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Tonight I kept a promise I made to myself, by attending a meeting of an international group dedicated to self -improvement in leadership and communication.

My plan was to keep a low profile. I’d just check it out. Just showing up was a stretch for me. I am not an organizational person.

The group was fairly small, and very welcoming. I was mildly surprised to be asked whether I’d be okay with offering a brief, impromptu speech. Really? On my first visit? No pressure, I was assured. I gave my host a definite “maybe.” After all, I was there to get past my comfort zone.

Normally, three people offer these short talks during a meeting, but due to holes in the program, there was room for six speakers.  The topic for each speech is revealed after the speaker steps to the podium.

The first member volunteered. Topic:  Who, living or dead, would you invite for dinner and why? I could do that!

A second time guest came forward to take on topic number two: Summer is ending. What do you like about fall?  Yes! I’ve got this!

The call came for topic number three.  I decided that the pressure of waiting to be called  was worse than the pain of just stepping up. I raised my hand.

What can you teach us to do?   Jeez- what do I know how to do? Who knew a voice could do Deer in the Headlights?

I managed to stumble through a minute and 30-some seconds (with only one “um”- They count them!)

The remaining questions were: What is your dream vacation and why? (So many possible answers)  What moment in your life  would you re-live? (The most vivid and crowd-friendly  response would be  watching the Queen Mary 2 cruise  into San Francisco Bay,  our little 20 foot boat bobbing  among  a throng of other crafts of all sizes- what a beautiful and surreal afternoon that was) and : When you were very young, what did you want to do when you grow up? (I have half a blog post on that very topic!)

During the 10 minute break in the meeting, I joked with the member who had asked if I would speak, saying that any of the other questions would have been better for me. He was tremendously gracious about my “speech” and suggested that all of the topics might be challenging to the  person behind the podium.

I have to agree.

The weather was perfect. Waldo and I had a great walk. The Kid called me as I was driving to work, and we had a fine chat; she called me “the best mom ever.” I walked into the store with the sense that I was in charge; I could take it or leave it, and I liked my co-workers very much.

I had an excellent lunch- a beautiful soup made by Dr. T.  A friend from my last job sent me a message just to say hello.

I spent the afternoon off the sales floor, doing work in the office with my general manager (the big boss) at my side. We talked. I got everything I needed to do finished, and stayed a little late to handle a customer who was unhappy with somebody else. He and his wife were both satisfied by the time I left. My GM was happy too.

Dr. T fixed a nice dinner, we  watched some TV, and laughed at the dog and the cat.

Sometimes the smallest, most ordinary days are the best. I am very grateful to have noticed this one.

I’ve mentioned previously that our new cat Willow has an almost inaudible little meow, which she rarely uses.

Unless she is running, her footsteps are inaudible too. The only time I’ve really heard her make noise is when she knocks something over when she is in an unauthorized location- the kitchen counter, for example.

Until today. Willow eats and sleeps on top of the dryer in our laundry room. The dryer is next to the wall, in the corner by our backdoor.

Willow, an indoor cat, does not try to follow Waldo and me outside. Instead, she has gotten into the habit of hopping up to her food dish, having a nibble, and watching us through the glass of the door.

This afternoon, I stepped out back, with Waldo at my heels. Before he could get through the door, Willow let loose a yowl that stopped my heart.

I started, then froze for a moment. Looking behind me, I realized that her tail must have gotten caught in the door. I heard a panicked scramble, followed by the sound of ceramic hitting concrete, and the scattering of kibble.

By the time I could get turned around and past a confused dog, Willow was gone.

I walked slowly and quietly down the hall to the master bedroom, agitated. Had I broken her tail? Was it a paw? would she let me get her into the carrier to go to the vet?

I found her in the window sill in my room, crouched strangely, her tail arched in an odd shape. She did not seem to want to look at me. I decided that it would be safe to give her a little time to herself.

I comforted myself by comforting Waldo, who clearly knew something was wrong. After a decent interval, I went back to check on Willow, who was now stretched out on the bed. She seemed very indifferent to me, but allowed me to pet her and handle her tail, which now seemed to be back to normal. No purring or snuggling though; she does not trust me right now, I can tell.

I’m not sure of the protocol for cat apologies. I guess I can start with a new dish.

You’ve heard before how much I enjoy walking.  Last year, I logged at least 400 miles, right here in my neighborhood. I know this because of a cute little app on my phone. (I believe I have also mentioned that I am something of a dork, with mild OCD.) I say “at least” 400 miles because some of my walks did not conform to my standards for logging them (again with the OCD dorkitude) and sometimes I forgot to set the app.

