Monday, January 30, 2012

"Writing is like prostitution.  First you do it for love, and then for a few close friends, and then for money."  -Moliere

Friday, January 27, 2012

between the eyes

Yoga keeps me honest.   Especially in the routine parts of my life - the things I do on a daily basis without really thinking about them.  Running with the dog this morning, I could feel every muscle of my body, thanks to an intense flow class earlier this week.  I had gotten away from yoga while training for the Chicago Marathon.  While I had had a great run (both literally and figuratively), those weeks had easily turned into months.  And my yoga mat never left the backseat of my car.

I hadn't really been feeling (or acting) like myself, and I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was that felt different.  Don't get me wrong... I was having an awesome time.  Way more fun than 28 year olds should be having.  And part of me felt like I was in college again.  While I didn't really do anything "wrong" or "bad" (acknowledging of course that morality is a bit relative), I felt reckless, and I didn't like it one bit.  More than anything, I didn't feel like myself.  I didn't feel centered.

Getting back to yoga was something I had been meaning to do for months, but I had just never got around to it.  Instead, I went through the motions of my daily routine.  Sure, I was running.  But I never really pushed myself or changed my route.  Instead, I just got through the same 5 mile loop day in and day out, just to be able to check the box next to "workout" for that day.  Something needed to change.

So, I held my breath and purchased an unlimited month at Core Power Yoga. And I finally feel like I'm getting back to my old self again.  The craziest part is, I didn't fully recognize that something was "wrong" until I realized it was back to being right.  I'm thinking, and I'm present.  I'm acting with intention.  I'm reading. I'm aware of just how freaking lucky I am.  I'm engaging.  I know that I have enough.  I know that I am enough.  I remember to look at the big picture.  I know I need people.  I'm inspired.

All of this from spending a few hours a week on my mat, sweating my butt off next to complete strangers and asking myself to do just a little bit better while also demanding that I be satisfied with where I'm at.  This is an incredibly difficult balance for me to achieve.

At dinner, a friend suggested that I look into a blog she knew I would love.  I went home that night and stayed up for hours reading... and reading... and reading.  It's called Momastery, and it will rock your world (whether you're a mom or not).  Every now and then, a writer hits me right between the eyes and inspires me to do more.  To be more honest.  To write more freely.  To not be afraid.  Glennon's words and her story do even more than that to me.  I honestly don't know that I will ever be the same having read her work.

In writing this post, I'm suddenly struck by the irony of the phrase "between the eyes."  I'm sure the yogis out there got it the moment I said it.  But there's also another phrase that goes something like: "if you have to explain it, then you didn't deliver it properly."  So, I'll leave it here and hope my delivery was effective enough to make my point.  And if not, then I guess I'll have to do better next time.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

numbers don't lie

Last weekend, I had the pleasure of attending an awesome wedding in Madison with old friends.  The recent discovery of a gluten intolerance meant I could not participate in the college-style beer consumption while touring our old stomping grounds in a trolley for wedding party pictures.  That, combined with being one of the only single attendees at the wedding, had me at the bar ordering a mandarin martini promptly upon arrival at the reception.

The really outgoing and awesome girlfriend of one of my college friends quickly approached me and introduced herself.  She didn't really know anyone at the wedding, and within two minutes of talking to her, I felt like we had been friends for years.  As I instructed the bartender on my martini preferences (more dry than sweet), my new friend, Christina, was suddenly engrossed in conversation with a short, soft-spoken older woman standing next to her at the bar.  My martini arrived, and I was scanning the room for who I should talk to next when Christina quickly turned to me, her eyes huge.  She grabbed my arm and mouthed, "you HAVE to talk to this lady."  Shaking her head, she turned back to the older woman and bent down so the woman could speak directly into her ear.  I learned later that the woman's name was Beverly Kay.  She was a friend of the bride's parents.  And she lived in the town I grew up in.  It was eerie already.

Christina and Beverly began writing numbers on a piece of paper, and I realized this woman was a psychic of some kind.  Immediately, I was skeptical.  I find astrology very intriguing, but "psychics" were a little much.  Over the next few minutes, I caught bits and pieces of what Beverly had to say to Christina, but more importantly, it was impossible to ignore Christina's reaction.  At the end of her reading, Christina grabbed my arm and pushed me over to Beverly.  Talk to her.  You HAVE to talk to her.  Come find me when you're done, and she walked away dumbfounded.

