Category Archives: relationships

Telling My Inner Critic Where to Stick It

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Photo by Stuart Miles, freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by Stuart Miles, freedigitalphotos.net

Sometimes my inner critic can be a real bitch.

She sticks her nose into every aspect of my life, from work (“Nice of you to finally put your butt in the seat and start writing. Not that anyone cares what you have to say, but you should at least be grateful to have a job, since so many more talented people than you don’t have one.”), to parenting (“Of course he likes his dad better than you, all you do is nag him to do his homework, eat his vegetables, wake up and get ready for school or hurry up and get ready for bed!”), and even my relationships with friends (“They’re just running late. Yeah, right. They don’t really like you and they’re going to ditch you and laugh about it behind your back.”).

The more tired and overwhelmed by life I let myself become, the more she seems to insinuate herself into my day.

“Who do you think you are?”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“What could you possibly have been thinking?”

Sometimes she makes so much noise it’s a wonder I can hear myself think through all of her yakking.

Which is why I was intrigued when I saw the invitation from the Glendon Association to attend a free webinar by Dr. Lisa Firestone on “Conquer Your Critical Inner Voice.” The Glendon Association is a local nonprofit that focuses on the prevention of suicide and violence and I was familiar with Firestone’s writing from her work on “Huffington Post” and, well, the price was right, so I decided to check it out.

Not that my inner critic is telling me to commit suicide or anything that serious, but she does beat me up from time to time, so what better time than now to try to put an end to it.

I wish I could say that attending a one-hour online seminar completely changed my life, that my inner critic has taken up residence in an undeveloped country far, far away, with no email, Twitter, Facebook or phone service, so she can no longer contact me.

I wish I could say that, but my outer critic had a few comments to make.

A lot of what Dr. Firestone said about childhood being the source of much of our inner critic’s power didn’t really resonate with my own memories, but some of the practical solutions that she offered for identifying your critical inner voice made a lot of sense.

“Recognize the events that trigger your critical inner voice.”

As I alluded to earlier, for me this has a lot to do with feeling out of control. My inner critic is a creature of habit and I should recognize that she shows herself mostly when I have what I perceive as too much to do. Then I start to doubt my ability to do anything at all. This is despite the fact that I’ve never missed a deadline, and somehow even when I feel overwhelmed I always manage to get whatever’s absolutely essential done. I need to remind myself of that when I start to panic. And sometimes I need to tell my inner critic to shut up. I’ve got this covered.

“Recognize the specific outside criticisms that support your critical inner voice.”

I may be in denial but I think it’s all me. That’s certainly what my husband tells me, and he’s always right-or so he says.

“Become aware of times you may be projecting your self-attacks onto other people.”

There’s nothing worse than seeing your own worst character flaws projected in the people you love. I wish I could say it’s just my son, but sometimes those same qualities drive me crazy in my husband too. I guess I need to remind myself of this, and perhaps take a whack at that inner critic of mine with a sledgehammer the next time she tries to take control. Not that I’m a violent person. I’m really not. But sometimes she has it coming-and I’d like to be the one to give it to her.

“Notice changes in your mood.”

I like this one the most because by telling my inner critic where to stick it, I suddenly feel a whole lot better.

For more information about Dr. Firestone visit www.psychalive.org. When Leslie’s not telling her inner critic to shut up, she’s usually online at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 28, 2010.

Forging Friendships

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imagerymajestic freedigitalphotos.net

imagerymajestic freedigitalphotos.net

A certain amount of loose behavior is required to forge a close friendship. You’ve got to let go of your inhibitions and take a risk. Plus, the window of opportunity for personal revelation is small-if you do it too quickly you’re a promiscuous slut who has exposed too much too soon-but if you wait till the 12th date in the relationship, then your friends are likely to feel bamboozled, like they don’t really know you at all.

As easily as women bond on the surface-most of us have no problem chatting up ladies in Pilates class, the carpool lane or the supermarket line-our friendship dance is as complicated and tricky as any Paso Doble you’ll see on “Dancing with the Stars.” As a parent I’ve found that it’s not at all unusual to spend hours and hours with people who have kids that are the same age as yours, are in the same activities or at the same schools, and realize at some point that you have nothing else in common. Sometimes I wonder if this isn’t why I rarely forge deeper connections with people I know socially-because if I know for a fact where they stand on religion, politics, and country western music, then I know I won’t respect them in the morning.

Unfortunately, between this admittedly snobbish attitude I have toward people who disagree with me, and the sheer busyness of my life and the lives of my dearest and closest friends, this means that my truly substantive conversations are few and far between. As a journalist I find that I frequently have more in depth talks with the people I’m interviewing than I do with my own family members-a fact which I find both deeply disturbing and also somewhat titillating. There’s something almost magical about getting to know someone based on a shared confidence, even if the connection is short-lived.

But there’s nothing better than a long, close friendship forged over time and a shared history.

