Living a Life that Matters

August 20, 2016

Living a Life that Matters

I just came across this poem, and needed to share.

What Will Matter
By Michael Josephson

Ready or not, some day it will all come to an end.
There will be no more sunrises, no days, no hours, or minutes.
All the things you collected, whether treasured or forgotten will pass on to someone else.
Your wealth, fame and temporal power will shrivel to irrelevant.
It will not matter what you owned or what you were owed.
Your grudges, resentments, frustrations, and jealousies will finally disappear.
So, too, your hopes, ambitions, plans, and to-do lists will all expire.
The wins and losses that once seemed so important will fade away.
It won’t matter where you come from, or on what side of the tracks you lived.
It won’t matter whether you are beautiful or brilliant.
Your gender, skin color, ethnicity will be irrelevant.
So, what will matter?
How will the value of your days be measured?
What will matter is not what you bought, but what you built. Not what you got, but what you gave.
What will matter is not your success, but your significance.
What will matter is not what you learned, but what you taught.
What will matter is every act of integrity, compassion, courage and sacrifice that enriched, empowered or encouraged others to emulate your example.
What will matter is not your competence, but your character.
What will matter is not how many people knew you, but how many will feel a lasting loss when you’re gone.
What will matter is not your memories, but the memories of those who loved you.
What will matter is how long you will be remembered, by whom and for what.
Living a life that matters doesn’t happen by accident. It’s not a matter of circumstance but of choice.

Choose to live a life that matters.

July 18, 2016July 18, 2016

What feeds your humor?

Recently I was scrolling through my Instagram feed, and came across a horrendous sight. It was a page full of fashion don’t s. At first I found it rather funny that someone would take the time to put this in their feed, and then I realized they were pictures of people. Actual, living and breathing people who chose to put those clothes on.

Thinking about those crazy outfits, and only seeing the backs of people, you can’t see their jubilation on their faces in the outfit they chose. They chose to wear that outfit. But they didn’t choose to have someone take their photo and mock them for their own humility.Glamour magazine has been doing this for years.

Have I gotten that much older that I’ve lost my sense of humor? Is it really that funny and I’m missing it? Is it fair to laugh at others at their expense. Yes, yes, and yes to all three.

Sure, I’ve lost a little of my juvenile sense of humor, only now it’s more mature and clever. Plays on words, analogies, quips and quotes, all presented in a nice, neat package.

It’s healthy to laugh with those you love, perhaps at their expense, yes, and at the same time, it’s based on history. Stories you’ve collected together, laughter you’ve created.

Each time we’re in that mode of reliving the past, or conjuring up a good analogy based on someone’s personality, we find the humor. It’s healthy found humor, delivered fresh from history.

Don’t get me wrong, people watching is fun. Sure, I can get a huge chuckle from someone’s outfit, hair, or speech. But if you look into those eyes, look at that face, you wouldn’t be laughing.

Laugh with those you know, share that laughter with the faces you know, not the backs of people you don’t. That’s the biggest Glamour Don’t of all.

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June 25, 2016

Take a Shot

There are very few times I’m willing to take a “shot”, and then there are those times when I love to “take a shot”. Yes, there’s Fireball. At one time there were Kamikaze’s, limoncello, and pickle shots. But there is no shot in this world I love to take than the shot.

I’m talking about taking risks that you really enjoy and bring great pleasure. Just like that little glass of Fireball, so is every chance you take when you put yourself out on a limb. This past year proved my ability to take a shot. I changed jobs from corporate America, and jumped back to the advertising agency world. Some days it can be trying, and other days, tedious. But most days it brings extreme self-gratification.

Can you honestly say that work brings you self-gratification? For the first time in my life I’m surrounded by people like me. We’re people pleasers, honestly we want everyone to like us. Should something go wrong, we fix it. Should someone be unhappy, we try everything in our arsenal to make them happy.

But it was this past week that delivered great satisfaction. I could see it in everyone’s faces. As though they had all taken that proverbial shot, their faces went from absolute fear to complete pleasure. This was the week each of us had to stand up in front of all our peers, present the status of each of our clients, answer key questions from the management team, breathe a sigh of relief, then finally sit down and support the next victim.

I watched as each of us faced that 15 minutes of fear. Climbing out on that limb. Waiting for your turn, running over your notes, your thoughts, and hardly listening to those before you.

In my case, I love to talk in front of a group of people. Especially my peers. It’s far more relaxing for me to stand up in front of people than it is to chit-chat with a group of playground mommies gossiping after school. Seriously.

