An Introvert's Conundrum

For the longest time, I wasn’t sure where I fell on the extrovert/introvert scale.  In fact, I once took the Myers Briggs test and landed pretty much on the fence in the E/I section, so even that attempt to figure it out didn’t help.  I can’t recall the exact questions on that test, but I can tell you this:  I have good social skills; I am (I believe) an entertaining and thoughtful conversationalist; and I like people.  I also can tell you this:  I enjoy my own company and don’t need constant socializing. 

Fortunately, I have a friend who is an expert in communications and conflict resolution, so her knowledge of personality types goes way beyond the Myers Briggs testing language.  Several years ago, when I shared my E/I dilemma with her, she responded with a question.  “Where do you get your energy?” she asked.  “From being alone or from being with other people?”

“Oh my God!” I replied quickly (no thought required), “From being alone!”

And thus, I was deemed an introvert.

And that totally works for me.

In fact, once I’d learned the formula, I also came to acknowledge that when I make social plans, I need to remember what could drain my energy.  I need to space apart my social plans and avoid over-committing.  If I line up too many get-togethers, I will rebel.  I will end up cancelling some of them and/or I will be cranky company at a time when I’d be better off alone.

I’m glad I know this about myself.  I’m glad I’m not socializing for socializing’s sake, thinking that if I don’t, there’s something wrong with me.

That goes for dating and relationships, too.  There really is nothing worse than “feeling that you must.”

…A dear friend came over recently, and we noshed on the types of Trader Joe’s foods you only buy if someone will share them with you.  As we caught up, she shared with me the story of several of her friends whom she’d grouped together as “Bad Boyfriend Recidivists.”  When she’d told me about their current situations, I was struck by how absurdly they were involved in their respective dating/relationship games.  They were actively participating in some shit that was riddled (I mean, riddled!) with red flags.

Why?

I can’t answer that for the women in question, but the conversation led me to share two thoughts with my friend.

First, I’m glad I was once married.  Sure, it didn’t take, but it happened, so I have that behind me, and maybe that history prevents some desperation I might otherwise feel. 

Second, I’m glad I am okay being alone.

I then shared with my friend a line from the poet May Sarton.  I should tell you that I only know of this line because I heard it on NPR.  (I’ve never really taken to poetry, and I’d not previously heard of May Sarton.) 

Regardless, the line is this:  “Loneliness is the poverty of the self; solitude is the richness of self.”

(At least, that’s the wording I found just now through a quick Google search.)

So, I guess I’ve got a rich self.  Because for all the time I spend alone, I do not feel lonely.

Still, though, there’s the conundrum.  While I am quite comfortable being alone, I know that the company of another introvert would give me a joy I can’t get on my own.

I have to remind myself of the good times I’ve had sharing occasional space with a man who appreciates his own solitude.  A man who craves quiet but also has good social skills.  Who is an entertaining and thoughtful conversationalist.  Who likes people.

… Sorry, I didn’t mean for this to read like a profile on match dot com, but if you know of anyone in the L.A. area… 

Never mind.  He probably would rather be alone.

4-3-2-1- ... STOP?

I think the last time I took a written driving test was in June of 1990, just a week or so after my then-husband and I had steered a 15-foot Ryder truck across the country. Having moved two cats and all our earthly possessions from one coast to the other, we’d begun the process of settling in. First, an apartment. Second, a used car (they were “used” back then; not “pre-owned.”) Then came the job searches and simultaneous to that, the commitment to residency through the acquisition of California drivers licenses.

I went through the process at the DMV, and it was unnerving for me to surrender my New York license. What if I failed the written test? Given the shortcomings of L.A. mass transit, it’s likely I would have had to camp out at the DMV for a few days.

But I passed, thank God, and the happy smile on that first CA license photo is an indication of my great relief.

I remember one of the questions on the test, and I remember it because I feared it was a “trick question.” I cannot share the exact language with you, but having just visited a website where current questions are publicized, I can at least cite the one that comes closest to that which I thought had stumped me. Here’s how it goes:

You drive defensively when you:

(a) Always put one car length between you and the car ahead.
(b) Look only at the car in front of you while driving.
(c) Keep your eyes moving to look for possible hazards.

