Am I as Good as Myself?

Stand Still, Look Pretty

--The Wreckers--2006

I want to paint my face

And pretend that I am someone else

Sometimes I get so fed up

I don't even want to look at myself

But people have problems that are worse than mine

I don't want you to think I'm complaining all the time

And I hate the way you look at me

I have to say

I wish I could start over

I am slowly falling apart

I wish you'd take a walk in my shoes for a start

And you might think it's easy being me

You just stand still, look pretty

Sometimes I find myself shaking

In the middle of the night

And then it hits me and I can't

Even believe this is my life

Ever felt this way? Yeah. Thought so. 

Now, turn it around--how many times are you guilty of looking straight passed someone else's mask, wished you were her (or him), and began feeling sorry for yourself? I'd be lying if I said that I haven't.

I can't tell you how many times I've compared myself to every other woman in the grocery store, the workplace, the gym, and let's be honest, even in my own family. I've always wanted to be my sister. So many times, we waste precious, beautiful moments, hours, days, years--some of us our whole lifetimes, in comparison. When we strive so hard to change the beautiful things that make us unique we usually have an image of someone else in our minds as the goal toward which we are striving. We want to look like so-and-so, or wish we could be like what's-her-name, or some variation of those people. How do you know they're not lying awake at night hating their life, sobbing bitter tears of regret over an unfulfilled life? You're right, you don't. 

When we stop comparing and judging ourselves against someone else whom we have chosen for our standard of measurement for beauty, popularity, success, etc. there isn't the debilitating pressure to "act as if." Being true to ourselves gives others permission to do the same. Think about it... We know when we have to "live up" to what others expect of us, we feel like a failure if we aren't living up to what others expect of us and we are pressured to fake it. We fake it, and fake it some more, and pretty soon we're staring at someone in the mirror at someone we don't know. By that time it's too late. "What if they find out that I'm really not this perfect? They all look up to me," etc. runs through our minds as we lie awake at night wondering how life got this messy. Life is woven together in funny ways like this. Our comparisons create the pressure that crushes us. 

It starts inside. One of the wisest things I've ever heard is this:

"The only person to whom it is worth comparing myself is myself. I only have to be as good as, better than, or just like myself." 

Amazingly, the feeling that comes from the permission to be myself has made me relate to the last verse of the song in the most wonderful way.

Sometimes I find myself shaking

In the middle of the night

And then it hits me and I can't

Even believe this is my life

 

As cheesy as it sounds, as I've learned to accept, love, and discover my true colors, I actually have laid awake at night with a joyful uncertainty that wonders, "is this really real life? Can this be MY life?" The answer: yes.

525,600 minutes

Wondering what's with the photo? This could be any blonde, frizzy-haired little kid who is smiling with with the eyes-squinted, cheesy smile that takes up her whole face. But it isn't just any cute little girl, it's me. I was 5, and this was my first day of kindergarten: August 27, 1990. I was so excited to go to school. That hasn't changed a bit. I could probably take a picture like this on EVERY first day of school!

This is my famous," I'm-so- happy-my-eyes-get-squinty-when-I smile" feeling! My dad has it too. That's why my dad has to be serious in pictures...because if he's happy, he can't keep his eyes open! Neither can I.

Oh, and in case you're wondering about the title, and what it has to do with anything--well, really nothing. I just found it interesting that there are 525,600 minutes in a year...

How many of those 525,600 minutes will I waste this year? Ok, probably quite a few of them. My German grandparents used to love telling me, "Mandi! Quit your 'keeter-putting' and get to work!" Keeter-putt was something that they called someone who we'd call a "slow-poke" or someone who is ALWAYS behind because they get distracted by this, that, and the other thing and can't get anything accomplished. I have perfected the art of Keeter-putt. My outlook on it has changed, though. I'm not wasting time, I'm using it wisely to notice and appreciate details. I'm done wasting time on the things that may or may not happen. All I have is today, and I'm going to appreciate what I have. I have everything I need, and more. It's easier to get through life this way.

