Friday, April 12, 2013

Patience is a Virtue!

I know how he feels.

I was born four days early— and it's safe to say that was the last time I ever arrived anywhere ahead of schedule. 

I am what's known as a "late" person. I am tardy to every party. A late bloomer, I was still in my awkward stage until 30. I am late to adopt trends--I was buying my first beeper well after you had your first cell phone.

Yes, I said a beeper. Just go back and read it, and stop acting incredulous. It was 1999.

I'd like to think it's charming, my devil-may-care attitude towards time... but in truth it is very annoying for other people who are not me, but are instead waiting on me. My cousin once told me "I would hate to calculate the number of hours I have waited for you in my life." It gave me some perspective-- but not enough to get me to her house on time.

It's always been this way. It's part of who I am--I am Julia, I am  fromBrooklyn, I am a writer, I am always late, and I am always sorry, but I never change.

I remember when I was a kindergardener, and how chaotic mornings were-- my parents trying to get three kids out the door and up to PS 127 and then get themselves to work on time. There I'd be,  telling my mom I was deciding which velour outfit to wear to school, then sneaking off to go back to sleep in a closet somewhere. In high school I had the option to take the city bus in the mornings, it stopped outside my house and ten minutes later it would drop me off right outside of school... if I took it. I didn't. I always opted to walk, weaving in and out of the random hidden streets near our campus, taking my time and usually skipping first period. Because what ever happens during first period?

My first real job was at Rolling Stone magazine, and I loved it. That magazine meant everything to me as a kid-- my dad got me a subscription one year after he saw me buying it with my babysitting stash, and I think I kept every issue for about ten years. I still tremendously respect their brand of long-form journalism, even though it's now long gone. (You can read my all time favorite RS article in full here, it is absolutely astounding--I read it 12 years ago and it still resonates. I know I am digressing.) I jumped in with both feet to that job. I loved the environment, loved the friends I made. I loved smoking cigarettes in the back offices, I loved sneaking into the library to read old issues, I loved it so much I learned to give tours of the office, which was filled with historic music memorabilia. I loved everything about it. But not even love could get me there for the 9:30 start time.

Even the kid who ate weed brownies at his desk was on time. If you can't beat a stoner...well, that says something. By the way, I just Googled him thinking I'd find the hilarious pic he had on his desk of him and Snoop Dog smoking a blunt, which was featured in High Times magazine, and it turns out he writes for Sons of Anarchy, so... I guess I should't have judged, as I sit here writing a blog no one reads/should read.

It didn't matter how many times I was spoken to about my tardiness, I couldn't make the change. I tried-- sincerely. I really did. I set alarms, I took cabs to subway stations where I could catch an express train. Maybe not in high school, but as an adult I truly wanted to be on time. I hated the stress of it being late. Every morning felt like this:


Yet somehow, translating my want to my actions just seems impossible. The fact is, my pillow always wins.

At my most recent job review, the only negative comment that was made was my lateness. At 37, it was feeling like it was actually affecting my career. I mean, if that's all they have to say that you need to improve, why aren't you going further? Because you're late every day, so you're beat.

What I have learned is this-- employers-- not all and not necessarily my current ones, but many--judge the chronically late the same way--or even more harshly-- they would judge someone who comes in reeking of booze, or who calls out sick on Monday mornings because of too much partying over the weekend. We lack will power. We lack ambition. We are shirking responsibility. We are a liability.

I think it's too harsh, but when it comes down to it, I've never tried to defend my lateness, or even talk about the coworkers who come in later than I do, because in my heart I know it's wrong. It doesn't matter that I get my work done-- and well. What matters is that it is wrong for me to indulge the terminal uniqueness that makes me feel like the 9am start time doesn't apply to me. It's a character defect-- says my therapist. (She's kind of a bitch.)

As someone who has completely reinvented the way I lived (taking the long way out of crazy credit card debt, 50+lb weight loss maintained, booze free, smoke free, buffalo chicken wing free) it makes me mental that I can't seem to change this. All that other stuff was much harder to address.  So WTF is the problem here? Well, I wanted to do those other things. So I've got to WANT to do this.

And so. And so I am trying.

About a month ago, I started a new routine. I've done it before, had stints where I am on time for work, but this time I am worried less about doing it for other people and more about doing it for me. I set my alarm clock for the same time every day (6:30am) and turned off the snooze function. For twenty minutes I have coffee and do my morning prayers, then at 6:55 I either start writing for a half hour or I work out. (You can blame the new routine for the resurrection of this blog.) Then I get ready for work.

So far it's working. I haven't been in past 9am in weeks. I stop for coffee on my way into work, instead of going back out for it once I am settled in, which also saves time. And I am still there with time to spare. Sometimes I even go to the fancy coffee place that takes forever because they steam my milk and like to chat. The folks in my area at work have been cheering me on when I arrive, which is nice. I've actually started liking my coworkers even more because of our little morning chats. I don't know if my bosses have noticed the change but they shouldn't have to. Like Chris Rock said, you don't deserve credit for doing something you're supposed to do.

The level of anxiety I feel every day has dropped dramatically-- I don't have to run and knock over old ladies on my way to work, I can just walk down Lexington Avenue at their painfully slow pace. I am eased into the day, like being born in a jacuzzi. Yes, that's right-- being on time is like a water birth.

I am not fool enough to say I am cured. I would say I am in lateness recovery. I am only one snooze button away from a relapse, but I am taking it a day at a time. And for now, I don't have to feel like this guy anymore.









Thursday, April 11, 2013

Just Hold Your Peace, Thanks


Here’s something I have learned since I got betrothed: an engagement ring casts a spell.