The answer, of course, is (c), and although I chose the circa 1990 equivalent answer and I was therefore correct, I still felt doubtful. Perhaps I was envisioning one of those bobble-headed animals that used to be prominent on the back shelf of sedans. Their equally bobbly eyes – eyes that were definitely moving – hardly seemed capable of defensive action.

(Maybe I just read too much into words.)

Anyway, yes, that’s how I drive. I look ahead, and I look to the sides. I look ahead of ahead, and I look ahead of the sides.

… And about seven or eight years ago, an ostensibly helpful new tool was introduced at intersections, and it immediately started messing with my driving.

I’m talking about the crosswalk countdown. That indicator that tells pedestrians how many more seconds they’ve got before the light changes.

Because I keep my “eyes moving to look for possible hazards,” I quickly discovered that the crosswalk countdown IS a hazard. And so I have had to keep reminding myself: it’s not for me!

It’s for the walkers, not the drivers.

Still, though, when I approach an intersection, about four car lengths from the light, a “2” tempts me to slow down. (After all, TWO is quickly followed by ONE and then ZERO.) And because of this temptation, I have really come to resent those crosswalk lights. For, you see, as I also have come to learn, getting to zero is not the same as getting to yellow and red. Sometimes, getting to zero comes directly ahead of an entire new round of pedestrian approval beginning at, say, 14 seconds. (Which is to say, the light stays green for the drivers.)

… Several weeks ago, the Los Angeles City Council decided that it would no longer utilize cameras at intersections. I can’t recall when those cameras began showing up, but they had become rather plentiful. They had become a sort of reminder that you, the driver, are never safe from being caught for the slightest infraction.

(And for me – what with my eyes moving about as they do – the cameras rarely went unnoticed. I felt myself being watched, constantly. As if I were taking a 24/7 behind-the-wheel test.)

The Council’s decision was accompanied by news reports on our local NPR station that indicated the City simply could not afford to enforce those tickets that were issued as a result of cameras catching red-light-runners. Apparently, in fact, they never were able to afford enforcement, and anyone who had ever received such a citation in the mail could have disregarded it with no bad results. (I wonder if my friend, who paid her camera-issued ticket, who then took online driving school and went through all the other motions – to the tune of $700 or so – heard this news. I’m not telling her… Besides, I would have done the same thing.)

And here’s the interesting thing that has happened in the weeks since I learned of the City’s decision: I am less frequently influenced by the 4-3-2-1 of the pedestrian crosswalks. Sure, they still throw me off from time to time, but mostly, I’ve returned to trusting my instincts. I’ve returned to receiving my guidance from the venerable color code of green, yellow, and red.

I like it, I guess, that I no longer feel I’m being observed so consistently. Seriously, between those countdown crosswalks and the cameras at every corner, I was as good as the gal taking a typing test with the temp agent hovering behind her.

I hope never to make an automotive typo at some L.A. intersection. And I do all that I can to avoid such a circumstance.

I also know this: I do my best when I don’t feel that I’m being watched, judged, or timed.

Scare Tactics

At the risk of offending you and/or causing you to worry, I will begin with a confession: I smoke.

I have smoked for more than quite a few years, and although I stopped for a while twice, the stopping didn’t take.

When I did stop, though, it wasn’t all that difficult, and I believe the ease with which I quit (however temporarily) was directly related to my strong desire to do so. I am eminently stubborn. I do what I do when I want to do it. That includes smoking, and that includes quitting.

I’ve been a little off-put (a “little?” – make that, A LOT) by all the recent legislation that puts us smokers in the realm of second-class citizenry. Yes, I know it’s bad. (How could I not know that?) But, banning smoking from outdoor areas of Los Angeles restaurants?

Imagine the scene:

“No, sir,” the West Hollywood waiter says, “I’m sorry. You can’t smoke out here. But, when you’ve paid for those five martinis, the valet will be ‘round with your car. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy inhaling the exhaust fumes from Sunset Boulevard.”

In my opinion, there are three things wrong with that picture. I defy you not to agree with me about two of them.