No nervous stomach. No butterflies. Just excitement. When it was my turn to “take my shot” and it felt good. First and foremost, I was myself. A little silly, a little off-color, extremely direct, and most of all, quick.

When it’s your turn to take your shot, be yourself. No one else can please you more, than you.

June 15, 2016June 15, 2016

Banged up List

The last couple of weeks have been physically challenging. Whether its a shoulder, lower back, hamstring, tooth, you name it, one of us in our workout group has it. And on top of that, I feel as though I’m falling apart. Now it’s my thumb. Really? How’s a girl supposed to dead lift with a bad thumb?

My thumb hurts so much my shoulder pain is nothing now. But it doesn’t stop there. My head hasn’t been clear, my stomach has been gurgling, and my calf continues to shoot little pangs of tightness from time to time. Am I truly falling apart? What have I done differently in the last two weeks to feel this way?

Tried to climb a tree and crashed – leg first – fell onto back
Carrying a new 23 lb puppy around
Emergency room with 20yo
Out-patient surgery with 20yo
Broken fridge – ate the food anyway
Diarrhea for 10 days, and still going strong!
Can’t eat anything but the BRAT diet for a week (me eating white bread!)
Head-butt
3 Work proposals in 4 days
Doctor visit/X-ray
Torn ligament in thumb

Well, now that I made a list it provides much more context. Throw in an angry pre-teen and you’ve got yourself a one-way ticket to lala land.

I could use a day of reckoning. Just one day to stop. Believe me I attempted to make small adjustments:

I tried meditating last week, but I just couldn’t clear my head.
I tried relaxing by my friend’s pool, but I went home to do work.
I slept in one day until 11:45, but I felt like I wasted the day.
I tried not to drink any wine.
I tried to drink more wine.

That’s a lot of bullets. I’m exhausted now just looking at all of them. And what will tonight bring?

Who knows.

One thing is for sure, the sun’s shining, I have an amazing family, friends, and most of all, life.

But, note to self, keep taking your vitamins just in case!

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May 27, 2016

Superstitions

Yesterday’s post received a lot of commentary from close friends and family members. Mostly women. “Don’t feel that your texts are bad when you send them to (the 20yo),” or “Are you ok?” In all honesty, I’m quite superstitious. Having not sent a text of encouragement since the tournament began, I’m feeling that now I can’t. They won again last night. And I can’t possibly switch things up at this point.

I’m a finger crosser. I’m sure my early stages of arthritis are a direct result of watching 28 years of baseball.

I married a baseball player. And my superstitions didn’t come from him. Actually, my mother passed them along to me long ago. She roots for the underdog. She crosses her fingers. She uses her “magic” to get strikeouts. She truly believes in Karma, and that the “better man will win”. And most of all, she knows you can’t be the one to break the luck.

So when you see me with my fingers in my pockets or tucked under my arms, you know what’s going on.

May 26, 2016

The Green Light

It’s been a long season. Traveling to Texas, Delaware, Long Island, and of course, Brookline. And now, it’s tournament time, and I’m home with the 12yo. Priorities. What’s made it so hard is leaving the 20yo alone. I mean radio silence alone. No texts, no phone calls, nothing.

He’s playing in his first conference tournament and he doesn’t need his mother sending him little quips and quotes about “pick your head up”, or “have fun today”. (Yes, I was sending these daily). I made this decision on my own. Believe me, I don’t like it. Dare I say, I’m learning to let go.

We spend countless hours raising our children, watching their every move, thinking we can influence all of their decisions. When, in reality, we can’t. They make their decisions. He’ll take that pitch if he wants to. He’ll choose to steal second. (Please note, his coach gave him the “green light”). He’ll spend all of his travel money on the first meal because he knows we will give him more. (Of course his dad is at the tournament, they have a solid understanding of boundaries.)

Maybe it’s time I gave him the “green light”. To make decisions on his own. To fend for himself. He’s clearly been doing it without me all Freshman year of college. Why do we feel this insatiable need to always be telling our children what to do? I don’t play baseball, never have.

Sure I was 20yo once, and had a very good time making good and bad decisions. My mother didn’t check in with me unannounced via text, or worse yet, have Google Alerts on me. No, I had to call her on a landline phone, or write a letter! Times have changed. Parenting has changed.

Give your kids the gift of the “green light”. Put your phone down and let them reach out to you. They will always need you.

You need to find a way when you don’t always need them.

May 11, 2016May 11, 2016

Sunday Night Dinner

One summer night I looked around at our group of friends and realized they had become my “family”. Some I have known for several years, some just recently. We have a common bond that very few can understand. All that matters is that we understand it, we are dysfunction-ally functional.