Beverly introduced herself to me and immediately told me to write down my birthday month and day.  I liked where this started.  Those who know me, know how proud of my birthday I am and that I take every opportunity to talk about how it was the coolest possible day to be born that year.  Clearly, Beverly was my kind of lady.  As I wrote down the 8 and the 3, it was Beverly's turn to grab MY arm.  I've been doing this, in one fashion or another, since I was 5 years old, she whispered.  And in all my years, I have only met four other people with my birthday.  You're the fifth.  She quickly began writing down numbers and muttering under her breath.  She told me how she knew these numbers inside and out because they were her numbers too. You're witty and animated.  Your friends think you're funny and you like to own a room.  But sometimes you go too far and put your foot in your mouth.  Then, you're confused when no one thinks it's funny.  Ummm... yep, that's accurate.  Go on Beverly, you have my attention.

She next instructed me to write down my birth year: 1983 (it's worth noting that this was NOT also her birth year).  Again, she jumped in with a flurry of numbers and muttering.  Her eyes poured into the cocktail napkin in front of us.  Suddenly, she stopped and looked up at me.  She cocked her head to the side and a small smile twitched at the corners of her mouth.

So when are you going to start writing those books?

I recoiled like I had been punched in the stomach.  Chills from head to toe, and my eyes immediately filled with tears.  Christina, who had been watching me from across the room, undoubtedly anticipating this reaction, was by my side in a second.  All I could do was shake my head.  Beverly waited patiently (she clearly got this response often).  I took a deep breath and stepped toward her again.  You're very talented.  This is going to be a great year for you, but you need to get started now.  Don't wait. 

...And with that, I let someone else have a turn.  I had heard all I needed to hear.  It's funny... out of all the things a psychic could have told me, that was the one that went straight to my soul.  Interestingly, however, it's not the thing I would have asked about, given the chance.  I suppose I have to believe she probably knew that too.  Actually, I don't "have" to believe anything.  Which is why it doesn't matter to me whether Beverly is a mind-reader, a really good mathematician, or just a lucky guesser. 

What matters is, she was right.

Monday, January 23, 2012

Quite literally rocking my world right now.

i am not an island

If you want to go quickly, go alone.
If you want to go far, go together.
-African proverb

Thursday, January 12, 2012

help, help*


There’s nothing like the adrenaline of running sprinting through the airport knowing you have a one in a million chance of making your flight, but hoping beyond hope that somehow you pull it off.  Thanks to the help of a GREAT friend (who thought I was asking him to help me change my flat tire, when, in actuality, I was asking him to drive me to the airport during rush hour traffic), I’m miraculously on my flight to Milwaukee.  Thank you, NateDogg – you’re the epitome of awesome.
 
As my heart rate slowly returns to normal and the coughing and wheezing lets up (yes, seriously), I find myself engaged in a bit of adrenaline-induced introspection.

Why do I have SUCH a hard time asking for help?  I anticipate that this post will be as much personal as it is professional, despite the author’s preference that it be strictly the latter.  The fact that my friend thought I was asking him to come downtown and help me change my tire illustrates explicitly what I’m going to discuss in this post.  Why didn’t (couldn’t) I just say to him, “I’m in a really bad spot.  I have a flat tire, and I REALLY need a ride to the airport right this second if I have any chance of making my flight?”? (This grammar nazi isn’t quite sure that’s the accurate punctuation, but just go with it).

Instead, what I said to him (and a couple others) was more along the lines of, “Hey!  How’s it going? … Good, good! ....  Oh me?  Well, yeah, I’m not so great.  I actually have to catch a flight to Wisconsin, and I just came out to my parking lot, and I have a flat tire…. Yeah, seriously.  Can you believe it?  Murphy’s law, right? … Yeah, well I don’t know what I’m going to do.  What are you doing right now? … If you’re busy, I’m sure I could grab a cab.”  NateDogg, who knows me so well and, admittedly, over the years, has taken me under his wing as a bit of a second dependent (his wife is one of my besties), immediately said, “No, no, I’ll come help you.  Where are you?”

Thinking he was coming to help me change my tire, he called to let me know he had arrived at the designated corner.  I bounded out of my office, threw my suitcase in the backseat and hopped in the front seat.  “Thank you SO much for taking me to the airport.  You’re the absolute BEST!!!  Do you think we can make it there in 25 minutes?!?!” I gushed, breathless (ps – It was rush hour).