This same app forces me to acknowledge that until today,  my last walk was on New Year’s Eve day, 2012.

I had not taken one walk this entire year.

A minor medical procedure on January 2nd left me with several stitches on my foot. I was instructed to stay off the foot as much as possible for three weeks. A dutiful patient, I complied.

The weather in January and February was largely awful: rainy and bitterly cold, and the sun set so early. My work schedule was unpredictable. My next door walking buddy continued to be unavailable. Other domestic issues arose, and that walk I was always going to take “tomorrow” failed to materialize. I can easily list the reasons I did not walk on any given day, but the big question remains:

Why is it so hard to do something that is free, simple, and enjoyable? I know that I feel better on every level when I make time for a walk, and yet somehow I  managed not to take one for months. Bad habits are hard to break, and good habits, once broken, seem hard to resume.

I suspect walking falls into the same category as some of my other, frequently neglected, favorite pastimes: reading, writing, drawing and sewing. They serve no one but me, and generate no income. I feel selfish when I indulge in them, and have an uneasy sense that I should be doing something more worthwhile.

Which is ridiculous, because I don’t necessarily do anything else.  I just deny myself the enjoyment of those activities, ending up flabby, sluggish and out of sorts. And Waldo suffers.

It’s also ridiculous because what I feel is antithetical to what I know;  I feel that I am being selfish and non-productive, but I know that exercise is critical to physical and mental health.

This morning, before anything else could interfere, I dressed for a walk, except for my shoes. There was no way I’d get a cup of coffee (or two) in before heading out if Waldo saw my sneakers.  Fortified by caffeine, I hooked up the dog and off we went.

Barely across the street, at Waldo’s first pit stop, I felt the comfort of a familiar routine. It’s hard to believe that I’ve been off it so long, and hard to understand why.

We got a little over 2 miles in today (thank you, app!) and I am shooting for 3 tomorrow.

I’m just a few days out from yet another birthday. If achieved, it will be a refutation of the Ouija board prophecy made when I was still in elementary school. (Tip: for a carefree life, never ask a Ouija board how old you will be when you kick the bucket.)

So I will not be indulging in the “Mortality App”

http://www.deathclock.com/ that has so many folks buzzing. I get it; I’m gonna die, and sooner rather than later, proportionally speaking.  I’ve been around for more years than I have left.

This knowledge has doubtless been one factor in my mission to find something worthwhile to do, my willingness to take a few more risks (small as they may be.)

“If not now, when?” I have been asking myself this question for the last few years, but finding the answer seems more urgent.

The flip side to this urgency has been an increasing awareness that most of it just doesn’t matter. I will die, and then who will care what my last job title was, what I had in the bank, and how deep that line between my eyes got?

I know that some doors have closed forever, and some are swinging shut. I know that I will probably not travel as extensively as I now wish I had, and that I am not likely to be anywhere near wealthy, and that’s ok.

What continues to bother me is the fact that I have not, in the words of every frustrated guidance counselor in my life, “lived up to my potential.”

I did not lack ambition; I smothered it.

I was certain that the fields that attracted me were too competitive, and that there was always someone who was better suited to a job than I. Having had a ringside seat to many dunce-filled arenas, I now realize my mistake. I could have accomplished more. I want to accomplish more. I worry about my “sell by” date in the job market.

I am now on my feet, hustling across a concrete floor nearly 30 hours a week, with loud music playing and a walkie talkie incessantly chattering in one ear. I am up and down ladders and crouching low to reach product. I out perform peers decades younger. I can’t possibly be too old for an adult job.

The trick now is to retain the sense of urgency and purpose without sliding into panic. Time is short, but I still have some.

I’m doing well in my little job, so well in fact, that I am often first in various store metrics used by my company: sales, sales per hour, credit cards opened, etc.

The leads fluctuate among three of us. The other two top producers have worked at the store for years. Both of them have degrees in design, and have run their own companies. I am a criminal justice major who spent most of her working life in investigations.

My co-workers have formal training and experience that far exceeds mine. They can walk into a home or sit down with a client and quickly come up with product and arrangements that would take me hours or days longer, if I could do it at all. They deal with the store’s top clients, making presentations that lead to single sales in tens of thousands of dollars. I don’t.

It never occurred to me that I would be selling at the same level as our store’s top designers. But I do. Consistently.

So how do I manage to keep up? I’ve been examining this question lately.  The answer is that I just grind it out. I substitute effort for experience, and play to my strengths.  I keep my eyes open, and approach everyone. I engage. I listen. When I sense a lack of interest, I move on. When my customers display interest, I hang in, and respect their pace. My product sells itself; it’s my job not to get in the way.  And I truly enjoy what I am doing. I like helping people, and having fun. I tell them, “If you’re not enjoying this, we’re doing it wrong.”