And recently, I also was dismayed to learn that my beloved New York City has nary a smoking section. Not in the whole city!

Seriously?

God, I must be a dirty, awful person. I don’t even know how I get out of bed in the morning!

Okay, so the latest is the plan for cigarette packaging. I’m sure you’ve heard about it by now. Beginning on some date in the not-too-distant future, a full third of cigarette packages will feature graphic photographs of the ugly truths: mouth cancer, chest incisions, tracheotomies. I’ve been thinking ahead, and my plan is to do one of two things – cover the photographs with duct tape or transfer the cigarettes into tamer packages that I’ll start squirreling away as the launch date approaches.

Seriously, I’m not carrying those photos around with me. I could just as easily tape a photograph of a bad car wreck onto my steering wheel…

So, yes, I’m one of those stubborn people who isn’t going to quit when the new packaging comes out.

And, yes, I’m not alone.

My knowing I’m not the only one was confirmed several weeks ago during the final segment of NPR’s Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me. The show’s host, Peter Sagal, posed a question to the three panelists – a question they would answer after the break. He asked (and I’m paraphrasing here): When the graphic cigarette packaging doesn’t get people to quit, what will they try next?

The panelists’ responses were fairly amusing, but not so amusing as to make me remember them... Besides, I was a little distracted in the moment. Because, just in that moment, I realized what would make me quit.

Bush and Cheney.

Seriously.

If the tobacco companies put photographs of either George W. Bush or Dick Cheney on cigarette packages, I would not buy them. Because the idea of paying money for a picture of either of those two bastards absolutely riles me.

I just couldn’t do it.

I just couldn’t.

And so, my non-smoking friends, if you’re worried about my habit and want to take action to put me on the road to recovery, write letters to the appropriate persons-in-charge. Suggest the Bush/Cheney packaging. It may not do the trick for other smokers, but I guarantee you, that’s the sure-fire way to get me to quit for good!

Whither Penmanship?

There’s a really campy movie that was produced in 1956. Based upon the 1954 novel by William March, The Bad Seed was also produced as a play. I’ve read both the novel and the play, and I've seen the movie two or three times. Knowing the plot line has never ruined it for me, but if you think it will do that for you, consider this your spoiler alert.

Otherwise:

The “bad seed” exists within -- and becomes an appropriate moniker for -- Rhoda Penmark, the story's pivotal character. Although Rhoda behaves like a lovely little girl much of the time, her mean streak is also pretty obvious. As it turns out, she inherited a homicidal gene from her mother’s side of the family. And in addition to killing the building caretaker (who seems to be aware of Rhoda’s evil side), she also is guilty of killing Claude Daigle, a classmate.

And why did she kill Claude Daigle, you might ask?

Because: HE WON THE PENMANSHIP MEDAL!

(And Rhoda clearly believed that she should have won.)

...Remember penmanship?

I do.

I even remember that it was called the Palmer Method.

I remember penmanship being a part of third and fourth grade curriculum, and I remember excelling at it. I could mimic the strokes easily, and so I had it down. Always an A+ on that particular line of my report card.

But what I never told my teachers back then was that I couldn’t wait to be done with penmanship grades. I couldn’t wait because I wanted to experiment. And so, beginning in the 5th grade or so, I began exploring my options. I tried all kinds of possibilities, often imitating the penmanship of those who seemed to have found a unique and expressive world when they put pen to paper. It was probably my sophomore year in college before I found a penmanship that suited me.

The penmanship I’ve used since I was 19 or so doesn’t resemble the Palmer Method in the least. It’s more up and down than slanted. There’s not a whole lot of fanciness to it. But my energy is apparent. My penmanship reflects my personality.

… I heard on NPR recently that schools are no longer teaching penmanship (which we also used to call “real writing”).

I understand their decision, I guess.

After all, with computers being the place where people write, why teach such archaic strokes of the pen? I mean, typing is pretty much everything a kid needs to know these days, right?

Yes.

Maybe.

But.

There’s something truly satisfying about “finding” your penmanship. There’s something about that moment – of knowing you’re there – that tells you that a part of you has settled at last.

...There’s also the issue of signatures.

This part I really don’t get.