Starting with three families of four, one boy and one girl each. Ages 18 – 6 at the time. We have the “Big Kids” and the “Little Kids”. They are all “our kids”. Age doesn’t matter. Size doesn’t matter. It’s the laughter and love for one another that’s what’s apparent. I casually mentioned that we should do a dinner every Sunday Night, rotating families to “host”. This way we all got a chance to check in with one another, not dread our Sundays, but actually look forward to them.

Of course the “little kids” were thrilled, the dads, eh, not so much, the “big kids” didn’t really care, and the moms, well, getting out of cooking every Sunday was a win in its own regard. What we didn’t realize was that our simple idea became something much greater than a Sunday Night Dinner.

We started to include other “family members” who share in our dysfunction. More big kids. Some nights its a competition of which Mom makes the dinner everyone likes the most. Can you please the 8 year old? Will he eat your dinner? And some nights we moms have epic fails that we are reminded about week in and week out. The two 12 year olds make the desserts. A big kid goes off to college. College kids come home for Sunday Night Dinner. Dads work late, moms drink wine.

We’ve been eating dinner on Sunday Nights now for almost two years. Very few times have we skipped. When we do, we genuinely feel like we’ve lost something. Like we can’t start our week. When only a handful of people understand you for you, and accepts you for the way you are, hold on to those people closely. Cherish them.

May 6, 2016

The Fan

When you live in New England it’s a known fact that you are either a Yankees fan or a Red Sox fan. Clearly, I am not a Yankees fan. Never have been even when we didn’t live here.

I have watched the suffering closely since 1986. I admit, I was a Mets fan at age 16, until that fateful game and the sox took my heart. Yes, I no longer rooted for the Mets to win the World Series that year. That year, that fateful year, I turned a corner and committed myself a Red Sox fan. And the true suffering began.

Ten years later I found myself living the dream. I was surrounded by sufferers like me. Die-hard fans who truly believed in their home team. When the 20yo was born, he too was dragged down the path, I bought him those cute Red Sox baby t-shirts, complete with wood bat and baby glove. (Ok, he was born into a baseball family, the husband a head baseball coach.)

When he was only 8 months old he attended his first game. All we could afford was one ticket in the bleachers, so of course, a baby doesn’t count! Dressed in a cute little baby boy blue overalls, they “sat” in the bleachers. Dead center. Under the hot sun. (This is when I let you know that both the husband and the 20yo are extremely, well, pale).

They lasted four innings. Not sure if the Sox won or not, but it was, nevertheless, his first game. We had the opportunity to enjoy many more games. But I never attended the games. You know what I’m talking about. The Red Sox vs. the Yankees. It’s epic to watch on TV. “Yankees Suck” t-shirts and shouts from the grandstands. Oh of course, NESN ensures the viewer gets the whole picture.

Winning the World Series was a dream come true. The 20yo and I were home, he was only 8 at the time, along with the girl who was just a baby at the time. Watching under a full moon, they won, they finally won the World Series. Was the suffering over? No, not so fast. There were more wins to come. And more baseball to watch. More t-shirts, now baby Red Sox dresses (not my purchase), and more love for the Sox. We joined the parades. We relished in the victories.

My favorite part about being a Red Sox fan is Sunday Night Baseball. Nothing for me was better than listening to Joe Morgan and Jon Miller. Sure they weren’t well liked. Joe Morgan wasn’t everyone’s favorite “grumpy” analyst. But I learned more about baseball from him. Out they went after 21 years of baseball on Sunday night. They brought in Bobby Valentine. The guy who couldn’t hold down a job had replaced my baseball professor, Joe Morgan.

One year later the baseball Gods turned on me again. Bobby Valentine became the Manager of the Red Sox. I panicked. What was I to tell the children? How could I explain this debacle to my mother? More suffering. Painful, painful suffering. 2012 was a tough year. The Sox only won 5 out of 17 games against the Yankees that year. I couldn’t watch the suffering. Last place.

How quickly another firing came for the ousted Valentine to my pleasure! Enter the hero, from the bullpen. Literally. The rivalry flared again. The love of the game came back. Not because they won the World Series again, but because the game became more important. The rivalry found its place back in my heart. By the way the Red Sox won 13 against the Yankees in 2013.

A fan through and through, I still watch Sunday Night Baseball. I still watch as many games as I can on NESN. I have the MLB app on my phone now. Game time 7:05pm. Against the Yankees.

May 3, 2016

Music To My Ears

Music is important to me. Different genres define my day, my mood, my overall self 99% of the time. Listening to Zac Brown Band today has definitely put me in that mellow mood, but then lifts me up as each song plays. Sitting in a cubicle all day is mind-numbing, until I put those headphones on and they take me to a far away place that only I can go.

