Miss Predictable

It happened twice in the same day at work. First, I sent an email to the staff about an issue, followed by an individual email to someone with an example. That’s when a co-worker popped up like a Jack in the Box and stated what was obvious to everyone but me: “So who got the 2nd message?” Unbeknownst, I’ve done the same thing for 20 years. First I send a group email about something “that affects us all”, and then I lower the boom with an individual one.

In the 2^nd instance, a co-worker asked me where my magazines were, as apparently it was the first time in decades I missed sharing some on Monday, even though I had no recollection that this was expected behavior on my part. And in fact, she was right, as I remembered recycling them by accident. When I lamented to her that I didn’t realize I was so predictable, she laughed and said I needed to find a new trick for April Fool’s Day next year, as they were onto that as well.

Out to breakfast that Saturday morning, I reflected solemnly on the fact that I am not nearly as mysterious and spontaneous as I fancy myself, only to have the waitress greet me with a cheery “Good morning… the usual?”

Once I started looking for it, my predictability was undeniable, as evidenced by the following statements that came rapid fire: “I knew you were going to say that”, “I knew you were going to do that”, “I knew you were going to blow up when I said that” and the ever popular “You’ve told me that story about 1,000 times already”.

Which led me to the conclusion that I don’t actually need to be present in my life to make an impact, so instead of engaging me in conversation or discussion when you already know what my response will be, just leave me out of the equation and insert the obvious and act accordingly. I am giddy thinking of all the time I could free up in my life not having to carry out my predictable behavior.

Instead of trudging around work every day repeating myself over and over again like a workaholic cockatoo, I could hire a full time trainer and become the picture of physical fitness for my age, eventually qualifying for the senior Olympics and accepting the silver medal on the podium on behalf of the USA. Or instead of choosing just a few charities to volunteer for with my limited time, I could volunteer all day, every day, and make the world a significantly better place while my coworkers wander in and out of my office, correctly predicting how I would respond to each question they ask or situation that arises and proceeding on their own. Genius!

At home, my partner would assume all day absence meant I was on my usual schedule of running, food shopping and doing errands, but instead I’d be taking rock climbing or scuba diving lessons, or re-learning the violin. Then I would finally start my long delayed book project while friends and family have witty conversations with an imaginary me, correctly predicting the moments that I would interject a wise remark or timely chuckle. Or they could go to a movie they know I would like, followed by my favorite restaurant and my predictable dinner order and talk about how they knew that movie would make me cry.  And while my predictable life is being lived without me, I would take French lessons so I would fit in seamlessly when I up and move to Paris.

I confide to a close friend my dream of escaping my repetitive “Groundhog Day” life and moving someplace new where I can redefine myself, make a fresh start, and live the life I’ve dreamed about. To which she smiles and aptly says “You say the same thing every New Years”.

And with that, I realize that even my dream of being unpredictable is predictable. Leaving me with more to ponder next time I order my usual breakfast at my usual place.

Becoming Scrooge

I have yet to get around to trading out my swimsuit drawer for my hat and mitten drawer, and its Christmas again. Didn’t we just celebrate that, and can’t it wait a few more months? My schedule is too full for festivities right now. Bah humbug!

I’m not sure when time started moving faster for me, but I estimate I’ve lost about a day a year since I turned 21, which adds up to 30 days, or pretty much the whole month of December. That might explain why my holiday spirit has been lacking.

Or perhaps it is because the heralding of the holidays that once started with the Bing Crosby Christmas special now proceeds with protests of whether the public tree with lights on it should be called a holiday tree or a Christmas tree. How about if we just call it “pretty” and leave it at that? And lately I noticed the jolly Santa sledding on an electric razor (a great gift for Dad!) has been replaced by Give a Lexus for Christmas ads, sending me into an anti-Santa spiral as I envy all the people who might really be getting a Lexus for Christmas, while I estimate my recent car repair bill to be paid off sometime in early 2013.

Over the years, my Christmas list has changed from ‘things I would love and can’t live without’to ‘things I need but can’t afford to buy’, to this year’s festive lament ‘please don’t buy me anything as I have no time to shop for you’. Needless to say, it has become painfully obvious that whether by choice or natural evolution, I am in danger of Scrooging myself, and turning into the cranky, joyless, workaholic I swore I’d never be.

But all is not lost, because those who know me know I can’t do anything half way, including this Scrooging myself thing. And if you recall the story, the ghost of Christmas’yet to come gave Scrooge the opportunity to change and re-capture the true meaning of the season before it was too late; which is not about carrying heavy burdens of shopping bags from the mall to the car, but about lightening the load for others we can help along the way with positive thoughts, words and actions and appreciating the same thoughtful gestures shown to us by others. And while I haven’t gone as far as screaming Merry Christmas out of my 2ndfloor window to passer bys, I have taken a deep breath and realized that I still have much to be grateful for, including memories of Christmas’ past.

Which leads me to my annual holiday story about my brother Stephen and me, retold every year as a reminder of the beauty of the season, youthful innocence and faith that anything is possible if you just believe.

I call it The Night We Saw Rudolph.

Twas the night before Christmas on Webb Street in Salem. Stephen is five years old and trying desperately to fall asleep amidst the holiday excitement and anticipation of Christmas morning.

I tell him that if Santa comes and he is still awake, he will fly right by and not bring him any toys. Just then, someone drove into the driveway of the liquor store that use to be our neighbor and put their brake lights on, causing the bedroom to glow in a bright, red light.

His eyes grew as big as saucers as he looked at the window, then at me, and muttered “Rudolph…!” just before falling asleep.

From that year forth, every Christmas Eve Stephen would turn to me and say,“Remember the night we saw Rudolph?” and we’d laugh at the memory. But as we grew to adults, I began to respond, “That wasn’t Rudolph, it was….” and before I could finish the statement he would give a little smirk and say, “SShhhh, it was Rudolph” and we’d just smile.

My brother has been gone 12 Christmases now, but I still tell this story to anyone who will listen. Because looking back, Stephen was right. It was indeed Rudolph.