These kids growing up today. Kids who are not being taught “real writing”… How the hell are they supposed to sign their names?

...Of course, Rhoda Penmark signed her name in quite a unique way, didn’t she? Killing a classmate over a penmanship medal.

I’m not saying I want the topic to engender all kinds of competitive angst.

I just want to believe that kids can know from “real writing.”

I want them to experience what I did – finding my penmanship.

I’ve Reached My Limit with the Debt Limit Talks

I know they’ve been going on for a while.

I know, because, two weeks ago, when I left my dentist’s office, my first thought was this: I guess I’ll just have to raise my debt limit.

My dentist, you see, had indicated that I need a bit of work done. Which means, my upcoming dental expenses will exceed the usual annual figure that reflects general preventative care. Oh well. You do what you gotta do. And sometimes, what you gotta do is raise your debt limit.

The folks inside the Beltway know this, but apparently, they’re having more fun playing games right now than they would be having substantive, sane discussions.

What a mess.

Although I’ve listened to a great deal of NPR commentary, I can’t claim to know the bottom line on this situation. In fact, from all the NPR commentary I’ve listened to for the past three or so years, I’d say that what I do know is this: no one knows for sure. Economists make recommendations based on theories, and the fact that there is more than one economic theory illustrates the degree of crap-shooting involved.

There’s also the general crookedness of the world. The banks are in bed with the people we’ve sent to Washington. No matter what decision is made, a handful of people are going to benefit way beyond their worthiness. That’s just the way it is, and that’s the way it always will be.

But, no matter how the sides of the debate arrive at some sort of compromise (if that is, in fact, possible), it seems to me – from what I’ve heard – that the debt limit must be raised.

I’ve also learned that this issue has become an issue because of all the new members of Congress – those guys and gals who were sworn in last January, after the Tea Party had its gatherings at the polls the previous November. And what I also have gleaned is that a lot of those guys and gals are absolute idiots.

There. I’ve said it.

And you know what? I’m not taking it back!

...Idiots empower idiots who elect idiots, and the chain reaction that led to this most recent phase of pitiable governance began with Sarah Palin. Just three years ago, she popped onto the scene in her gosh-oh-golly LensCrafters, and – thanks to that unfounded confidence she sports with rifle-wielding finesse – she made idiots feel good about themselves. “She’s just like me,” her fans would say. And that, apparently, was one of the reasons she received such a groundswell of support.

The idiot fans then realized there was a place for their kind in politics, and the Tea Party uprisings began. They organized; they identified leaders; and they voted those leaders into Congress last November.

So, while we do not currently have a vice president named Sarah Palin, we have dozens of Sarah Palin hybrids inside the Beltway. And they are making a royal mess of what was already a sufficient mess.

If they gave one minute’s thought to what could really happen if the country failed on its debt obligations come August 2nd, they might realize that it could hurt them, too. But they can’t realize that. They’re idiots.

Many of them also are racists, I suspect, and as such, their agenda is clear: do whatever is possible to destroy the legacy of our country’s first black president.

I’m not saying that Obama is doing right all the time.

I’m not sure anyone could at this point.

Not inside that toxic Beltway.

But I do know this: Obama is not an idiot!

God bless him for putting up with this shit.

Monday Reruns: Some Thoughts from North of Brazil

(Original post-date: June 23, 2010)

Several months ago, I had an appointment on the west side of Los Angeles. While I know that general area quite well, the address I had been given included the name of a street I’d never heard of. So: two hours or so prior to my appointment, I logged onto Mapquest. I typed in the address and immediately was presented with a small, neighborhood map. Within that map, a red star indicated my destination. Helpful, but… the map was still a little too small. I needed to see the names of some major thoroughfares. I needed a sense of orientation.

I chose the Zoom Out option.

I guess I was a bit overzealous when I clicked my mouse on a line closer to the (-) sign. The next map that appeared – the Zoom-Out map – included Brazil.

When I saw it, I laughed at the screen.

“Thanks, Mapquest,” I said. “That’s really helpful! So, the place I’m going is north of... Brazil.”

