Rethinking fear

Sometime back I think I said my new mantra was something like do what scares me. Not just do what interests me, but do what scares me. At the time I think I was referring to the challenge of committing 100% to my fledgling business start-up. That makes sense. Being self-employed is a daunting prospect. I admit I'm terrified. But self-employment is a worthwhile endeavor—for many reasons, which I'll talk about some other time if I remember—in spite of the fear it may generate.

Today I'm thinking some more about fear. Up until recently I assumed fear was my enemy. My assumption was based on the reactions of people around me when I expressed fear. The typical advice I heard also happens to be the title of a well worn book probably everyone has heard about but not felt like reading: Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway. Whatever it is, is up to each person, I suppose. I don't remember reading the book, but I probably did, back in the days when I was searching for my soul in the self-help section. Anyway, when I expressed fear, people seemed to hear it as a call to arms, a rallying cry. Fear! Must obliterate fear!

I had occasion this weekend to express a certain fear to a small group of folks who know me pretty well. The group was trying to decide if it wanted to host an annual conference in our city in August of 2015. My job was to facilitate their decision making process. Notwithstanding the fact that August of 2015 is more than a year away, I dolefully expressed my fears about how difficult the undertaking, how overwhelming the task, how likely it would be that people who step up now with exuberant enthusiasm in March of 2014 will collapse by the wayside by July 2015, when there are two weeks till Go Live and the volunteers have melted into the woods. I've been around that block before. I know a hole in the sidewalk when I see it.

The outcome was unexpected. I fear that expressing my fear actually whipped the members of this small group into a righteous fervor. After I had my say, it came time to vote on the decision. I looked them in the eyes, one after another, and polled them, one by one. To a person, they all forthrightly proclaimed their willingness to submit the bid with a firm and resounding “Yes!” I was dumbfounded. The group had spoken. I think expressing my misgivings about the endeavor, rather than dissuading them, actually spurred them in the opposite direction!

After I stopped bleeding (metaphorically speaking), I started thinking, is fear always something to be identified, walked toward, walked through? Are there no instances where fear actually protects us from the temptation of leaping foolishly toward something that could kill us?

I remember when I used to drive a school bus. I was terrified every day, and with good reason. I ferried peoples' children, the most precious of cargo. Every day was a chance to get hit by the MAX train, or to run over a child who had dropped a backpack in the gutter, or to smash in a kid's skull with the wheel chair lift. (These are all things that almost happened.) I don't know if my fear protected me then, during that tense academic year. But I know the thought of reliving that fear protects me now. No matter how badly I need a job, I will never again drive a school bus. My fear will prevent me. And I am grateful for that fear.

So maybe my original blithe remark about challenging myself by doing what scares me was a bit naive, maybe not thoroughly considered. Maybe fear isn't always the enemy. Maybe sometimes fear can be a friend. Maybe it's like any other situation—or person—we meet in life: a bit of both.

Driving in circles

Yesterday I had a job interview in Tigard, which is a... I guess you would call it a suburb of Portland, although you can't tell where one city ends and the other begins. Tigard isn't as far as Wilsonville, which is where the career college I used to work for is located, but I can't get to Tigard by sneaking down the scenic route, I-205 (trees, dead deer, open fields). I had to muscle my way through the meat of the city. First I went west on I-84 (formerly known as Sullivan's Gulch, a tree-filled canyon that was carved up for Oregon's first freeway, AKA The Banfield). I-84 splits when you get to the Willamette River. You can go north. You can go south. I went south and crossed the river on the Marquam Bridge, a tall imposing double-decker that will plunge into the drink when the earthquake decimates the Rose City.

Time out while I bask in the glow of one of the greatest driving songs of all time: The soundtrack to Route-66 is playing through my speakers. Okay, I'm back. I wish that song were longer. So, where was I? Oh yeah, driving across the bridge, headed for Tigard. It's really not that far, if there's no traffic. I knew where I was going, more or less, and eventually I arrived at a multi-story office building housing a number of businesses, including some well-known brand names I wouldn't mind working for.