No, I don't have an easy life, or nothing to worry about. And no, I'm not ignoring things that need to be done like paying bills or taking care of my health. I allow myself to worry, but because I know that I do struggle with anxiety, I know that I could worry all day! (I've done it before, and lost whole days, paralyzed in fear of doing something wrong) It takes practice, but I literally set a timer for 20 minutes everyday with a notebook and allow myself to worry as much as I can for 20 minutes. I write down what I need to. When 20 minutes is up, I close the notebook and turn on my favorite Pandora station, which is usually something bouncy and catchy. I focus on how much music makes me happy, and pretty soon I'm usually smiling, dancing around my room like an idiot, or even singing (like an even bigger idiot!). When the anxious bubbles in my belly are gone and my shoulders aren't tucked behind my ears anymore from my worry session, I get on with my day. I wasted a lot of those 525,600 minutes in a year in worrying about EVERYTHING for years and years. I'd rather have more moments of goofy, squinty-eyed smiling than of that anxiety. Maybe this year I can keep the worrying down to 7,300 minutes this year? (That's 20 minutes x 365 days--in case you wondered :) )

No, I'm not delusional in thinking that we can always feel happy. Life doesn't work like that. But remember, FEELING does not equal BEING. Feelings don't last forever. Who we are, our character and who we are to others is our BEING! Beings can have feelings, without identifying with them. For me, as my true self, is that of being happy. I don't always feel it, and sometimes I feel downright awful, cranky, sad, or hurt, but deep inside is a relatively unchanging little glow of happy. The happiness that comes from being grateful for my life, just as it is--mistakes, flaws and all.

Polka Lovin' (and I'm not talking about polka dots!)

This was 2006. Look at my face! What on earth was so much fun? POLKA! Get ready to be German-ized!

My brother did not like dancing with me in this picture at the wedding of our childhood best friend. We were polka dancing, and while the polka dance isn't really that hard in and of itself (it's essentially just hopping from one foot to the other in 3/4 waltz time), I suck at it because it involves letting the guy lead. Polka is that "uum-pah-pah" German music with the accordions and tuba that you don't hear too often anymore--unless you grew up milking cows on the dairy farm in my family (which happens to be very German). The only thing "fancy" in polka dancing are a few spins and turns that I've only seen my parents do when they were much younger. Nothing provocative  nothing hyper-sexualized, nothing risk-ee, and certainly nothing too emotional about polka dancing. It's pretty strict and clean--it's German remember? You can't have too much fun, you know? (If you could hear me say that, you'd hear how German it sounds)

My siblings and I (Ben...affectionately referred to by my sister and I as "Bonita"-is the dude in the blue shirt), grew up listening to polka music on WTKM 104.9 out of Slinger, Wisconsin. I can still hear Gene Dudley's voice saying that tag-line. My grandpa had it permanently set on the archaic 1960's radio in the barn--to high for us to reach (he said it was so the cows didn't knock it over, but I think that was a fib. It was so that we couldn't turn off the polka!) I am pretty sure we were even taught how to polka in our middle school dance unit of phy ed.! Polka, despite the beer-drinking-fat-old-guy stereotype that it has, is actually sort of fun! And let me tell you, if you want to sweat, dance a few polkas around a dance floor! If you're not sweating, you're not working hard enough! Of course it had to be a work out! It's German, remember? If you're going to have fun, you might as well be working for it, ya know? (sensing a theme yet?)

The songs are ridiculously funny sometimes. For example, I will give you the first few that come to my mind. These are the ones I could probably sing word for word if you got me started...that's how many times I've heard them. Most Wisconsin-ites at least have heard of the Beer Barrel Polka--a song devoted to our beloved beverage of choice (especially if you're German). It's pretty simple, there isn't too much underlying meaning in it. Beer is good. We like beer. Or how about this one, "In Heaven There is no Beer," and the song goes on to explain, "so that's why we drink it here." Once again, life is short--drink beer. My last example was my sister Ruthie's favorite barn-time polka, "Horsey Keep Your Tail Up." This one was really sort of silly, and the jist of it was "horsey keep your tail up, keep the sunshine outta my eyes..." and it ended with the horse aging as they sang, "Well, the old gray mare she's old and bent, but she keeps on hoofin' along." The songs added lift and a joking-type satire to a life that wasn't always easy. I poke at my German heritage a lot, but most Germans know that being serious and stoic is genetic. Most of us use sarcasm and silly uum, paa, paa polka lyrics to lighten it up a bit. It's what we know!

Fun is where you find it. Sometimes you have to look for it. Sometimes you have to make it up all on your own so that you don't go crazy from working so hard and being so serious all the time! When my grandma would tickle us as little kids, she'd always say (with a smile on her face), "now don't laugh, don't laugh, nope, nope, don't laugh! Make a 'sober face.' Where's your 'sober face?'" The simple fact that she was smiling as she told us not to laugh tells you that Germans make satire of their own stereotypical behavior. So, in short, yes, I would love to dance a polka! I'm not very good at it, because I can't seem to let the man lead the dance. My brother's comment to me as this picture was being taken, "Mandi!! You suck at letting a guy lead! Then you think you should lead, but you're not very good at that either!" So, I laughed. Apparently I wasn't even a good German girl back then either! I talk too much, I cry a lot, I act silly in public, and I don't like to follow, keep still, or keep a 'sober face.' Worst of all, I let people talk about their feelings--for a living?!?!?! I can't possibly be German, can I? Too bad, my German friends, you're stuck with me--the German anomaly!

