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10 Words to Change Your Life

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When I was a younger man, I got myself into some trouble now and again.  Don’t let your imaginations run wild; I got into some small town, “You’re twenty-one years old and do some dumb things” kind of trouble, not the “We’re filing charges” kind of trouble.  Still, I may have been on a path toward a darker future if I didn’t wise up.  You can only dodge so many bullets…

I can remember talking to my father the day after I’d gotten into some trouble.  I was lamenting my bad luck as we sat on our porch and I told him what had happened.  “These things always happen to me,” I said, self-pityingly.  “Just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

My father glanced at me.  “You don’t actually believe that, do you?” he asked.

I looked at him sharply.  “Well, yeah.  What do you mean?” I asked.

“Mike,” he said, “You’ve been making some really poor choices.  Trouble isn’t just finding you; you’re putting yourself in its path.  You’ve got to smarten up and realize that you aren’t just in the wrong place at the wrong time–you’re putting yourself in the wrong place, and it’s never the right time to be in the wrong place.”

I’m doing this to myself.  It’s never the right time to be in the wrong place.  That was a revelation to me at the time, and I wish that I could say it was the last time I made a bad choice, but I was twenty-one, and still had a lot of maturation to do.  It was, though, one of the last times I had a youthful lapse in judgment; my father’s words stayed with me.

You’re doing this to yourself.  That’s the lesson I try to teach young people now that I’m an old man of forty-one.  Stop asking yourself, “Why is the teacher picking on me?” or “How come my parents are so mean?”  It’s not “Why do I have to do it their way?” or “How come these things always happen to me?”

The right question isn’t “why?”  It is, “what?”  As in: “What can I do to make things better for myself?”  In fact, I often tell young people that these are the 10 Magic Words That Can Change Your Life:

What am I doing to make life better for myself?

I understand asking “why?”  I really do.  It’s human to wonder about fate, or karma, or bad luck.  We often are tempted to blame others or our past or the way we were raised.  In my experience, often the best we can ever do is speculate as to the “why” we do what we do.  Instead, isn’t it a better focus of our time and energy to stop focusing on the past and start focusing on what we can do here, today, right now to make things better for ourselves?

When we blame others or our circumstances for our present predicaments, we can feel helpless and hopeless.  When we focus on what we can control–our thoughts, words, and actions–we can feel empowered to take charge of our lives and move in a different direction.  I am not responsible for the things that you think about me–I am responsible for the things that I do and say.  I can’t undo the trouble that I’ve caused, but I can make better decisions in the present.

Don’t spend another minute asking why bad things are happening to you.  

What do you want?  What are you doing to make that happen?

What am I doing to make life better for myself? 

Filed Under: Choices Tagged With: , ,

I Still Clean Toilets for a Living

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In the late spring of 1989, just a few weeks shy of my fourteenth birthday, I got my first paying job.

My neighbor’s son-in-law, Ray, had spotted me at some yard work and asked, “Hey–you looking for a job?” as he drove by in his truck.  It hadn’t even occurred to me that perhaps I was.  “Sure!” I excitedly replied.  Ray worked for a company that provided janitorial services to Phar-Mor, the now long-defunct discount drug store chain. 

“How old are you?” he asked.  I tried to deepen my voice, “I’ll be fourteen in a few weeks,” I told him proudly.  He thought about it for a moment or two.  “Okay,” he said, “We’ll just keep you off the books until you turn fourteen.”   

The work required being picked up by Ray at 5:30 AM to be dropped off at one of the stores scattered throughout southwestern PA.  We covered stores from Greensburg to Swissvale, South Hills to Robinson Township.  A crew of two (or by yourself if the other guy didn’t show) would clean and buff the floors from 7 AM (when the managers arrived to open the store) until 9 AM (when the store opened to the public.)  That’s right kids: not all stores were open 24 hours-a-day back then.

Sometimes we’d get a strip job–wait for it–not what you’re thinking:  the worn wax would need to be stripped from the floor and replaced with new wax.  Such a job required at least a four man crew, and we’d get locked in the store over-night while we swept the floor of debris, threw down warm stripper, scraped the wax up by hand and by a single-disk scrubber, mopped the floor clean, and then applied four coats of new wax by mop.  After all that, we’d run a propane-powered buffer as loud as a jackhammer over the surface of the new wax to bring out a high-buffed shine.