My destination was in the basement of that building, where a proprietary college from the Midwest has planted its flag, staking out territory for its first foray into the west coast market. At first glance, it appears to be just like the career college I left last year, perhaps with slightly deeper pockets and a longer reach. Why the Portland market, I wondered? Who cares. I looked at their reviews online, both students and employees, and they weren't any different from any other career college's reviews, that is to say, unimpressive.

Still, I was there to interview to teach one marketing class, their first ever on-ground class in that location, so I put my best malcontented foot forward and stumbled through the rain from the parking lot to the basement door. The place was empty. No students yet, just two administrators and some hardworking salespeople, I mean, admissions counselors, working the phones in little cubicles in a long narrow room with no windows. The administrator took me on a tour—see the lovely break room, the medical lab?—but we didn't go in the boiler room.

I had prepared a short first-day icebreaker lesson as a demonstration of my teaching skills, which I presented to the two administrators in a computer lab with one window high up on the wall. Through the window I could barely make out the grills and undercarriages of parked cars and pickups. As I talked, I had the eerie feeling I'd been there before. The computers looked a little different, but the beige walls and bland gray carpet looked the same. With fewer fingerprints and coffee stains, maybe, but give them time. I should have felt enthusiastic: Yay, I (might) get to teach marketing. But all I felt was a neutral resignation. Yay, a job, maybe. $500 for a couple months of wrestling with traffic and unmotivated students.

Haven't I been down this tired path? Why am I chasing one lousy marketing class at yet another despised for-profit college? I'm a dream come true for this outfit. I know their market as well as anyone they'll ever hire to teach there, considering proprietary vocational education was the topic of my doctoral research. They don't deserve me. They can't afford me. And if they offer me the class, I'll probably say yes. Because some money is better than no money.

Invisible old chronically malcontented white woman seeks way to get noticed

Two things have become clear to me tonight after attending yet another networking event. First, if I want a successful networking experience, I must produce the event myself. And second, I am invisible. Yep. You heard it right. Invisible.

After a pointless bout of self-flagellation related to my perceived failure to attend an early morning networking event last week, I decided to only network after noon. Today's event began with a workshop at 4:30 p.m., a very civilized hour especially if one is headed downtown against traffic. Driving was not a problem, but parking was. I cruised the streets in northwest Portland for about 15 minutes, loathe to pay a dime to a city meter. Finally I found a 2-hour meter-free spot, only six blocks away from my destination. I parked and hustled along the flooded sidewalks in the pouring rain. I knew I was almost late. Too much time spent trolling for parking! Darn. I spotted the restaurant and threw myself through the door ahead of a stylish young couple who clearly had not been there before, and thus had no idea that seating was limited. Breathing heavily and covered in rain spots, I found a chair at the last open table, in the very back of the Kontiki Room and sank onto the seat. (Yes, the Kontiki Room: It was the monthly meeting of PDXMindshare at Trader Vics.)

The other occupant of the table was a petite young woman with long blonde hair and flawless skin. I introduced myself, still breathing heavily, and found out she was a manager at Pottery Barn. We talked about how marketing research could help Pottery Barn find out if customers are satisfied. After I explained to her what marketing research was. I know. Well, you gotta start somewhere.

The couple I had barged in front of only minutes before sat down to my right. I welcomed them. (I detected no hint of resentment.) The young lady had a wide infectious smile. She said she was looking for work. The young man was thin, somewhat swarthy, and very stylishly dressed (pointy shoes). I felt like a wrecking ball, with my scarf, hat, mittens, giant messenger bag. I didn't care. I got out my notebook, ready to take notes, as the place filled up with people. This time I was on the inside of the fishbowl, not one of the hapless losers milling around outside in the lobby. Yes!

The workshop began. The topic was Building Confidence for your Job Search, led by an older gentleman (older than me, I think, although one never knows for sure). He was nattily dressed in an earth-toned striped shirt, khaki jacket, and beige silk tie. His brown pants were belted unashamedly across the middle of his girth. He looked like a well-dressed old man, except for his crowning glory: a ponytail of frizzy gray hair. How can you not love an old guy with a ponytail? Somehow ponytails make men look young, no matter how high-waisted they belt their pants, am I right?