Something tells me that if I apply this approach to my search for a “real” job, I may end up with one.

My smart and sassy single friend and I were chatting on-line, as is our habit lately. The conversation came around to her most recent foray into dating. First we kicked that word around a while. (Such an odd thing to call what we do at this age) I noticed that my friend had upgraded her description from “definitely not a date” when she socialized with this man to The D Word, and gently teased her about that.

The dating, or whatever it is, is proceeding well. So well, in fact, that my friend is confronted with the prospect of becoming a “girlfriend.”

“I won’t do it.” The last time she had been called “my girlfriend” she was 46 years old. “It was ridiculous.”

“I know,” I replied. ” I thought it was ridiculous when I was 34. I had to get married for lack of a better descriptor.”

(Just teasing, Dr. T.- Loved you then, love you now.)

Not too long ago, a dear friend and I were chatting online. We covered a lot of conversational ground; it had been a while since we’d been in touch.

We checked in on some serious subjects. “I felt better when I was writing” she remarked. “Me too,” I replied.

I had been writing sporadically, when I wrote at all.  I had abandoned drafts waiting here, and subjects I wanted to explore elsewhere. I had more than enough time, so what stopped me? Me.

So I sat down and faced my lonely blog, and chose a topic. I wrote and I posted. And I did it again and again. And I did it some more. Guess what?

I feel better.

I have been at my little job for slightly more than a year and a half now. After a month or two of wondering if I was in the right place, I’m comfortable and happy there. The job was probably just demanding enough to keep me from being swallowed by the bad things that were happening in my life when I took it. In retrospect, it is probably just as well I wasn’t trying to establish myself in a full-time, “serious” position while I was dealing with the death of my mother, my dog, and various family health issues. I suspect that my current restlessness is a good sign: my life is calm and stable enough to seriously pursue something bigger.

Here are a few things I’ve learned that I am sure will help me going forward:

I can succeed at something new:  I’ve mastered the infernal computer/register/inventory system, and learned to navigate all four channels of our business. I am producing results comparable to those of two senior colleagues, both of whom have design degrees and have run their own design businesses.

I am not motivated by money: I earn a fraction (a very small fraction) of what I used to. I would make the same amount of money just by showing up, but every day, I put forth my best effort, and continue to challenge myself. The proof of this is that despite having been momentarily stunned and disgusted by my insignificant first “raise” I am still  working hard.

I can simultaneously accept my reality and change it: I had hoped that I might be able to eventually meet all of my needs in this  job. My first review and wage increase showed me that I couldn’t.  It’s just not that kind of job, and I might have known it, had I asked the right questions when I interviewed.  After some reflection, I realized that I enjoyed the job too much to quit, and that I could alleviate my resentment  by simply reducing my availability to four days a week from seven.  Saving Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays for myself gave me a sense of control and  needed structure in my schedule.

I am most successful when I forget myself: Fully focusing on my customers and meeting their needs allows no room for self-consciousness and insecurity, and produces excellent results.

I am not my job title, or my paycheck: I knew that, but it’s good to remember.

We can get used to anything. For the past five years or so, I have gotten used to chronic, severe pain in my neck and shoulders. It’s not constant, but it is something I have been waking up with almost every day, and noticing off and on while I am awake. I’ve attributed it to many things: “stress,” aging, too much computer time, and most recently, tensing up over the low computer/cash registers at my little job. I was resigned to the prospect of life with this pain.

And then…

I went to a new dentist. “Do you clench or grind your teeth?” she asked. I didn’t think so. She asked a few more questions, poked around a little more, had me open and close my mouth a few times. She was pretty sure I was a clencher, and that this habit was responsible for the current sorry state of my teeth. No cavities, but vertical fractures.

Since I don’t eat rocks or use my mouth on household projects, I had to consider her suggestion seriously. I promised to be mindful of how I held my mouth (always a good  practice, really.)

My upper and lower teeth were hitting each other in all the wrong places.  By resting my tongue against the roof of my mouth, I could maintain my bite properly. I paid particular attention to this when I went to bed that night.

I woke up pain-free yesterday morning, and again today. I am elated.

I share this because it might be helpful to someone else, and also as an example of how we harm ourselves, obliviously and unintentionally. If only it was always so easy to find and fix.

George Lakoff

George Lakoff has retired as Distinguished Professor of Cognitive Science and Linguistics at the University of California at Berkeley. His newest book "The Neural Mind" is now available.

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