Like most people of a certain age, when I tell teens today about what I did when I was young, they scarce believe it wasn’t illegal child endangerment!  Some scoff that their overprotective parents would never let them do the stuff we did.  “I would get dropped off in East Liberty at 6:30 in the morning with nothing but a propane tank for company while I waited for the manager to arrive and open the store,” I recalled to a young client.

“What if somebody tried to rob or hurt you?” he asked. 

“I guess most of the robbers and kidnappers in East Liberty were either asleep at 6:30 AM or they didn’t have any use for the tall, skinny kid in sweatpants sitting on a propane tank.”

“Did you have a phone?”

“In 1989?  Yeah–they were attached to booths and you had to put money in them to use them.  They were called ‘pay phones.’ Look ’em up.” 

Working on those all-night jobs and on those early mornings taught me a lot about responsibility and hard work; I can still remember the awful smell of the ammonia-based stripper that we used and the callouses on my hands from manning my mop–all for a whopping $3.35 an hour!

Cleaning floors at Phar-Mor wasn’t so bad, though, and Ray was a kind and friendly boss (still one of the best I ever had). His company also cleaned the two area Bally’s Scandinavian fitness clubs (also now long gone).  That was work that I didn’t enjoy.  Vacuuming and sweeping around people doing cardio and dusting weights between people doing sets was drudgery–cleaning locker rooms and the sauna were among my least favorite things.  And then there were the toilets.  Oh, the toilets.

You have to understand that, as a teenager from Brownsville, the South Hills gym-goers seemed fabulously rich and endlessly sophisticated to me, which made it all the more frustrating when they left the toilets in–shall we say–various stages of ill-use.  With apologies to anyone who patronized the male locker room at Bally’s from approximately 1989-1992, “Rich pigs!” is what I’d mutter to myself as I cleaned the row of toilets.   I couldn’t appreciate then the valuable lessons in humility they were unknowingly teaching me; but I did resolve then and there that I would always be fastidious in my use of public restrooms.

I got to thinking of my time as a gym janitor the other day after joining a health club (a gift from my wife–read into that what you will).  I made a point of introducing myself to Dan, the friendly custodian (another resolution of mine from my Bally’s days: be nice to service personnel and never forget that I used to be one!).  I couldn’t help but think of how blessed I am to be able to attend a gym instead of having to clean one.

I went to use the restroom at my office earlier this week, and someone had done something unspeakably vile to the commode.   Looking down at the wretched mess and realizing that the cleaning crew had already come and gone, I knew that, if this thing was going to get clean, only one person was going to do it.  I don’t want this soiled toilet to be a representation of my business.  With breath held and teeth gritted–I cleaned my first public toilet in years.

Gentle reader: life loves circles.  Janitor to gym patrons–gym patron–janitor once again.  Life doesn’t ask how many degrees you hold when life wishes to teach a lesson.  Dirty jobs don’t end just because you have your own business cards.     

Filed Under: Choices, Grit, Hard Work Tagged With: , ,

Lynyrd Skynyrd Was Wrong

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“Play Free Bird!”

It’s been a running joke, almost since the song’s debut in 1974, for some guy to shout out that request, regardless of the musical venue.  I bet Andrea Bocelli hears it at his shows.  I’m embarrassed to admit that I, too, have been “that guy,” and, in all probability, I’ll laugh when some other guy does it again.

Let’s face it: guys love that song.  Some women do, too, of course; but few of them have the strong, primordial bond with the tune that we men have with it.

Maybe it’s the simple, no nonsense lyrics that can evoke bittersweet feelings of wanderlust and relationships that could have been “if only.”  Maybe it’s the monster guitar riff at the end.  It could be nostalgia for a bygone era, a longing for “a simpler time.”  Funny to watch a live recording of the band playing the song in 1977 and see no cell phones in the air, just people enjoying music in the moment…

I think the reason it resonates with men so much is the notion that “this bird cannot change.”  I think that men love to say, “This is who I am, and I ain’t changin’.”  Many, no doubt, are tempted to add to that proclamation, “And if you don’t like it, there’s the door.”

As a marriage counselor, I’ve seen men being their stubbornly worst.  “You knew who I was when you married me” seems, to many men, to be an excuse for almost any boorish behavior that their long-suffering wives thought their husbands would have outgrown years ago.  “This is who I am” is usually code for “Don’t expect me to have grown or evolved as a person–that’s too hard!  It’s easier for me to be who I was when I last really liked me–in my 20’s.”  Most aging men miss their youth; some blame others for the loss of it.