I won't bore you with all the details of his talk. The audience seemed rapt, but there was nothing new there for me. (I'm not really sure why I went, honestly, except that it's possible if I keep showing up—I mean that metaphorically, too—something will happen. For sure, nothing will happen if I stay alone at home.) I drew pictures in my journal while the speaker showed a few uninspired PowerPoint slides and gave a shout-out for Toastmasters, which inspired me to consider becoming willing to think about looking up a local chapter. (Don't want to rush into anything, especially not when it comes to public speaking.)

While the presentation was in progress, a young waitress in black made the rounds, taking drink orders. She approached our table and spread out little drink napkins for everyone except me. The blonde ordered something. They talked a bit. Then the waitress skipped past me as if I weren't there, and took an order for two beers from the young couple to my right. I was there. I'm sure I was there. But the waitress didn't even look at me. Was I invisible?

I would have said something if the circumstances had made conversation easier. I didn't want to order anything, that's not the issue. I'm on a budget, after all. But to be blatantly passed over, as if I were invisible... such an odd feeling, to not exist.

It's happened before, usually at Best Buy kind of places. Salespeople tend to ignore me. I think it's partly how I dress. I don't look like I have money. And I usually look slightly odd, I guess you could say off, in some way. But I'm pretty sure it also has to do with age. It's my belief that young people don't pay attention to old people (unless the old people happen to be their grandparents, and only then to get birthday presents.)

Here's how I see it. At a table of four, three of the guests were stylish and young. The fourth guest (me) was clearly no longer young. Stylish, maybe, in a weird geeky hyperthyroidish way, except for the polyester knit slacks (which she couldn't see!). Three in plain view, one invisible.

I'm sure there are things I can do to be more visible. I can change my appearance in some way. Grow my own version of a ponytail, maybe. Add a green streak, perhaps. How about a lip ring, something really flashy. And then throw on whatever clothes happen to be fashionable at Forever 21 (I have no idea what that might be, I've never been in that store. I think my wheels lock up when I get near the entrance, like an old KMart shopping cart.) But you get my drift. I could change my appearance in some way. Or I could start singing random songs or reciting Beat poetry when I find myself in crowds.

I could also change my setting. Instead of hanging out with young people, I could make sure I only hang out with old people. I mean, older than me. I mean, really old, like 80. I could join the Elks. Or I could just give up and join AARP. Then I'd be the youngest one in the group and they could all cackle and talk about how much the world has changed. Why, I remember when... Or hell, as long as we are brainstorming, let's get creative. Forget the age thing. Let's think big. Let's think color! How about if I seek out events for African Americans or Hispanics? I wouldn't be invisible then, would I! Let's hear it for the sore thumbs, the square pegs, the misfits. Ha! Take that, you young uninteresting conformist whippersnapper waitress, you.

Contemplating an uncertain future... but aren't we all?

Last Friday I failed to get up at 7:00 a.m. to drive downtown in the rain for a networking event. My failure precipitated a plunge into a moral crisis. Oh woe is me, I failed to show up. Well, that's not entirely true, is it? I showed up for eight hours of sleep, something I can be reliably counted on to do, ever since I joined the ranks of the self-employed.

After a day of self-flagellation, during which I had to take an extra nap just to escape the voices in my head, I realized that depriving myself of sleep to attend a networking event is not a demonstration of character. Neither is choosing to get a full eight hours of sleep a moral failing. Am I ready yet to get over myself? I think so. By Saturday I was on the mend, emotionally speaking, and by Sunday I was over it. Finally I accept my reality: I'm not made for mornings. It's that simple. I have no problem showing up for the most grueling of networking events, as long as they are held in the evening. I won't budge out of the house before noon if I can help it.

Now my perfect schedule is bed at 1:00 a.m., up at 9:00 a.m. Such a civilized routine. Unfortunately, my best working hours seem to be when people want to call and chat. They are done with their day while I'm just hitting my stride. Sometimes I have to be firm.

My mother is the queen of night owls. She used to stay up till 2:00 a.m., sitting quietly in the family room, smoking cigarettes and reading library books under the dim glow of a floor lamp. It always felt kind of creepy to me, but then I was doing much the same thing (minus the cigarettes), huddled under my bed covers, reading Nancy Drew in the silent night. No wonder I don't remember my childhood: I was walking dead sleep-deprived. Books were more real to me than reality.