Ah yes, zooming in and out. What handy functions. For folks with fancy cameras and other image-capturing instruments, the opportunities to virtually move forward or step back are familiar. But for me, these are options I never consciously entertained. At least, not until I started using the internet and its maps.

More recently, I’ve come to appreciate the metaphoric value...

Zoom out: the BP spill in the Gulf
Zoom in: the kitty litter box in the middle hallway closet

Zoom out: the national unemployment statistics
Zoom in: my need for two or three more consulting clients

Zoom out: the situation in the Middle East
Zoom in: the gangbangers who keep tagging the cement wall at the corner intersection

Zoom out: the crisis on Wall Street
Zoom in: my bank account balance

There’s a lesson in the zoom option, I think. A lesson about perspective.

If you find yourself, as I do, listening to way too much NPR, then maybe you just need to turn it off for a bit. Clean out the kitty litter, take a walk around the neighborhood, balance your checkbook, and be glad you don’t have to worry about stepping on any landmines as you walk from your car to the grocery store.

If, on the other hand, you are engaged in too much self-involvement, then I suggest you get away from yourself and whatever concerns you might be entertaining about your latest pedicure. Turn on the real news. Read a reliable paper. Remember that the world outside of you is dealing with issues that may never, ever be resolved.

Thinking about this stuff leads my mind to the adage attributed to Dale Carnegie: When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.

In the case of that adage, I think of the lemons as the Zoom In; the lemonade, the Zoom Out.

A lovely thought, but Carnegie was living in a different time.

These days, I wonder if the sentiment he expressed is possible to achieve. Are there enough good lemons left?

I consider myself a decent person, and I am fortunate to know a lot of other good people. People who are kind and generous. People who were lucky to be born with a healthy intelligence. But does that make us lemons? I don’t know. It seems that without huge handfuls of cash or an abundance of tangible possessions, our status is inconsequential.

As for the existing lemonade, it is beyond toxic. There’s an oil slick covering its surface, and everything below it is about to go into some kind of foreclosure.

So I sit at my computer, mouse in hand, zooming in and out.

Hoping to find that happy place in the middle.

A happy place in the middle… somewhere between the dreams I’ve always entertained and the realities of the day.

Zoom in.

Zoom out.

A Few Thoughts on Last Month’s Top News Story

I feel fortunate to have attended a liberal arts college.

I also feel fortunate that, during those years, I wasn’t fixated on some specific future. Unlike the pre-meds and pre-laws who could rarely stray from their focused, discipline-specific requirements, I had the freedom of selecting courses for the most personal of reasons. And when I chose Introduction to Art History for one of my second-semester freshman year classes, I had such a reason: I wanted to understand why people liked to go to museums.

By the end of that semester, I had aced the Art History course, and I visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art on a regular basis. I “got it,” and I also knew that I owed my parents an apology. So, that summer, when I was home in Virginia – regularly donning tacky polyester for my minimum wage cashier’s job at Hardee’s – I expressed my regrets to Mom and Dad. “I’m sorry,” I said to them, reflecting on the summer we’d gone to Europe, back when I was nine. “I’m sorry that, shortly after we entered the Louvre, I announced – in my headstrong way – I’ll just sit on this bench until you’re done.”

But that wasn’t the first time that I had behaved stubbornly, and it would not be the last.

… By my senior year of college, I’d declared my Poli-Sci major, and I had identified my particular interest in electoral politics. As I selected courses for the first semester of that year, I had some leeway, and I once again applied a personal reason as I selected a particular course.

The course was Introduction to International Politics, and the professor, whose last name began with a Z, was known as a force to be reckoned with. She also included, in the syllabus she distributed year after a year, the requirement that her students read The New York Times – front to back – every day. Having never been much of a newspaper reader, I needed that requirement. And it was for that reason, and that reason alone, that I signed up for the course.

Unfortunately, Professor Z was on sabbatical that year, and the mousy, young, untenured so-and-so who was hired to lead the course not only made no mention of our reading the Times, but she provided me with little incentive to meet any of the course’s requirements. I ultimately took advantage of the college’s rather lax rules on attendance.