The following is a list of just some of the reasons I’ve seen couples in marriage counseling because that bird you cannot change:

I will not quit the bar.

I will not quit wing night.

I will not take off my muddy boots at the door.

I will not stop parking the motorcycle in the living room.

I will not come home before 4 AM, and I will not stop bringing home drunken friends to continue the party at our house.

I will not ever take the kids to their friends’ houses.

I will not help with housework or with paying the bills.

I will not stop my flirtatious relationships.

Soon enough, almost all of them are once again free as a bird.Flying Bird

The thing is, guys: we can change.  It turns out–we actually can!  It’s just hard.  It can be incredibly hard, and that’s why most of us don’t want to do it, so we instead belt out anthems celebrating our unyielding nature.  Change can be the toughest thing in the world for men, but it is possible!

Sometimes you can make that change on your own; sometimes, you need some professional help, big fella.  Nothing wrong with that.

I’m glad to report that, while I’ve met my share of rigid men, I’ve also met many guys who have worked at it and brought about sustained, significant changes in their lives–and no one came to take his Man Card!

It turns out, if I stay here with you, girl, things can be better than the same.

Filed Under: Divorce, Grit, Marriage, Relationships Tagged With: , , , , , ,

Guaranteeing Success for Your Child

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I first heard of Geoffrey Canada in 2008 when his story was featured on the NPR program, This American Life.  (You can listen to it here.)  His ambitious program to end poverty captured my imagination in its simplicity.

He and his team approached every parent they encountered within a certain area of Harlem and asked them to come to hear how they can make life better for their children.  They approached women pushing strollers and men holding the hands of toddlers and said, “Come to the community center at 9 AM on Saturday morning to learn how you can ensure your child makes it out of Harlem.”

When the parents of these babies and infants and toddlers gathered in the meeting place, Geoffrey Canada looked at them and said, “Who here wants a better life for their children than they have?”  Every hand went up.  “I’m going to show you how you can do that,” he said.  And then he told them the secret:

Read to your children.

Now, if you are reading this blog right now, chances are excellent that you are middle class or upper middle class–and so the notion of reading to your children when they are little isn’t exactly earth-shattering to you.  In fact, you are probably thinking, “Duh!”

But to those lower income families gathered in Harlem, the thought of reading to their children was as foreign as the thought that you shouldn’t yell at them all the time or let them drink Mountain Dew.

Mr. Canada knows that stimulating a child’s brain at an early age is the key to ending poverty.  To put it succinctly: kids who like to read do better in school = they get better grades = they stay in school = they get better paying jobs.

So he founded the Harlem Children’s Zone and then The Baby College for the parents of children age 0-3, and for 9 Saturdays in a row, he and his staff teach parents the solution to poverty: read to your children.

daddy-reading-behind-1432160-639x491The more you introduce language to children, the more they grab it.  Middle and upper middle class parents typically know that, but in those 97 city blocks of Harlem, no one had previously stressed the importance of reading.

It turns out that the biggest difference between the haves and the have-nots is language acquisition, because that translates into verbal ability.

James Heckman, an economist at the University of Chicago, found the difference in the sheer number of words that middle class parents speak to their child–as opposed to poverty class parents–differs by about 20 million words.  So, by age three, your middle class child has been exposed to 20 million more words than a poor three year old.

Heckman found that job training isn’t the solution to ending welfare because, by the time poor people are young adults, very basic skills haven’t been learned: the ability to communicate, read the newspaper, have self-control–even the ability to get out of bed to regularly go to work.

This is harder and harder if not achieved by ages 8, 9, 10–to some extent, it’s already too late!  Those early years are the time to snuggle up with a book and read to your very young child.

The sad reality is that, if you are reading this, you probably already know that.  Please spread the word to someone who does not.

The Harlem Children’s Zone and the Baby College.

Filed Under: Choices, Good communication, Parenting, Uncategorized Tagged With: ,

The Homework Parent vs. The Holiday Parent

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Divorce

They say that you never forget your first, and that is certainly true of my first outpatient client.

To be honest, though, Declan (not his real name) wasn’t all that memorable.  He was, all-in-all, a pretty good kid.  He had decent grades in school and had some friends there, too.  He was unfailingly polite to me during sessions and engaged in dialogue.  However, his parents had divorced, and his mother had some concerns about Declan’s ongoing adjustment.  She was more memorable to me than her son because of the uphill battle that she was fighting.