Speaking of the maternal parental unit, last night she called for no apparent reason. We'd talked the day before, so her call was unexpected. (We don't talk every day.) I let her babble on, patiently waiting to find out why she was calling. I knew she would get to it eventually. She never just calls to idly chat. There's always a reason. It's either because she wants to tell me how I should live my life, or she wants me to help her with something so she can live hers. So what would it be this time? It wasn't my old laptop, that was working fine (except it doesn't have mahjong). It wasn't the condo board; that bunch is hopelessly misguided and even my mother's wise counsel can't save them (according to Mom). This time it was something unexpected.

“I've been thinking about what will come next,” she said matter-of-factly.

Bemused, I waited for her to explain.

“Mary and Paul Norberg live at Willamette View, you know,” she said.

“Right,”

“I can't afford Willamette View.”

“Okay...”

“Marge Iverson lives at Cherrywood,” she said. “They have a workout room and a pool.”

Okay, now I was starting to get it. She was thinking about where she will go when the condo is too much for her to handle. My stomach started clenching, but I kept my voice calm.

“That sounds nice,” I said.

“And they have a garden.”

“Great.”

“I want to think about this before it's too late and I run out of time,” she said.

“Okay, Mom. That makes sense. Let's see if we can take a tour, how about that?”

“That might be a good idea.”

After she hung up I looked at the Cherrywood Village website. The photos looked lovely, like a posh hotel. The prices were as expected: way too expensive for my siblings and me to handle. I calculated how long we could keep her there if we sold her condo for a reasonable price. Not quite five years. Huh. She's only 84. What if she lives longer than five years? Hell, her aunt lived to be 100.

When I contemplate the future, I have feelings I can't identify. Too much uncertainty makes me want to go back to bed.

The chronic malcontent didn't cause it, can't control it, can't cure it: the weather, that is

I reluctantly left my cave on Monday to take my friend V. to a doctor's appointment, not sure if I would ever see the Love Shack again. Thirty feet of 6-inch packed snow covered by a quarter-inch of ice lay between my car's front tires and the snow-rutted and gravel-strewn city street. If I could just get from my parking spot to the street, I figured the rest of the way would be mostly clear sailing. Driving, I mean. Sailing makes it seem like my Ford Focus can float. It's still a car, after all. What we really needed was a personal helicopter. I'm sure we'll all have them eventually, comfy contraptions that allow us to drone to our appointments, but that is another blog post.

Well, the joke is on me. The funny thing about a Ford Focus that is not equipped with snow tires or traction devices is that once you drive onto packed snow or ice, it really does feel like you are floating. It's all about maintaining forward momentum, while simultaneously keeping a lot of space between you and all nearby objects, including the vehicles in front and to the sides of you. At any moment forward movement may become sideways movement, so it's good to buffer yourself with some extra space. And the other thing is to avoid entering situations in which you make become trapped. Like parking lots filled with slush, for example. Or hills that go up or down. Which I guess is the definition of a hill.

The hill to V.'s house looked to be about knee-deep in snow and ice. Clearly a few intrepid drivers had attempted the incline. Some of them probably made it up the grade. I knew my low-to-the-ground car would not make it six feet before sliding back into traffic. I wasn't about to attempt the hill. But neither did I want to become another casualty abandoned in a snow drift along the side of the highway.

There was no place to park, but with flashers valiantly blinking I pulled over at the bottom of V.'s street and texted her: I'm at the bottom of your street. After what looked to be a harrowing journey down the hill, she was able to open the passenger door into a snow drift and squeeze herself into my car. Phase one, check! V. is safely in the car. We were on our way.

My friend V. is going to read this post and wish I'd said something about the actual time we spent at the doctor's office. Okay. Here's a synopsis. We arrived at 2:00 p.m., an hour early. We found a dry spot in the nicely plowed parking lot. The office was small, cluttered, a little funky, as alternative medicine places tend to be. Nobody wore lab coats or scrubs. I read magazines on a comfortable couch in the waiting area while V. filled out her paperwork. At about 3:00 p.m., the doctor called her name. I followed them into a carpeted treatment room occupied by a massage table and two nice leather chairs. V. and the doctor got those. I sat on a hard slatted wooden folding chair. We were there until almost 5:00 p.m.