Since I wasn’t going to class very often, I totally missed the announcement: we were to have some big Mock International Conference. We would be assigned countries to head and conflicts to confront. And because the instructor had distributed all our phone numbers a good week or so ahead of the gathering, we were empowered (or maybe encouraged) to conduct a lot of mock diplomacy prior to the actual three-hour faux event.

One night, in the suite I shared with five other students, the phone rang.

It was for me.

I sauntered down the hall and perched myself on the stool that was within reach of the wall phone and just outside the bathroom.

“Hello?” I said.

The guy at the other end immediately began talking about armies and factions and allies and enemies and treaties and… I was quick enough to realize he was from the International Politics class; my disinterest was profound.

So I just listened. And he talked and he talked.

And when he was finally done, I said, with little inflection, “You know, I really don’t care what you do with your troops or your forces. Just be sure to put those little soldiers back in the toy chest before you go to bed.”

And I hung up, thankful that college transcripts do not allow comments on whether one “works and plays well with others.”

… That course didn’t teach me to read The New York Times, but it did teach me this: I do not view myself (or most people) capable of understanding international politics adequately, and where wars or other forms of global conflict are concerned, I will never "get it."

But I also know that we need for people to get it.

… At the end of April, I was experiencing blogger burn-out, so I opted to run a four-part piece during the Wednesdays of May, when I would usually post something new. A week after that decision, I experienced another type of burn-out: NPR (which provides me with all the information I don’t read in The New York Times) was dwelling on the biggest story in ten years: Osama Bin Laden’s death. The accounts of what happened were reported, and when those accounts changed, they were reported again. The questions arose. The news was non-stop, and I got tired of hearing about it. Yes, I agree that it was a moment in history, but there is a whole lot of evil out there. One really bad guy being done away with is not going to make everything suddenly peaceful and right.

Two weeks later, I was visiting my Mom in Virginia, and the news had died down. Maybe because it had, a question popped into my head: if the exact same scenario had played out under Bush II’s watch, what would I believe?

Would I believe that he was really killed? Would I be pissed off about the fact that he was killed as opposed to being taken captive? Would I question the burial at sea? Would I wonder what really happened at that little compound where he had managed to live, undiscovered, for five or six years?

I’m grateful that what happened did not occur under Dubya’s watch, because – frankly – I wouldn’t want to dwell on those questions. But the fact that they came up for me, in that what if context, reminded me of the importance of trust. When it comes to the complexities of international politics, we must trust the “deciders.” If we don’t, it will be impossible not to entertain conspiracy theories and the like.

Monday Reruns: Smile Therapy

(original post-date: May 12, 2010)

I’m the first to admit that I’m a person of many moods. I’m not like the “united states of Tara” or anything, I’m just… I don’t know, emotional. I feel what I feel, you know?

My ex-husband, who had a great sense of humor, used to deal with my moodiness by sharing an adage from his homestate. “It’s like we used to say about the weather in Michigan,” he’d tell me. “If you don’t like it, just wait ten minutes.”

Being old enough now to understand my rhythms, I appreciate that my ex was onto something. My mood (particularly if it is a negative one) is unlikely to last. My life just never sucks that much, and so I have no reason to drop into irretrievable doldrums. When I’m in a low mood, I pretty much only need a little pick-me-up. And because I’m in a low mood, I need for that pick-me-up to be provided by someone else.

As prescriptions go, this seems like a fabulously affordable solution. Don’t need to wait for 2014, when universal healthcare kicks in! Oh no, just give me one other person – one other contagiously cheerful person. That’s all I need.

But that also is the caveat. I am self-employed, you see. And so I spend a good part of my day at home alone. I spend a good part of my day sitting at my computer. If I have a co-worker at all, it’s the radio, and if my co-worker can be identified as a downer, it’s only because I’m hooked on NPR. (Let’s face it, the real news is not exactly uplifting these days.)

I’ve been self-employed now for ten years, but this is not the first go-round with independent work. I also took a stab at it from 96 to 97 or so. At the time of that first stab, I had no artistic outlets and so I was at risk of being particularly morose. The isolation did a number on me. A painful number. I remember once, running some errands in the middle of a weekday. I had gone into a store and I happened upon a conversation between a father and his small son. Hearing their dialogue made me smile, and when I smiled, I also made a mental note: “That felt good.”