I remember well what she said to me once when describing her frustration with her ex-husband.  We were talking privately while Declan was waiting in the lobby and she sighed in angry weariness.  “You know what the biggest problem is?” she said.  “I have him Sunday night through Thursday night, and when he’s with me, he has a bedtime that’s set in stone, he has to do his chores and his homework.”

“When he’s at his dad’s Friday through Sunday, he has none of those things!  Declan gets to do what he wants there–stays up late playing video games, eats whatever he wants, doesn’t open his bookbag.  His dad is constantly taking him to fun places and restaurants–because it’s the weekend!  Then Declan comes home to me, and the first thing I have to do is make him get out his homework!”

She almost sobbed.  “I’d like to take him out every night and not fight over bath time, but I’m too damn responsible.”

Sadly, I have heard that echoed far too often since the first time I heard it from her.  I’ve come to think of people in her situation as the “Homework” parent and the “Holiday” parent.  Homework parent is typically the custodial parent who says, “Stop,” “no,” and “don’t” while Holiday parent says, “If you want to–do it.”   Guess which house the kid typically prefers?

When you’re a preteen, who wouldn’t like an irresponsible parent?  It’s also easier to be Holiday parent, so, in a sense, who wouldn’t want to be that person?

People in my position, though, get to see and hear many things.  While I’ve certainly worked with kids like Declan who liked Holiday better, I’ve met many, many older kids (and young adults) who came to recognize the good that Homework did and appreciate her now.  Some of them even come to resent Holiday for not being a more responsible parent to their children.

My message to all of you Homework parents out there:  hang in there!

While your child may hate what you do today, chances are excellent that he’ll come to appreciate it tomorrow.  “At least my mom cared enough to make sure I brushed my teeth and read a book once in a while,” said a young man to me recently in a session when he was describing his childhood.  “My dad didn’t give a s–t what I did.”  That’s an actual quote–and that’s how he came to see his Holiday parent: as someone who didn’t care.

Let Holiday parent be Mr. Popular now; your child will someday appreciate you and what you did for him.  He’ll probably come to regret how he treated you during those years when his other parent should’ve known better.

Homework parents of the world, hear my cry!  Stay strong!  Don’t take the easy way out.  You care too much about your children to compete with your ex- for their affection.  Keep taking the long-term approach, and cling to the realization that you aren’t raising him to be a child–you’re raising him to be a man.

 

Filed Under: Divorce, Parenting Tagged With: , ,

What Wound Do You Bear?

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first-aid-kit-1416695-1280x960At any given moment, most counselors have someone on their caseload about whom they wonder, “Am I helping her?”

You may be surprised to learn that counselors–even very seasoned, talented ones–can feel inadequate at times.  We wonder how we can be more helpful.  We search for the right words to say or the right technique to to help a client to think differently, feel better, act in a new way.

Sometimes we see people suffering, and we want so desperately to ease their pain.  By far and away, the most challenging cases I have are not marriage counseling clients (that’s a close second!); my biggest challenges are in working with people who have experienced a loss, or who have been wronged or hurt by a loved one.

Emotional pain can cut as hard as a gash to our bodies; it can feel like a wound to our soul.

The difference between an emotional hurt and a physical wound is that we can often decide how deep our emotional wound will be, or, failing that, we can dictate our response to it.

There are three types of emotional wounds, much like the physical variety: boo-boos, scars, and life-altering.

The first is the least serious; this is a hurt of the boo-boo variety.  We all get boo-boos once in a while.  At any given moment, I usually have a few scratches on my hands or arms from my bad cat, Brutus, who likes to play rough.  The boo-boos hurt when first inflicted, but quickly fade and are soon forgotten.  Emotional boo-boos may be the fight that ends with an apology, the unkind word that is said but forgiven, the time you were disappointed but got over it.

Next we have the type of wound that heals, but leaves a scar.  I’ve got a good one on my left foot from the time as kid that I accidentally stuck myself with a hatchet (long story) and another on my right hand from when I pledged a fraternity in college (an even longer story).  The initial pain was intense–however, over time, I healed.  But a scar formed, and I bear it forever.  It doesn’t hurt to touch, but I’ll be forever reminded of what gave me that scar.