The effect it had on me was magical. Suddenly I felt like a door had opened and for the first time in my life I could see a future—a future with this man. I had been so happy that morning, and in the days prior, just living in the present. And now there was a shiny, real future to be happy about. Like when Dorothy opens her door and finds Technicolor waiting outside. That moment when I was ugly-crying on the Brooklyn Bridge, snotting all over the iPhone videos shot by strangers who were capturing the event for posterity—that was John and I stepping through that door, moving towards our brightly colored future.

On my beloved, it’s been an enchantment as well. He talks about what is to come with an excited urgency in his voice. He loves to spend Saturdays looking at houses we can’t afford, he obsessively calculates my commuting time from potential neighborhoods, he talks about our family as if it’s something that we’re waiting for in the mail. He makes our future life together so tangible that it feels like we can go to UPS.com and track it. It will be here any day, the house with the breakfast nook and the window seat. We’ll order the baby on expedited shipping. We will name him John, we will name her Johnathana.

Others have been spellbound as well. My girlfriends want details, have helpful suggestions, and advice that reminds me to focus on the marriage and not the wedding. I love the way my married friends can bring back their own wedding-planning experience, while still loving the moment they are in, kids clamoring to get their attention. I love the way my single friends can get wrapped up in the excitement, and make it feel so fun, making me feel the buzz of excitement--while still offering me unfailing support during what is a shockingly transitional time in my life. I look at them and wonder—when did they get so wise? Weren't we just kids?

My coworkers—well that’s a story. In the nine months following my engagement, four more women have gotten engaged. There will be three weddings three weeks in a row—mine in the middle. I work at a fashion publication, and I can pretty much guarantee this is the only trend I have ever and will ever set in the workplace.

Even my brothers are acting like I am a grown up. It’s unnerving.
"Does she look older to you?"


Yet those aren’t the only spells that have been floating around since John Moses put a ring on it. There have been some ugly spells, too. Like the kind that turned the Beast into the Beast. The kind that Mrs. Shrek got before she met Shrek. Sorry, I don’t really remember their names, and I am too lazy to Google.

It's Fiona, you shithead.

You’d be shocked—no, let me say it this way—you’d be fucking shocked at what people think is acceptable to say to a bride-to-be. Oh don’t worry, pregnant gals, I know you get it, too. And to be fair, maybe my groom gets it, too—but he has an amazing ability to brush it off, while I take it all to heart.

Take, for example, those who dole out so much passive aggression that you want to remind them that it’s supposed to be passive. Those who call your ring “cute” or exclaim “Finally!” and then go in for a hug, acting so relieved that you are not ending up the spinster/slut-living-in-sin that they’ve been saying you would be/are.

Then there are the “helpful” types. The first woman who helped me into a bridal gown, a gorgeous, Vera Wang duchess satin a-line creation, smiled at me in the mirror and said, “You look like a bride!” only a moment before she raised a boney finger and poked at my back, declaring, “Now I assume you’re going to LOSE. THIS. WEIGHT.”

In fairness, if Skeletor had poked my belly, I would have nodded and said simply “Yes, maam.” But my back? Almost every massage therapist who has ever touched between my shoulder blades has declared them "skin and bones" and remarked that I need to build up my musculature there or I will shrivel up like a crone. Even my self-esteem wasn’t low enough to believe her.
"We will not have fat brides!"

Other helpful types: The acquaintances who ask for details about your dress/wedding/bridal party only to explain why you’re doing it wrong, because you’re not doing it like they would.

Also in that category, the “You’ll Sees.” As in, “Oh, you still go on dates? You’ll see. You’ll see when you get married.” Or, “You still think he’s funny? Oh you’ll see.” Sweetheart, you’ll see yourself right off our guest list, and thank you very much.

My favorite wicked spell, though, the one that took me by surprise, was the one that was cast over people that I actually liked. People that, though friends, have proven unable to set aside their own bullshit and feel happy for John and I, and instead feel it necessary to take the wind from our sails. They make bitter comments, poorly disguised as jokes.  Don’t get me wrong—I spent most of my life in dark bars where your bitterness was a measurement of your charm. I surrounded myself with people whose brand of humor was more like Statler’s and Waldorf’s than Kermit’s. So I get it—sarcasm is my native language (you don’t say!) but at the same time, when a friend is happy, well, I honestly am happy for them. And if I can’t be because my own bullshit is in the way, well then I fucking pretend.


Even these guys can pretend.

The jokes about my fiancĂ© needing health insurance and/or citizenship and the remarks that I must have demanded a ring/am just like any other woman obsessed with getting married started the moment we changed our Facebook status to “engaged.”  It should be noted that none of that is true-- John's a citizen, we believe garlic and naps cure anything and therefore insurance is superfluous, and I honestly used to get the sweats when people talked to me about marriage, convinced it wasn't for me. So it's not that I worry they've hit some truth. The thing that upsets me—is…can’t you do better? I mean seriously. If you’re going to be an asshole about us getting married, I would respect you more if you didn’t go for the low-hanging fruit. The clichĂ©s.

What I am saying is, don't be a hack about it. 

What’s most offensive to me is not that I have aligned myself with such bitter people over the years--the bitter are my brethren-- but rather that I have aligned myself with such unoriginal bitter people.

If you can't wish us well, then be funny. If you can't be funny, be quiet.  You don't have to speak now. You can forever hold your peace. Trust me--we will all be fine without your input.

I could conclude by telling you how I’ve decided to ignore the negative and focus on the positive. I could say that I am learning from these people the value of believing in myself and the power of my convictions—but if you know me, you know that’s not in my nature. So I will tell you the truth: these assholes sure are making it easy to cut down that guest list.

184 days, people, 'til the real fun begins.