I listened to V. tell her story of chronic illness to the stoic female doctor, wondering why my armpits were so hot and my feet so cold. Though I'd heard some of the story before, it was still heart-wrenching to imagine what my friend has gone through in her quest to find health. What I saw was a desperate woman verbally throwing herself once more on the mercy of a total stranger, hoping that she had finally found someone with a solution.

I wonder what is wrong with a society where doctors have a financial incentive to prescribe more medical tests just because an insurance company will pay for them. I also wonder how it can possibly benefit anyone but the healthcare industry when someone who is too sick to earn is forced to go begging from family and friends in order to raise funds for treatment.

But what do I know. My role was not to question the system. I was the witness, the chauffeur, the friend. My personal goal was to get her back to the bottom of her hill in one piece. Which I achieved, I'm happy to say. After I dropped her off, I cranked up the radio and began the trek home in twilight. Who knew that trying to see the lane markers under the rutted gravel-pocked snow could be so tiring. There was only one moment where things might have gone sideways. I was ready to make a left turn, just before the light turned yellow. At that moment a slow-moving pedestrian took the opportunity to begin sauntering across the street. I managed to stop (with some fanfare, AKA, I skidded on a patch of ice) before I actually entered the intersection. The ped made it safely across the street. While I waited through the light, I wondered if other pedestrians could read my lips. I hope not. They would have seen me liberally berate the slow ped. Which was my way of thanking the universe for letting my car stop in time to avoid a catastrophe. And better slow ped than dead ped, I guess. Crossing a street in Portland can be deadly.

Tuesday I ventured out to the store to forage for food. The store shelves were a little bare, but the place was packed with giddy shoppers, thrilled to be released from their burrows in the balmy 40 degree rain. I stocked up on organic broccoli, but they were out of zucchini. Wednesday night a warm wet front moved in and by morning the snow was gone. I'd be happy never to see snow again.

The chronic malcontent whines about "snowpocalypse"

I've had it with snow. After three windy blizzards in three days, I am ready to go back to bed to wait for spring. I'm fed up with seeing families cavort past my snow-covered steps, carrying their sleds and boogie boards up to the park. Wipe those smiles off your faces! Stop laughing! Don't you know some of us prefer to suffer?

This morning I swept my front porch and steps, cutting a narrow trail to a plastic-wrapped newspaper someone dumped on my front walk, a paper I never ordered and don't want. A few minutes after I ducked back into my warm cave, it started snowing again. Within minutes my steps were an inch deep in white powder, and it hasn't let up since. My friends in Minnesota are probably playing the tiny whiny violin right now, but they don't understand that Portland is not equipped for more than three inches of snow. The city is shut down, essentially. The MAX and streetcars are running just to keep the lines clear, but many buses are on snow routes.

Up here on the shoulder of Mt. Tabor, I've heard some snow plows go by. I rush to the window to see flashing tail lights disappear around the corner. Sometimes they leave a trail of gravel in their wake. But buses are as rare as blue whales. It seems we have been abandoned, here on the busiest bus route of the city. The last bus I saw gingerly turning the corner onto Belmont was early on Thursday  morning. Now it's Saturday. Apparently we have been forgotten by mass transit. If I want off this hill, I'm going to have to hike down.

Luckily I have food. As long as the power stays on, I'm good. And I have snow boots (purchased after the snowstorm of 2008, learned my lesson), if I really have to get out of here. Meanwhile, there's nothing to do but focus on the things I am trying to avoid. The things that scare me. Like... marketing.

I remember one memorable winter in the 1960s when it snowed for days. We kids were in heaven, digging snow caves in 6-foot drifts. It was so cold in our drafty old farmhouse that my family camped out in the living room in front of the fireplace. As a pre-teen, I loved it. Later, I can say that the prospect of enduring more winters like that one was why I headed south as soon as I was old enough to fly the nest.

It may be a couple more days until the mess outside turns into slush and I can get my car out. I look forward to the moment. By then I will be out of eggs and fresh produce. I fear my cat might start to look strangely appetizing.

Dusting off my parental translation machine

As I putter from task to task, hoping at least one of my marketing strategies will bring a client to my email inbox, I hear the almost constant voice of my mother in my head. Not in a good way.