Emotional hurts that scar could be the infidelity of a partner, the betrayal by a friend, the abusive relationship, or the terrible things your addicted adult son did.  The pain has healed, but it has left a scar–it can’t be forgotten.

And finally there is the life-altering type of  physical wound.  The solider who loses a leg in the war.  The woman who is paralyzed in an accident.  Nothing will ever be the same for them–the leg will never grow back, she will never walk again.  In my experience, life-altering emotional wounds come from a significant loss, such as when a parent loses a child.  There was life before he died–and then life every day since.

However, just as we wouldn’t say to that solider or that paraplegic, “Just lay on the couch for the rest of your life,” we wouldn’t let someone who has a life-altering emotional wound wither up and wait to die.   We would expect the solider to do the best he can with a prosthetic limb; we would teach the paralyzed woman to use a wheelchair.

In short, we would expect them to adapt.  And that is how we can live with a life-altering event: we adapt to life as it is now. If you’ve experienced a life-altering emotional wound, the watchword for you is “adaptation.”

Sometimes that process can be figured out on your own; sometimes friends and family can help you along the way.  And sometimes, a trained professional is best suited to help you to adapt to your loss.

If you’ve experienced a serious emotional wound, perhaps you could benefit from speaking to a counselor, someone Carl Jung referred to as a “wounded healer.”  Share your pain with us, and we’ll share our scars with you.

Nunc coepi 

Filed Under: Counseling, Depression, Pain, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , ,

This Time It Will Be Different, Right?

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OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

The day I reached 200 pounds was one of the happiest days of my life.  The day I reached 300 pounds was one of the saddest days of my life.

Growing up, I was thin–and I mean thin.  I was always tall, but for my childhood and most of my adolescence, I was painfully underweight.  And because I was tall, often boys shorter but stockier than me took great delight in bullying me.  I guess some people like to chop down the tallest tree they can find…

How I longed to bulk up!  All the other guys could get the girls’ attention through physical prowess; I had to hope they liked a sense of humor.  At 17, I was 6’5” and weighed 165 pounds.

And then I hit a growth spurt and I hit the weights and I hit the carbs and protein.  Finally, on one magical day in 1992, I finally reached my goal of 200 pounds.  I watched with joy as my weight kept climbing–to 215 and then to 235–and that’s where I thought I was most effective at the two most important things in my life at the time: playing basketball and getting girls.

“Son, one day you’re going to want to lose that weight,” my father had said to me as he watched me drink weight-gain milkshakes and peanut butter sandwiches.  Feh!  What did he know?

Cut to 2007, I’m 32 years old and weigh 305 pounds.  Damn if the old man wasn’t right again…

Suffice to say, I was miserable when I was overweight.  My friends delighted in fat jokes, and I ashamedly had to shop at Big & Tall stores.  You see, my habits had changed in my late 20’s.  I went from being very active with running and basketball to eating at McDonald’s twice a day while sitting on my butt for a living.

As the brilliant author and speaker Matthew Kelly says, “Our lives change when our habits change.”

So, you’ve made a resolution, and you’ve told yourself that this is your year; this time, you’re actually going to follow through.

Remember the famous line about “insanity” and doing the same thing over and over again?

When we change our habits, we change our lives. Change is a process, not a destination.  Your goal is the destination; the process of developing successful habits is the journey.  Too many of us fail in our resolutions because we fail to invest time in the change process.  Most experts will agree that, generally, habits are formed after roughly 21 days of repetition.  That’s three weeks of doing something different before it becomes second-nature.

Do a quick exercise: pick up a pen and write your name.  Now, put it in your “off” hand and do it again.  Awkward?  Felt strange?  That’s what change feels like.  Imagine if, every day for three weeks, you spent an hour writing with your other hand.  By the end of three weeks, your writing wouldn’t be perfect, but it would be much more legible, and you’d be much more comfortable doing it.

Maintain your commitment to long-term change by starting a new habit.  When I got into the habit of eating healthier and exercising more, I lost the weight.  It didn’t happen overnight–and I’ve had my “ups and downs” with my weight ever since–but I’ve never come close to the dreaded 300, because I spent time developing better habits.

Start a new habit today, and then do it the next day, and the next, and again..

…and I’ll see you in 21 days…

Filed Under: Choices, Grit, Self-Care, Uncategorized Tagged With: , ,

If Only We Loved Like They Do in the Movies

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It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

 

So begins the last complete poem of Edgar Allen Poe.  Published shortly after his death in 1849, middle school students for generations since often discover it as the first poem that captured their imagination while setting their earliest conceptions of what love “should” be like.

