretly smile when I see a parent struggling with a child screaming “ME DO! ME DO!” because I know just how the kid feels.
From an early age I decided if you want something done, do it yourself. As a result, I’ve been self-sufficient my whole life- earning my own money, paying my own way, carrying my own burdens. It’s how I’ve approached my business, personal and volunteer life and so far, it’s worked like a charm. Or has it?
Car needs oil? I’ll add it myself. Copier machine jammed? I’ll fix it myself. Piece of lint on the rug? I’ll pick it up myself. I’ve gotten so use to doing everything that needs to be done that I have almost no time left for things I want to do- like nothing but breath, just for a minute.
And I feel guilty if anyone does something for me that I’m perfectly capable of doing myself, even if it’s their job. Like the smiling senior who bags my groceries- shouldn’t he have earned the right to relax in retirement instead of waiting on me when I’m perfectly capable of doing this myself? Or the wait staff in a restaurant- do they really want to hear my food idiosyncrasies of butter on the side, dressing on the side, everything that can be on the side on the side? And my heart sinks if I enter a bathroom to find an attendant cheerfully waiting to clean up behind me. Yes I know these are all honest ways to make a living, so please don’t take it the wrong way. Its not them, it’s me.
And my self-sufficiency does not stop at physical tasks; it extends to emotional issues as well. Bad day? Stop feeling sorry for myself; other people are going through a lot worse. Aches and pains? Just keep it to myself; no one wants to hear me whine. Feeling down? Just dig deep and keep on plugging. Even my leisure activities of reading, writing and running are more solo that social, so as not to pressure anyone else to feel responsible for my entertainment.
I’m thinking about this “ME DO!” lifestyle as I load 10 bags of mulch onto my push cart at Home Depot to the amusement of two strangers, and wonder how many years I’ll be able to keep this up. Do I like to be this way, or am I just saving myself from possibly being disappointed by anyone else? Does it inspire others to work equally hard, or enable them to do less? And if it is true that God helps those who help themselves, shouldn’t there be a posse coming over the hill to help me any minute now?
But there is no posse. In fact, it appears the more you take care of yourself, the more you are expected to take care of everyone else. I’ve purposefully or accidentally set the expectation that if something needs to be done, ask Beth. Beth gets things done. Which is mostly true, but as I get older, sometimes Beth is tired and just needs to sit down for a minute.
And as I do so, I sit next to a child screaming “ME DO! ME DO MYSELF!” stymieing his frustrated mother’s efforts to expedite the process of tying the tots sneakers. But this time, instead of smiling at the youngster, I think to myself ‘Be careful what you wish for kid; you might just get it.’
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Measuring Time
I always admired people who have a knack for remembering things like the names of our Presidents in order of their term, every state capital in alphabetical order and even the mascot for each Division I college football team.
I equally respect people who have such a keen sense of time they are never late for anything. I once knew a manager who began his weekly sales meeting exactly on time, starting with the most important information first, whether anyone else was there or not. It was a little extreme, a lot eccentric, but quite effective.
Even more amazing to me are people who can recite the month, day and year of a wide range of events beyond the obvious birthdays and anniversaries, including things like the day they got their driver’s license, the date they stopped smoking or even the date of a first date.
I have never been one of those people.
My sense of dates and time goes something like this (in order of oldest to most recent): before I was alive, when I was little, a wicked long time ago, back when I was in school, a long time ago, a couple of years ago, not that long ago, just a couple of days ago, a little while ago and now. Which seems to have worked out fine so far, as people appear to understand what I mean without my having to get into specifics.
Unless of course I’m cornered by a question I should know, like when a member of alumni relations at Salem State University asked me what year I graduated, assuming that would be an easy question for me to answer. I muttered some small talk as I miraculously recalled that I graduated Salem High School in 1978 and discreetly counted out four more years on my fingers under the table to figure out the answer. Since then I’ve been taunted by the chipper greeting of “Hi Beth, Class of 1982!” reminding me that an acquaintance remembers significant dates in my life better than I do.
Major local sports events fall into similar time frames. While its been a couple of years since the Patriots and Red Sox won a championship, the Celtics won one not that long ago and the Bruins were in the Stanley Cup Playoffs just a couple of days ago. Everyone knows what I mean without getting into specifics, which most of them will aptly fill in for me anyhow, conveniently concealing my ignorance.
But while I’m hopeless at remembering when things happened, I am great at remembering how I felt when things happened. So while I have to refer to my resume for the actual date I started working at the Boston Herald, I vividly remember that on my first day I wore a dusty pink pantsuit with huge shoulder pads and sheer sleeves (sadly, this is 100% true) and went to a Thai restaurant for lunch with the Marketing Director who got pad thai, and I got a bowl of soup. Perhaps my brain has no room for dates precisely because it is full of random, useless details such as these.
And although even I remember the iconic date of September 11, I still can’t easily recall the year. But I’ll never forget the fear of the unknown that permeated the office as employees begged to go home to be with family and the eerie quiet as I drove home later in the day when the world seemingly stood still as we all realized our world had changed forever, adding another dimension to my timetable, and everyone else’s; before 9/11, and post 9/11.
I equally respect people who have such a keen sense of time they are never late for anything. I once knew a manager who began his weekly sales meeting exactly on time, starting with the most important information first, whether anyone else was there or not. It was a little extreme, a lot eccentric, but quite effective.
Even more amazing to me are people who can recite the month, day and year of a wide range of events beyond the obvious birthdays and anniversaries, including things like the day they got their driver’s license, the date they stopped smoking or even the date of a first date.
I have never been one of those people.
My sense of dates and time goes something like this (in order of oldest to most recent): before I was alive, when I was little, a wicked long time ago, back when I was in school, a long time ago, a couple of years ago, not that long ago, just a couple of days ago, a little while ago and now. Which seems to have worked out fine so far, as people appear to understand what I mean without my having to get into specifics.
Unless of course I’m cornered by a question I should know, like when a member of alumni relations at Salem State University asked me what year I graduated, assuming that would be an easy question for me to answer. I muttered some small talk as I miraculously recalled that I graduated Salem High School in 1978 and discreetly counted out four more years on my fingers under the table to figure out the answer. Since then I’ve been taunted by the chipper greeting of “Hi Beth, Class of 1982!” reminding me that an acquaintance remembers significant dates in my life better than I do.
Major local sports events fall into similar time frames. While its been a couple of years since the Patriots and Red Sox won a championship, the Celtics won one not that long ago and the Bruins were in the Stanley Cup Playoffs just a couple of days ago. Everyone knows what I mean without getting into specifics, which most of them will aptly fill in for me anyhow, conveniently concealing my ignorance.
But while I’m hopeless at remembering when things happened, I am great at remembering how I felt when things happened. So while I have to refer to my resume for the actual date I started working at the Boston Herald, I vividly remember that on my first day I wore a dusty pink pantsuit with huge shoulder pads and sheer sleeves (sadly, this is 100% true) and went to a Thai restaurant for lunch with the Marketing Director who got pad thai, and I got a bowl of soup. Perhaps my brain has no room for dates precisely because it is full of random, useless details such as these.
And although even I remember the iconic date of September 11, I still can’t easily recall the year. But I’ll never forget the fear of the unknown that permeated the office as employees begged to go home to be with family and the eerie quiet as I drove home later in the day when the world seemingly stood still as we all realized our world had changed forever, adding another dimension to my timetable, and everyone else’s; before 9/11, and post 9/11.
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