What Are You Gonna Be When You Grow Up?

What are you gonna be when you grow up?

Standard question. Usually posed to a six-year-old. Generally by someone who doesn't want to be talking to a six-year-old. 

The predictable answers-- a teacher, police officer, whatever profession mommy or daddy are currently 'suggesting'--not so much the problem. The real issue? The casual planting, into young impressionable minds, of a universally belief that can easily torture them for the rest of their lives.

This concept of 'be-ing' when you 'grow up'. 

Because, truth is, aren't you just raising more questions? Like when do you grow up? And how are you supposed to 'be' once you get there? 

I'd hazard a guess most people believe the growing up part is supposed to be over and done with by 40. Wanna hazard a guess at the most depressed group of people in the United States according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention? Yes siree. The grown-ups: ages 40-59. Coincidence? Highly doubtful.

So, hey, here's a radical thought. Maybe we need to stop gauging our progress by preconceived notions and assumptions that are supposed to go along with maturity. You know, those physical, financial and professional benchmarkers ripe for self-comparison and self-loathing.

And maybe if you stop worrying about what you're going to be when you grow up, you can focus on the real task at hand.

 Of just fricken growing.

Beyond The Headlines

To some (unfortunate) people, life is black and white. Good or bad. Right or wrong. They're the headline readers of life. The ones who only see the big picture, never looking past it for another layer. They avoid digging deeper for the details, because they've got it all figured out.

Even when they don't.

The headline from our yard, late Sunday night: Man Destroys Fence. Police Respond.

The facts: We spied someone, who we did not know, violently trying to tear down a section of our fence at 11PM. The same one it took two years to install and two (long, hot) days to stain this summer. We went all Code Red: Andre ran outside sans shirt. I called the police.

We would have been well within our rights to press charges. To pick up the broken wooden pickets, while the responding officer charged the perpetrator. Call it a night.

But neither my husband nor I are ever content to accept things at face value.

By the time the officer arrived, we had already taken ourselves beyond the reflex action stage, totally based on anger, and uncovered much more of the story. Turns out the kid in question was in a whole lot of emotional pain. His mom died. And he was grieving. So he took it out on our fence. Granted, this doesn't excuse his actions. But it does explain them.

Andre gave his condolences. He and the young man shared a calm conversation on the sidewalk in front of our house about the importance of properly channeling your emotions. And how people work hard for what they have. It was a teachable moment. For everyone.

My point? It's a rare story that fits into a neat box, no matter who the starring characters are. So, you can either decide to accept the visible version as an absolute truth. Or demonstrate the fortitude to challenge your assumptions and what you think the ending should be.

The choice? All yours.

You've Got The Car. You've Got The Girl.

This year, I am officially done explaining myself.

Well, from here on out. Truth is, I hadn't really thought much about how often I do it, until a neighbor complimented me recently, with an innocent: "Your yard looks great."

And indeed it does. The fence, stacked in our backyard since we bought the house over two years ago, has finally been installed. We replaced our crumbling asphalt driveway with brand-new tinted concrete. And our backyard was not only leveled, but outfitted with lush, green, inviting sod.

A simple thank you would have sufficed. Or an invitation to come over in the spring for a drink.

Instead, I went into my typical over-explaining mode. "Thanks. We took out a loan to pay for everything. We're not that handy."

Really? Who cares?

The problem is that I do this all the time. Nice designer Kate Spade planner! Oh, I bought it on sale. Something like 80 percent off. What a fantastic convertible! Yeah, we got quite a deal because Pontiac was going out of business. They were practically giving this thing away.

What I've come to realize is my over-explaining is not really over-explaining at all. It's more of an apology to say I'm sorry for my experiences, my possessions and really, for who I am.

Cue the ah-ha moment music.

I actually think this is a fairly recent development, a protective mechanism cultivated to insulate myself from the haters out there, who have a hard time accepting their own lives as a journey that they are responsible for, instead of constantly comparing their existence to everyone else's. Not a recipe for success.

To compensate, I've opted for blanket apologizing, no matter what the situation, so that no one feels bad about their own experiences. Or, as my friend Shelly so brilliantly refers to it, I've been actively 'dimming my light'.

But the truth is, I am a hard working, chance taking member of society, who consciously lives my life to the fullest. And in these, 'see, I'm really just like you', moments of apology, not only am I taking away the opportunity to accept a genuine, pure of heart compliment, because they do exist, but I'm also compromising the celebration of whatever the event, as well as my worthiness to receive it.

So I'm done.

Naturally, my husband Andre got this message a long time ago. He is older, and, sigh, yes, sometimes wiser. We were honeymooning in South Beach, and had just pulled up to our splurge hotel in a convertible. Getting out of the car, a panhandler approached asking for money. At the time, Andre's standard line for this situation was, "I'm all set." And I'd known for years that eventually, his response of choice was going to get him into trouble. This time, it did.

"You're all set?!" said the panhandler, with an unnerving combination of venom and disgust. "Yeah, you're all set. You've got the car. You've got the girl."

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell this guy that he had it all wrong. That the car was a rental. That we were hauling plastic bags of groceries into this classy hotel, because our budget couldn't support eating breakfast, lunch and dinner out. And while he saw two, relatively well dressed people, our clothes were, as always, purchased from the clearance rack, because you've got to be an idiot to pay full price.

But my gut told me to be quiet.

Andre came away with a major life lesson from this encounter--beyond altering the way he responds to requests for change. He learned that life is all about perception. And no matter what you say, you're not going to change someone's idea of you. No matter how far it deviates from reality.

Sometimes, I'm a little slow on the uptake. But this lesson, I've finally got.