 

This former eighth grader was no exception.  Sitting in Ms. Prosser’s lit class in 1988 while dealing with the horrible existence that is middle school, Annabel Lee was beauty, tragedy, and grace at a time that I couldn’t even tell Shelly that I liked her hair.
I remember thinking, “To love like that!  To burn with so fierce a love that even the angels were jealous!”  I probably resolved then and there that I would settle for nothing less in my relationships.
So began my childlike Poe phase (which was quickly replaced by my adolescent rap phase which, in turn, gave way to my twenty-something Doors phase).

For better or worse, today many relationships are guided by depictions in media far more popular and ubiquitous than nineteenth century poetry.  Let’s take a test:  think of the ultimate “chick-flick.”  Got one?  Okay, now think about how love is portrayed in the film.  Is it a typical, stable marriage?  Hell, no!  It’s probably a tortured, brief affair with a guy from the wrong-side-of-the-tracks (Titanic, Dirty Dancing), or a tumultuous courtship that ends in tragedy (Legends of the Fall, The Notebook).  Love is often depicted as most passionate or “true” outside of marriage (Casablanca, Unfaithful) or discovered when doing something crazy (Under the Tuscan Sun, Pretty Woman).  Love–in the movies–is typically found when you are with someone other than your spouse, or where you don’t belong, or doing what you’d ordinarily never do.

Movies virtually all agree that love is intense and, typically, effortless.  From Romeo and Juliet to A Walk to Remember, we have been lied to, people!

Most of the time, marital love is dull and uneventful.  It is boring.  It is waking up to bad breath and mussed hair and then going to bed with someone beside you already sleeping.  It’s less jetting off to exotic locales than picking up the kids from practice.  Movie love = hot bodies and no consequences.  Marital love = cellulite and paying the mortgage.

But it is there!  She is with you–and you blink, and twenty years go by–and she is with you, and still loves you, despite your bald head and furry ears.  He is there, and knows what you like on your pizza and all about your relationship with your mother.  He loved you then when you could turn all the boys’ heads and now when you’ve got a double-chin.  Marital love is present, not needing to be chased or won.  (Which isn’t to say that marital love doesn’t take work.  See our September 18 post.)

Don’t be beguiled by fiction that tells you that love is a matchstick that, once struck, flares beautifully and glows intensely.  Marital love is a charcoal; it lights stubbornly, and when it does, only burns dull gray and orange.

But it will stay lit far after the match has burned itself out.

Filed Under: Marriage, Relationships, Uncategorized Tagged With: ,

Can Your Relationship Take a Punch?

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If you’re in your 40’s or older, you, like me, can remember the phenomenon that was Mike Tyson in the 1980’s.  Before the freak show, before the rape conviction, before Buster Douglas shocked the world (and Tyson) by beating him in 1990, “Kid Dynamite” was an unstoppable force in the boxing ring, and he was a cultural icon outside of it.

And so it was with his usual confidence that, when asked at a press conference about his upcoming opponent’s boast that he had a plan to beat “Iron Mike,” Tyson responded with his now famous line,

“Everybody’s got a plan until they get punched in the mouth.”

I think of that quote often whenever I meet with clients who are unhappy in their relationship because it has turned into something that they didn’t want it to be.   On your wedding day, you said, “For better or worse,” but the very real possibility of “or worse” seemed so unlikely when you were so in love, so happy, so looking forward to your lives together…

And then life punched you in the mouth.

You lost your job and money got tight.  He wasn’t as involved with the kids as you thought he’d be.  She was frequently “too tired” for intimacy.  The in-laws became overly intrusive in your lives.  You had hoped for a lifetime of happiness; did you plan for one?

You see, having a plan is far better than having a hope.  Do you hope for retirement, or do you plan for it?  Do you hope you will be able to pay for your child’s tuition, or do you plan for it?  Do you hope that the big event turns out ok, or do you plan for it?

Plan to be successful in your relationship by often asking yourself, “What am I doing to be happy in this relationship?  How am I contributing to the success of our marriage?  When can I do more for us?”  Notice that the focus is on what I am or am not doing, not on what your partner is or is not doing.  When you work daily on the health of your relationship, it is much more likely that your partner will, too.