Loving the cracks

When we are young, it’s the illusion of perfection that we fall in love with. But, as we age, it’s the humanness that we fall in love with- the poignant story of overcoming, the depthful vulnerability of aging, the struggles that grew us in karmic stature, the way a soul shaped itself to accommodate its circumstances. With less energy to hold up our armor, we are revealed and, in the revealing, we call out to each other’s hearts. Where before wounds turned us off, they are now revealed as proof that God exists. Where we once saw imperfect scars, we now see evidence of a life fully lived.

~ Jeff Brown



This quote popped up on my Facebook news feed tonight. It made me think. I used to think that in order to be a good human, a good person, I had to be perfect. It wasn't an illusion for me. It was reality. I tried so hard to be at least the best, at whatever I was doing. It was exhausting. I did ok at being an over-achiever. Never got anything less than an A- after that, unless you count the quarter grade in 9th grade English that I pulled to an"A" by semester. It was addicting! Once I got that first A in second grade science (yep--I do remember. Unfortunately I have a photographic memory), I knew, even then, that the pressure was on. No one put it there, except for me. I used to throw fits if I made mistakes. They were awful. It made me so anxious to feel inferior. I was tough, and I was not going to let anyone know I wasn't. When I barely managed a B in Environmental Science at Wisconsin Lutheran College, I thought I had failed at life. I'm not exaggerating my reaction either. I felt unloveable. There it was. I thought perfection made me loveable. I didn't know what else could have made me loveable. I had nothing else besides being smart, strong, and tough. I never knew what being human felt like. By that time...feeling ANYTHING at all was crippling, so I just kept doing something. And then I cracked. 

I had to fall, really, really hard. There was a tough shell that had to crack, and it did. There were lots and lots of gaping cracks. I had to be broken so that I could see for myself what was really inside. When it happened, I almost gave up because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make the cracks close up again. Shit, I couldn't even put bandages on the cracks because they were so big! I thought I was broken beyond repair. I was broken. But somehow, I gradually grew to love the beauty that the cracks made. I've always loved the way that old, tarnished, weathered, and antique art has character and one-of-a-kind beauty. I realize that being cracked and broken makes me like the artwork that I have always loved. Not only that, but through the cracks, who I REALLY am shines through. 

Not having cracks was boring and predictable, and I admit, I did like that sometimes. I looked just like every other 20-something-year-old. I wasn't unique at all. I was forcing myself to be someone I wasn't. Being broken has allowed me to discover who I was meant to be all along. For example, if you put a candle in a vase, it gives off little light at all. But, if the vase is cracked, or even if there are huge pieces missing, now you have a beautiful lantern. It's not perfect, it's broken...but it works better than the vase with no cracks. No cracks=no light. A cracked vase isn't useless. Its function has just been transformed. I can't change who I am, and that it couldn't stay hidden inside anymore. I had to crack, because even I didn't know what was inside. In the same way, I couldn't see what was outside either! Through the cracks, I saw other people had beautiful cracks of their own. Some cracks were like mine, some weren't, but none exactly the same. The really hard falls have created the beauty in most of us. I think that true beauty lies in being "broken, but still good." (I borrowed this line from Disney's Lilo & Stitch. Stitch is a havoc-wreaking monster who learns to love, despite his impulse toward evil). Our scars are our cracks--where the beautiful light and love of being human shines through.

This is how I want to live. I want to live my life giving back for the amazing second chance I almost didn't take. I've learned...but to teach takes courage.

Courage is the strongest muscle in our Hearts...every time we fall and think we can't ever get back up again, but somehow reach deep, deep within to lift ourselves up, even if it's just far enough to clutch the nearest stable fixture, and cling for dear life, we strengthen our Courage muscle. Every time cry so hard we feel our Hearts tearing from top to bottom, but hold our broken hearts together by whatever means we can find til the pain stops, we strengthen our Courage muscle.

No, in real life I might not ever be able to bench-press or power lift, but I have a Heart that's brave and courageous enough to stand tall and live the life I want to live, because none of us can heal our Hearts alone. The only thing we can do ourselves is choose to trust that with help and with time, our Hearts will mend and be strong again. We know that because it was the ones who've fallen and who've felt the searing pain of a torn heart who come back to those places to let us cling to them when we can't hold on anymore, or bring the needle and thread to sew the pieces of broken Hearts back together. They show us where the Courage muscle is...and everyone needs to know how strong that muscle can be.