iShame

Is it just me, or is playing on your phone the new coping mechanism for feeling awkward or alone? It seems like every time I see a single person waiting for a table at a restaurant, waiting for their friend to show up at the coffee shop, waiting for the bus to arrive, they're looking at their phone like they're extremely busy and important and oh so glad they have a moment of solitude so they can plow through that gargantuan list of text messages. Right...

I could be projecting here, but I really think most people are just trying to alleviate the anxiety of aloneness.

And the truth is, I do the same darn thing.

Just last night, as I was waiting for a friend to meet me at a hip West Hollywood restaurant, my immediate reaction upon entering the building was to pull out my phone to keep myself company. Two other single men sitting near me were both on their phones, too. God forbid any of us should just sit there and enjoy the ambiance of the establishment.

But as I retrieved my beloved coping mechanism from my purse, I was suddenly aware that in addition to being embarrassed that I was sitting alone in a bar, I also needed to be embarrassed by the phone I was about to pretend to check. See, I suffer from upgrade aversion, and for the last 4...maybe 5 years, I've been carrying around this:

I love my little 1.3 megapixel purple flipper. I can type out texts letter-by-letter with my eyes closed. I can drop it on the floor a million times and it never breaks. It holds a small treasure trove of pictures I have no idea how to get off of it.

But when faced with the idea of having hipsters see my counter-culture mobile device in the carefully orchestrated light of a bar lounge, I was filled with iShame.

No longer did my phone feel like my security blanket. Or maybe it did feel like my security blanket except this time I was in junior high and all the kids were going to laugh at me if they saw me cuddling it.

Mr. W says I should upgrade and get myself an iPhone. He says if I don't, he's going to force me to take his current phone when he decides to get a newer version. I'm sure when that happens, I'll feel more comfortable about mobily soothing my anxiety in public.

Until then, maybe I'll try to work on honing my other coping mechanisms. Like inspecting my cuticles or balancing my checkbook.

Yup, still have a paper checkbook, too...

Marriage: Because Icky Things Are Easier to Deal With When You Have a Sidekick®

 That is a homemade bandage on my cat's foot. It took two of us to apply it
and the process wasn't much fun.

Are you guys beginning to sense a trend here with my recent posts? Needy wife continually wants husband at side to tackle challenges and provide support. Let's just continue on that path, shall we?

I can distinctly remember the first time marriage made practical sense to me. I was nineteen or twenty and happened to be filling the bird feeder in my parents' backyard, daydreaming about how I'd travel to Europe someday. As my mind wandered through Italian fountains and French cheeses, I suddenly thought— "It would be really nice to have someone to go with me on my travels. Like a partner who I could do all sorts of fun stuff with. Wait a minute...is that why people get married?"

I had never thought about it from that perspective before. I'd always just sort of pictured two people playing house, keeping the cupboards filled with food, mowing the lawn when it got too high, taking annual vacations to the lake.

But a partner in crime who would have adventures with me? Now that sounded like something I'd enjoy!

My teenage epiphany realized its potential this past May when my new husband and I went to the Amalfi Coast on our honeymoon. Husband = travel buddy? Check!

However, in the months since then, I've come to understand many, many other important purposes that marriage serves. When I lost my job in October, I had a built-in financial and emotional safety net. When I had the opportunity to juggle freelance copywriting and personal writing projects, I had a cheerleader at my side, assuring me I could do it all. And this weekend, when I discovered bloody spots on the couch where my 13-year-old cat was laying, I had someone to recruit as my medical assistant.

Icky stuff is always easier to deal with when you have someone wincing next to you.

My cat had been biting his toenails or calluses or some other disgusting such thing when he got carried away and broke the skin on one of his back paw pads. Although I wanted to doctor him up because I felt bad he was injured, I also wanted to prevent him from leaving bloody footprints all over the entire house.

So with Mr. Wonderful's help, I held the unruly blob of fat kitty goodness in my lap and we wrapped him in Neosporin, tissue and surgical tape. I wish I would have taken video of him walking around with his "sock" on, because he kept trying to flick it off like someone who had toilet paper stuck to the bottom of their shoe. 

Fatty 2x4 puts the "por k" in "poor kitty." He was SO not happy with that bandage on his foot.

I can't tell you how thankful I was to have Mr. W there to help me through the incident. It deepened my respect for single parents and unattached pet owners and of course expanded my appreciation for the groom I landed.

Thank you, Mr. Wonderful for assisting me in Operation Foot Gash and for furthering my tendency toward codependency. Montycat and I owe you big time.

Shakin' in My Bulkhead Seat

Photo found on customerparadigm.com. ©Jeff Finkelstein.

After I accepted my new freelance gig a week and a half ago, the company's CEO asked me if I could fly up to San Francisco for a day of introductions, strategy talks and team-building. Although I loved the idea of meeting my new coworkers, my immediate thought was, "Yikes, I really don't want to do that."

The older I get, the more nervous I feel each time I fly. Particularly when I'm doing it alone.

About 7 years ago, I happened to be wearing a necklace of my grandmother's when I flew to New York, and ever since then, I've packed it in my bag with me like its some sort of disaster-defeating talisman. Unfortunately, my good luck charm only alleviates so much of my anxiety.

In the days leading up to my flight to Oakland last week, I was a ball of nerves. I could picture the plane going down and how sad Mr. Wonderful would be when he found out he'd been widowed. Yes, I know I should probably renew my therapy membership...

The morning of my flight, I awoke at 4:45, got myself ready, packed two necklaces that I thought could protect me from death, and kissed my husband goodbye, uncertain of whether I would ever see him again. Dramatic, much?

I went on to have a fantastic day.

That's the crazy thing about my fear of flying—once I'm actually doing it, I'm not scared anymore. I actually really enjoy having the time to read and relax. And on my flight home later that night, I purposely sat on the right side of the plane so I could take in the California sunset. Burning below me along the horizon of the Pacific Ocean was one of the most beautiful, deep orange glows I've ever seen. Inland, the city lights were twinkling white and red, reminding me of the Peter Pan ride at Disneyland. It was gorgeous. It made me thankful to have the opportunity to fly.

It's funny how often the leading-up-to part of situations is so much scarier than the reality of them. Whether you're flying or meeting new colleagues for the very first time...