Despite the best of plans, though, life will still punch you in the mouth sometimes.  When that happens, don’t abandon planning altogether; evaluate, re-formulate, and make a new plan!  I would follow a man with a plan and prayer quicker than I’d follow someone with just a prayer.

How many boxers abandoned their plan whenever Tyson pummelled him with those legendary fists?  By his own account, Buster Douglas weathered Mike’s fury and stuck to his plan, and that’s what made him a champion.

Your relationship will be tested.  Plan for it.

 

Filed Under: Marriage, Relationships Tagged With: , , ,

Positivity Over Pain

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After participating in numerous 5K runs, I set my eyes on the Pittsburgh Great Race to be my first attempt at a 10K.

The race was September 27, so I began my training in mid-August.  Approximately three times a week, I would walk a few kilometers and then run a few, and each week, I would progressively increase the distance that I ran.  I was hoping for a decent time of 70 minutes to complete the race.

One week before the race–on my last long run–I strained my left calf muscle.  One week!  The pain was intense; I could walk, but with a limp.  Immediately I began a R.I.C.E. treatment (Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation).  My sainted wife went and bought a massage roller and dutifully used it on my leg each night.  The pain gradually lessened, but my question remained: would I be able to run on Sunday?

Come race day, and I was optimistic.  I had purchased and was wearing not only compression sleeves on my legs, but also a calf brace on the left leg.  It felt almost 100%.

We get there early, I kiss my wife (non-runner but great supporter) and board the shuttle to the start.  My first 10K and we’re off!

Two kilometers into the ten kilometers race, the pain returned.  Now, to those ladies who are reading this: I know that most men are babies when it comes to pain and illness.  I fully acknowledge that; but, I gotta tell you, this pain was for real!  For the first time, I thought I might DNF the race (Did Not Finish).

I had my earbuds in and my 10K playlist blasting, but it wasn’t enough to keep me motivated.  Damn it!  Where is Chariots of Fire on shuffle when you need it?  I had to get my mind off the pain if I had any hope of finishing.  I looked around at the cityscape and thought about how blest I was to live near Pittsburgh and to run on these roads that close only once a year for this purpose.

At each intersection, a police officer or two was stationed to keep the streets closed to traffic and for security.  I was on the outside of the running crowd; as I passed one policewoman our eyes happened to meet and I smiled at her and said, “Thanks for being here today!”  She smiled back and waved and said something that I couldn’t hear thanks to  Smells Like Teen Spirit blazing in my ears.

And then, a remarkable thing happened: I felt better.  Just by expressing a little gratitude to a stranger, my spirits lifted, and I felt a little spring in my step.  Two blocks later, two cops and an EMT.  “Thanks for coming out today!” I hollered.  One smiled, the other two looked quizzically at me as if to say, “What’s the deal with this guy?”  Two blocks, an intersection, and an officer.  “Thanks for being here this morning!”  A smile.

“Am I a complete dork?” I wondered.  No, no: that’s negativity, don’t let that in your space right now.  “Thanks for being here!” I shout to the paramedics and officer at the next block.  “Do the other runners think I’m a tool?”  Who cares?  I feel better being nice to these emergency responders and I’m not thinking about my leg.

The race goes on, and I am swept into the middle of the crowd.  I say encouraging things to the other runners around me.  (I only talk to runners who appear older than me so that I don’t come across as, “That Guy.”)  I see a one-armed runner and we share a smile; I give a “thumbs up” to a woman old enough to be my mother.  I run on.

I’m fading, I’m wilting.  No intersections at this point in the course.  Where’s a cop when you need one (to thank)?  I start to thank the bystanders lining the route who are clapping and waving and holding signs.   I wave back and say “thanks” and they look at me trying to figure out if they know me.

Coming to the end now.  Bystanders, people who already finished, and well-wishers are lining the course cheering and clapping and encouraging us.  I feel their energy and pump my fists in the air.  I scan the crowd to see if I can see my wife, but I can’t see into Starbucks. (Just kidding, baby!)

FINISH!  The most welcome word to every runner. I look at my timer: 63 minutes.  My personal best by a full seven minutes.

I wanted to quit, but concentrating on being grateful carried me on.  I wanted to give in to the pain, but the power of positivity brought me through to the end.  I almost let my concern over what others think keep me from doing something healthy, but I didn’t.

When in despair: thank someone (especially a first responder!).

Race Day

 

Filed Under: Depression, Grit, Pain, Self-Care, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , ,