Reuniting is a strange phenomenon.  In my case it’s loaded with shaky expectations and lots of unknowns.

Frank is returning from Afghanistan in about four weeks.  The past 11 months flew by really fast, but now the last month is going to drag with anticipation.  He’s hit the part in his tour where they are transitioning their duties to the replacement unit, so he is feeling very superfluous.  This is the worst thing for a soldier in theatre.  He now has time to contemplate his situation and think deeply about where they are in their life and where they are going.

The subject of mentoring has been on my mind a lot lately.  It’s been one of those things that when you hear about it once it sticks in your mind and then you keep noticing it everywhere.

It began in early December when I started a new job and my boss gave me a New Yorker article about a surgeon who was skeptical about the idea of having a mentor (he thought he was at the top of his game) until he tried it, and then realized it helped him become a better surgeon.  He likened it to coaching.

For nearly 20 years of my life I’ve coached figure skaters, and 12 of those years were spent with one particular student.  I first met Heather when she was 9 years old – a tall, emotionally fragile girl from a divorced family.  Heather would cry every time she couldn’t land a jump.  I thought, like most skaters, she was frustrated with herself and mad that she couldn’t do it “right.”  Years later she revealed to me that she cried because she was worried that she was disappointing me because she wasn’t able to land her jumps correctly.  Nothing could have been further from the truth.  I was, and still am, proud of her.  (Now 21, she skates professionally with a big touring company.) 

What does it mean to be highly evolved?  In particular – a highly evolved man?   Last month Frank wrote to me, “I worked on my brief last night till 2 am.  Then read Cosmo for an hour. What smut that is. It gave me some tips on how to enjoy your masturbation, and encourage use of toys and household objects. I’m going to seek out more of these to become super educated on your body.”

I laughed out loud.  I couldn’t picture my Frank, manly and buff plumber/Army Major, reading a “smutty” woman’s magazine.  When I told Kathleen, she laughed too and then said that he must be highly evolved in order to feel comfortable reading it.  Hmmm… highly evolved?  I needed to think about that one.

Those of you who have read my blog know that at 36 and 364 days (birthday 37 is tomorrow!) I’ve come to understand the giving birth to a child might not be in my life’s plan.  That’s fine with me.  I have a great life of freedom and fun.  That was until the other night …

My boyfriend Frank has been over in Afghanistan since February, which means that the only sex I’ve been having is with myself.  Enjoyable, but not as good as a ménage a deux.  All of this in mind, you can imagine how I felt when I had a dream last week that I was pregnant with Frank’s baby.  It was one of those visceral dreams – so real that I could “feel” my belly growing.  I was freaked out.  I can’t remember how in the dream that I told Frank I was pregnant, but I do remember the person I was most afraid of telling was my friend Kathleen.  I was worried that the baby was going to change my life and ruin all my fun.

My friend Angie is a few years younger than me.  I actually hired her at my last job – where we worked together and became friends.  When I left that job we continued to hang out now and then.  Angie was married when I met her, had one daughter while we were working together, and has had two more girls in the time since.

About a month ago Angie emailed to see if I was interested in going to see Sting in concert.  (“Hell ya” was my answer, but that’s not the point of the story.)  She was just three months out from having baby number three and wanted to have some fun before going back to work.  So off we went to the concert.  On the way home we were continuing our “catch-up” on each others lives.  Angie was talking about the birth of her latest and final child, when she said to me, “My family is complete now.  I feel like I have nothing to look forward to.”

My parents have decided to divest themselves of my childhood home and build a new house.  After 38 years in the same place, they have accumulated a lot of stuff – and so have I.

For years my mother has threatened me with the following words, “You need to go through all those boxes of papers and either bring it to your place or I’ll throw it away.”  The boxes are mostly papers and photographs from my high school days.  I’m not even sure why I’ve kept them for 20 years; it’s not like those four years were the happiest of my life, so why would I want to save those memories?

Plus there’s no place to put all those boxes in my 600 sqft condo.

Also in their basement are the souvenirs of my childhood – Barbie dolls, My Little Ponies, Fisher Price houses, dress-up clothes.  All of these things were lovingly packed away decades ago in anticipation of my own children.  As I approach the age of 37, I’ve come to grips with the fact that those children probably won’t be coming along.  So what to do with all those toys?  My niece would enjoy some of them – she loves playing with the Fisher Price houses when she’s at Grammy’s house – but my brother and his wife only have so much room in their house.

I suppose it’s a right-of-passage when your parents leave your childhood home, but I’m not sure how I’m going to handle the last night I’ll spend there.

Recently I picked up a book on learning theory for work, Lost Subjects, Contested Objects: Toward a Psychoanalytic Inquiry of Learning.  It was recommended by a colleague, so I read it specifically to gain insight on my work in the education field.  Second to my three years in intense therapy – this turned out to be the biggest “a-ha” moment in my quest for good mental/emotional health.

“[The] desire for purity compels one to project what is impure in the self onto others…. the narcissist must hate the body of the other because it cannot be the same the same body as the ego’s.  The projection involved is essentially one that returns, but in the form of a threat.”[1]

Three sentences that encapsulate my journey of self-destruction.  I wanted so much to be “good” that what I hated most about myself I projected onto others.  My ego was making me “hate” other people and treat them inappropriately because I was projecting my bad qualities onto them.  What I hated most about myself was making me hate others even though they had done nothing to me.

You often hear these complaints from women over a ‘certain age.’  “Where are all the good men?”  “Why can’t I find a good man?”  “I’m a good catch. Why am I alone?”  Well I think I’ve finally divined an answer.

My friend Kathleen and I were marinating on our dating histories and I mentioned that I dated more living in a small western city before moving to my current home in a big east-coast city, where per-capita there are more men.  So wouldn’t it stand to reason that I would have a bigger pond to play in and more fish to catch?  Kathleen had a different perspective.  Reflecting on my journey into better emotional and mental health over the last four years she said, “The healthier you get, the smaller the pool of men.”

Ding, ding!  Ah-ha.  So true.

I’m not a fan of the “you know you’re old when …” jokes.  Nor am I a fan of pointing out people’s ages – especially as one progresses on the continuum.  However, a recent event reminded me of just how “old” I am in the eyes of younger women.

I’ve finally gotten to a place where I’m happy to own my age – 36.  Sometimes it’s hard for me to recall when asked it – I usually have to do some quick mental math.  I’ve always looked young but acted more mature for my age.  Both of those things really throw people off.

I was getting my eyebrows waxed by Amy, a 24 year old woman.  I’ve been going to see Amy for nearly a year now, and as is wont to happen between an aesthetician and her client, we chat about our personal lives during my appointments.  Sometimes it’s hard to see oneself through another person’s eyes, yet during this visit it became very apparent to me that Amy perceives me as being “older” than her.

While talking about some relationship angst with my friend Kathleen – married eight years to her loving husband Jay – she tossed a film quote my way.  Now Kathleen has been known to cite quips from Jane Austen to punctuate a conversation, but I’ve never known her to quote a cartoon.

She said, “You two can be ‘independent together’.”   As it has been about 25 years since I’ve watched the “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer” cartoon, I had to be reminded of the context of the line … complete with a video clip from You Tube (just search for “independent together”).  The elf Herby says to Rudolph, “What do you say we both be independent together?” acknowledging that their unique qualities can exist mutually and respectfully in a friendship.  Now I’m not usually one to take advice from elves however, I think this guy might be on to something.