I’m an avid Rhapsody fan. Not Pandora, but Rhapsody. I have no idea why, other than my brother got me hooked on it years ago, before Pandora existed. Last Friday was my Harry Connick Jr. day. Just Harry, all day. Whether it was him on the piano, big band sound, or old N’Orlans jazz, it was just me and Harry. Because his music spans so many different styles it fit my Friday mood. Working from home on Friday I was able to plug in my speakers and get stuff done all around the house. Work, laundry, cleaning, and eventually, taking a shower, I felt on top of the world listening to just Harry.

Nothing against Harry, but that was Friday music. It’s Tuesday. Back to Zac Brown Band. I look out the window of my cubicle, knowing I’m supposed to be working, and periodically taking time to write this post. A good rocking tune, “Make this day”, comes on and puts the biggest grin on my face. So appropriate. It’s only Tuesday and this one song makes up for it. Do you have songs that get you through your day? Whether its Tuesday or Friday, there’s a playlist. What’s your playlist look like today?

Go “Live inside this day!”

April 28, 2016April 28, 2016

Friday Eve

We don’t mess around on Tuesday and Thursday. Tuesday is “leg day” and, well, Thursday, is “Friday Eve”. Mind you, we get after it pretty good on Thursdays. I’m definitely sore for at least two days, and we all commiserate at Sunday Night Dinner about the time when we finally felt better over the weekend. We work in two groups – the younger girls go right before us, and then we “older” girls are the hour after.

The younger girls started about two months ago. And they love it. What’s great is that my 12yo is learning about proper workout techniques from the best trainer in the area. My trainer. Joe. Not to be too corny, but he’s no average Joe. It took me two years of watching the other “older” girls working out before I finally stopped making excuses why I couldn’t work out with them. Time. Work. Kids. Money. Where there’s a will there’s a way. I found the way. In 2015 my New Year’s Resolution was to “not put myself last”. And on January 2nd, 2015 I started working out two days a week with the “older girls”.

My first day was a disaster. I nearly passed out during the warm up. REALLY? That’s just pathetic. I blamed it on my sugar level being too low. (Husband corrected me to advise it was the blood flowing, and heart pumping, at a speed greater than stagnant to cause my light-headedness.) So, if you come across this when you first start to work out, it’s not the exercise, it’s you. Don’t give up. Drink some water, eat better next time, maybe take it a little easier on yourself. But don’t give up. I think they all took bets on how long I would last. Believe me, I think of that every time I do a squat, or a sit-up throw, or a bench press.

The beauty in working out with other women, in what I call, a “man’s gym”, is that everyone in there is equal. Sure, it was intimidating at first to work out in Joe’s gym. After all, the 20yo had been working with him for nearly 4 years with all his buddies, now it was my turn. We push each other. We support one another. We make fun, tease, entice, bad-mouth, fart (yes, fart), laugh, and most of all, love each other for working out together. We have become one with the gym.

Tuesday – Leg Day. This is truly my favorite day of the week. Don’t tell anyone. I love to push myself on squats. If my legs aren’t shaking by the end of the workout, it wasn’t that it wasn’t a good workout, it’s that I didn’t work hard enough. The only person you cheat on by not doing that full set is you. For a while I wasn’t able to run. I didn’t quit, I adjusted, with Joe’s help. He monitors everything we do. He knows how each of us lift, squat, etc. When we look out of sorts, he’ll mention it. He won’t tell us to stop. He’ll modify your workout or correct you. Until you get it right.

Thursday is, well, yes, Friday-Eve. Not just in the gym, but all day. I can’t wait to get in the gym and workout. I feel like a caged animal in my cubicle. Leaving work by 4 has become a habit so I can get to the gym that much sooner. As like all preworkouts, we roll. It feels so incredible, and at the same time, so painful. Self-infliction. A good kind of pain. I look forward to the Thursday roll. My legs get much-needed extra time to loosen up from Tuesday. On the floor, we all catch up on Tuesday’s workout and what hurts more, who hurts the most, and of course, what we think Joe will throw at us. 60 minutes later, we’re done.

We all thank Joe for our workout. Pay him. And then, we talk about where we’re going to go for dinner.

That’s right. After workout we all go out to eat, and (drink) to celebrate our week. We celebrate our win of working out. We relish in the pain, again. Our families join us when they can. It becomes a bit of Sunday Night Dinner, without anyone having to host. It’s Friday Eve. And we’ll do it all over again the next week.