I used to hear the voice of both my parents. The parents used to tag team, good cop (literally, my father was in law enforcement) and bad cop. My father would keep me tied to him with handouts of money, while my mother would do her best to shove me out of the nest with admonitions along the lines of, “Get a job!” Since 2004 the paternal parental unit is enjoying the great Superbowl game in the sky, so all I have left is my mother to carry on the tradition of reminding me how epic is my failure at life.

I see my mother once every couple weeks and talk to her frequently on the phone. Not a whole lot has changed over the years. The last time I visited, while I stood by my car, one foot in, wondering if I would escape intact, she asked, “How's it going?”

I knew what she was asking. She wanted to know if I was earning any money yet. My mind began to scurry like a rat in a maze, looking for the response that would produce the least amount of psychic trauma. For me and for her.

“I'm working on it,” I said tersely.

“Anything happening?” This was not a casual question. It may sound casual to you, but I assure you, it was loaded with layers. You know what I mean. It's the confluence of tone and words that launch you automatically into flight or fight. Should I leap into my car and drive away? Or should I punch her lights out? That makes me laugh. She looks like you could breathe hard and knock her down, but in her younger years she was known as Mighty Mouse, so I don't assume anything. I think I could take her, but...

With one foot in my car, I looked at her and thought to myself, This is where my old parental translation machine would really come in handy.

What is a parental translation machine, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. It won't come as a surprise, once I tell you what it is. I'm sure you have one of your own. The parental translation machine is the mental meat grinder we use to translate what our parents say into what they really mean. Really mean.

Here's a classic example from my late teenhood. My father used to criticize my appearance. I resented that, understandably, and I felt especially hurt because I was enamored with the world of fashion. I used my appearance to express my personality. Which means most of the time I looked like a nut. A fashionable nut. I sewed my own clothes: hot pants, bell bottoms, peplummed jackets with ties in the back that would inevitably fall into the toilet... I thought I was pretty darn cool. My father was not impressed.

“Why don't you wear some nice Ship n Shore slack outfits?” he said. From his point of view it made perfect sense: mix and match separates, perfect for home or office or in my case, college. What's not to love?

Because I had not yet developed my parental translation device, I interpreted his comment as, “You look like an idiot! No one is going to take you seriously when you dress like a fool. Plus you are making me look like a fool! How do you think I feel, standing next to my daughter, who is wearing red corduroy hot pants?”

Of course, because I interpreted his comment as a criticism, my response was to fly off the handle, say something mean, and sulk in my bedroom among my unfinished sewing projects.

But if I had had the parental translation device, I would have realized something very important. I would have realized what my father was really trying to tell me. He was trying to say, “Daughter, I love you. And because I love you, I want you to be safe and secure in this world. I want to protect you from public shame and ridicule. I want to stand next to you and feel proud of what a talented and creative young woman you have become. I say these things because I love you and I want the best for you.”

If I had only had that device sooner.

So now that I am older, wiser, and I have the parental translation device, I know that when my mother asks a loaded question about my capacity to earn, she is really expressing her love and concern for me. She is saying she wants me to be safe. She wants to die knowing that I will be okay, that I won't be struggling to survive.

How did I respond? I usually get mad and stuff it down, and get away from her as fast as I can. This time I said, “Mom, I appreciate that you are worried about me. I am grateful for your love and care. Would you be willing to keep your fear to yourself, if you can, as I am carrying enough fear for the both of us. I can tell you I am doing all that I can, that this process takes time, and I have plenty of money in the bank. I will not starve.”

“I just don't want to see you use up all your savings,” she whined. “You know, when your brother got laid off from his job, when he went back to school, he didn't call us!” Duh, Mom. I'm not surprised, considering what happens when we interact with you. I put her new comment into my parental translation machine, and the message that came out was, “You are so independent. I know you will be okay. But I need to be needed sometimes, remember. I love you for your amazing strength and perseverance.”

Oh, man. I just started bawling. To imagine my mother saying those words was more than I could bear. It won't happen in my lifetime, but I know that is what she would say if she could.

Today I received an official email from my university, stating that my graduation had been processed and I will be receiving my Ph.D. diploma in a few weeks. My transcripts are now updated. I'm officially an alum. It could be I'm weeping over that a little bit, too.