Yup. Smiling felt good.

I don’t want to think how long it must have been since my last smile, but the fact that I felt it and appreciated how it changed the contours of my mood speaks volumes. The fact that I felt it indicates that, like a good stretch, it was a body maneuver that needed to happen and was long overdue.

These days, there’s more art in my life, and that brings me joy. There also are more friends with whom I share art. There are more friends who know the artist in me.

Still, though, there are days when the isolation gets heavy. When working alone threatens to turn me into Michigan’s worst cold front. But I know what to do in those moments. I just smile. And, cheesy as it sounds, I feel better instantly.

Monday Reruns: A Short Letter to the Moon

(original post date: October 11, 2009)

Dear Moon,

I heard the news last week on NPR. Curious to learn something about the existence of water within your sphere, NASA decided to hurl a rocket at you. I am so sorry. Please know that this was not my idea, and I would never, ever approve of such a thing.

I should probably tell you that science has never been a strong suit for me. I’d attribute that status to disinterest, but that’s not accurate really. Actually, what I feel for science is awe -- inexplicable, I-can’t-even-deal-with-it awe. I mean… is it just me, or isn’t it kind of amazing that we’re all living on this big round thing that’s spinning so fast we don’t fall off?

Anyway, Moon, I think it’s really wrong that NASA hurled that rocket at you. Sure, I know, meteors are slamming you a couple times a month (or so I heard on NPR), so what’s another blemish on your already cratered landscape?

For me, the problem is that it’s a man-made blemish. For me, NASA’s decision to hurl a rocket at you was tremendously disrespectful. So, if you start messing with the tides, I’ll totally get it.

Anyway, I’m sorry. (And, by the way, if you have water, hang onto it. We people on Earth are totally disrespectful of that, too.)

Your friend always,

Katie Gates

Smile Therapy

I’m the first to admit that I’m a person of many moods. I’m not like the “united states of Tara” or anything, I’m just… I don’t know, emotional. I feel what I feel, you know?

My ex-husband, who had a great sense of humor, used to deal with my moodiness by sharing an adage from his homestate. “It’s like we used to say about the weather in Michigan,” he’d tell me. “If you don’t like it, just wait ten minutes.”

Being old enough now to understand my rhythms, I appreciate that my ex was onto something. My mood (particularly if it is a negative one) is unlikely to last. My life just never sucks that much, and so I have no reason to drop into irretrievable doldrums. When I’m in a low mood, I pretty much only need a little pick-me-up. And because I’m in a low mood, I need for that pick-me-up to be provided by someone else.

As prescriptions go, this seems like a fabulously affordable solution. Don’t need to wait for 2014, when universal healthcare kicks in! Oh no, just give me one other person – one other contagiously cheerful person. That’s all I need.

But that also is the caveat. I am self-employed, you see. And so I spend a good part of my day at home alone. I spend a good part of my day sitting at my computer. If I have a co-worker at all, it’s the radio, and if my co-worker can be identified as a downer, it’s only because I’m hooked on NPR. (Let’s face it, the real news is not exactly uplifting these days.)

I’ve been self-employed now for ten years, but this is not the first go-round with independent work. I also took a stab at it from 96 to 97 or so. At the time of that first stab, I had no artistic outlets and so I was at risk of being particularly morose. The isolation did a number on me. A painful number. I remember once, running some errands in the middle of a weekday. I had gone into a store and I happened upon a conversation between a father and his small son. Hearing their dialogue made me smile, and when I smiled, I also made a mental note: “That felt good.”

Yup. Smiling felt good.

I don’t want to think how long it must have been since my last smile, but the fact that I felt it and appreciated how it changed the contours of my mood speaks volumes. The fact that I felt it indicates that, like a good stretch, it was a body maneuver that needed to happen and was long overdue.

These days, there’s more art in my life, and that brings me joy. There also are more friends with whom I share art. There are more friends who know the artist in me.

Still, though, there are days when the isolation gets heavy. When working alone threatens to turn me into Michigan’s worst cold front. But I know what to do in those moments. I just smile. And, cheesy as it sounds, I feel better instantly.