Ummm… what?  Wait… Um, yeah, I guess I can take you to the airport.  I just need to make a couple calls because I’m supposed to be at a dinner down south… No, no, it’s ok - I’ll take you.  Wait, where’s your car?  I thought you needed help with your tire?


It’s my job to manage expectations.  I am expected to tell it to people straight and let them know what’s ahead.  And from the feedback I’ve received, I think I’m good at my job.  I don’t say this arrogantly… I have A LOT to learn, but I like to think I’m direct and people respect me for it.  So why, WHY, do I have such a difficult time saying to a close, trusted friend, “Hey, I’m incredibly vulnerable right now and completely dependent on your support.  Please, help me.”?

Why can’t I tell my superiors or colleagues that I can’t handle something, that I need direction, support, resources, etc.?  Why do I wait until it’s to the point that it’s absolutely unbearable before I’ll cry uncle?

I perceive a request for help as a personal weakness.  There, I said it.  Let’s start there (I realize I’m well into this post, and I think I’m just “starting”).  I hate admitting that I can’t do something for myself, which means I have a really, really (REALLY) difficult time asking for help.  I know this is flat-out wrong, on many levels (both personal and professional), but I just can’t help the internal reaction I get from admitting defeat.  I’m cringing just writing this.  I hate it.  Surprisingly, however, when other people ask me for help, I don’t perceive them as weak (when requests for help are used reasonably, of course – not necessarily sparingly, just reasonably).  In fact, I love to help other people.  This is strictly a self- perception, and it’s very much a double standard.

Before I effectively (unintentionally) tricked NateDogg into taking me to the airport, I had two VERY good friends say to me “I am busy, but if you NEED me to take you to the airport, just tell me and I’ll take you.”  And I couldn’t tell them.  Of course I needed them to take me to the airport – how else was I going to get there?  I knew I needed them to take me to the airport.  I knew my flight left in an hour.  I knew that even if I could even get a cab, it would be 65 bucks and the driver likely wouldn’t absorb my sense of urgency. I knew I was out of options. But I couldn’t form the words.  Three simple words that absolutely kill me to admit: I. Need. Help.

It’s professionally reminiscent of the moment when my boss told me to start making calls and begin building a team because we were to the point where I needed help.  I don’t need help, not yet anyway.  I got this, I thought defiantly.  But, lucky for me, he insisted (“as a precaution”), and I followed his instruction and made my first call for “help.”  We hired my referral (who is AWESOME) pretty much immediately.

Three months later, I’ve made two specific calls for help, and I couldn’t imagine my life without them.  There have been a couple of projects and a couple of clients that I, admittedly, only reluctantly released control over.  I had taken it as an insult when colleagues and superiors told me that there was no way I would be able to chew all that I had bitten off.  This week, however, we all laughed at how insane it would have been for me to have held on to those pieces.  I let go of them, and somehow, my days are still overflowing, my job is still fulfilling and I’m still respected.

Thank you, NateDogg, for helping me when I couldn’t ask for it.  Thank you to my two other friends for offering to help me, if I could just ask for it.  Both are more valuable than you’ll know. 

* There’s a famous Denver homeless man, who is notorious for violently shaking his change cup at you and hollering “HELP, HELP” as you walk by.  Because of him, the phrase has taken on a bit of a second meaning among some of us locals.

Sunday, January 1, 2012

other people's wisdom

Recently, I've been hearing the same message a number of different ways - that it's really important to spend time learning from other people's experiences.  This means committing some serious time to reading business books and blogs.

Before I do that though, I need to admit that this isn't really appealing to me.  I love to read, but admittedly, my literary choices range from smart fiction to trashy magazines.  By way of example, I'm currently enjoying the second book in the Twlight series, and I apologize for nothing.  In a way, I blame law school for this (shocker, I know).  But, I feel as though I reached my lifetime "educational reading" quota somewhere around the middle of second year.  Since then, it's been very difficult for me to spend "free time" reading anything that isn't mindless.  I'd like to change that this year. 

A couple of my close colleagues and I continually remind each other that by experiencing the ups and downs and goods and bads of working at a start-up, we're getting our MBAs - one lesson at a time.  It's such a phenomenal opportunity that I would be crazy to not maximize the experience.  I need to think of business books and blogs as my course materials and start taking them very seriously. 

This guy's blog is a great place to start.