My best friend lives in Texas now, and when we do manage to get together (unfortunately rarely), the primary thing we do is talk. We don’t need to do anything else. Unlike our days as college roommates, where we spent hours and hours just hanging out and talking about anything and everything, now we both realize what a luxury it is to have deep discussions once you get to be an adult. It’s strange that as you get older you have so much more perspective and experience to offer in conversations, yet so much less time to actually have them.

I definitely treasure the opportunity to have substantive heart-to-hearts whenever I can, yet rarely do I make the first move. I’ve always believed that intimacy isn’t something you can force, but I had an interesting experience last week that made me think about it in a different way. Sitting at a luncheon with 12 other women, only three of whom I actually knew at all, instead of leaving the occasion to whither into typical chit-chat, our hostess asked us to pick conversational topics out of a bowl.

Some of the questions were silly (What’s the item in your house that you are most embarrassed to own?) and some of them were enormous (What is the most passionate, driving force in your life?), but all of them were most definitely excellent conversational fodder. At the end of the day I left feeling sated in a way I don’t think I’ve ever felt before at a party where I didn’t make out the guest list myself. I’m hoping that experience will inspire me to be a little more promiscuous with my chatter, and perhaps take a few more conversational risks.

The next time I see you let’s talk-for real.

Share your thoughts about friendship and conversation with Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on April 23, 2010.

Laundry Lessons

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tongdang freedigitalphotos.net

My friend Erin turns 40 today. She doesn’t want any presents; she just wants me to tell her the meaning of life.

That’s all. The meaning of life. Just a simple, little gift. I don’t think she’ll accept “no,” “42,” or even “swordfish” as an answer.

Doesn’t she know that I don’t really know what the meaning of life is? I’m not THAT much older than she is. Though I do know from personal experience that you can’t find the meaning of life in any store. Not even the shoe department at Nordstrom.

It’s not in a glass of wine or a tree or a yoga pose. And contrary to what some people say, I never learned about the meaning of life in kindergarten.

But I do know one thing I can share with her: You can learn a lot about life by doing laundry.

On the surface it may seem like a never-ending, redundant chore-whites, brights, darks, lights, towels, sheets, rinse and repeat. Again, five, six, seven, eight, whites, brights, darks, lights, towels, sheets, rinse and repeat. You can never catch up with the laundry. The moment that you match that last clean pair of socks, another soiled and sweaty duo shows up in the basket to take their place.

You’re never done. There’s always another day and another pair of dirty socks.

Of course anyone who does a lot of laundry knows that there’s really no such thing as being able to make all the socks match up in perfect pairs. Sure they start out that way when they’re new and fresh from the factory. Those socks are unscarred and optimistic because they’re too young and naïve to know any better. They walk down the aisles of Target in perfect harmony, believing that plastic staples and a shared manufacturer will bind them blissfully together forever.

Little do they know that once they hit that laundry basket life is full of surprises. The lucky pairs will stay in the same cycles, dancing around separately by day—while one rendezvous with a favorite t-shirt, the other attaches itself to a sweet smelling sheet—only to reunite in a cozy drawer for the night.

It doesn’t matter how many clothes you have or how often you wash them, every load of laundry is familiar, but if you look carefully enough you’ll always find surprises. Some weeks are full of grays and some are full of color. Some clothes, like some people, thrive in hot water, while others prefer it to be chilly. And try though you may to keep your dainty delicates away from the dryer, sometimes they attach themselves to a muddy pair of khakis or a stinky sweatshirt with an old college logo and they’re never quite the same after that.

An errant burr might worm its way into your sole leaving a scar on your heel that only you can see but you feel it every time you take a step. Buttons fall off and disappear into the ether. An errant purple crayon makes its way out of a classroom to permanently mark its territory on your favorite pink tank top. Things don’t always come out the way you think they will in the wash. That’s why they invented tie-dye.

The rinse cycle is good for cleaning off the grime, but sometimes you have to repeat—rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. And there are some things that never come completely clean no matter how many soaks you give them and some that are always a little rumpled some matter how carefully you iron them.

Another thing you’ll come to realize after doing lots and lots of laundry is that not everything grooves to the same timetable. Those thick, thirsty Egyptian cotton towels turn out to be high maintenance, but worth the extra minutes in the dryer, while that Irish linen blouse demands more TLC than you have the patience for. So what if it was $59.99 (on sale!). Do enough laundry and you’ll learn that some things are just not worth the aggravation.

Sometimes the laundry can enrich you in more than just wisdom. I once made $2.87 in change and immediately went and bought myself a Slurpee. It was the coldest, sweetest, brain-freezing Slurpee in that summer full of Slurpees in a life full of Slurpees. I closed my eyes and wanted to savor every slurp of that special Slurpee. I opened my eyes and saw that I spilled some on my shirt.

And once again it’s back to the laundry. You toss and you tumble and try to sort through things and you clean them and they get messed up and you clean them again and again.

Whites, brights, darks, lights, towels, sheets, rinse and repeat. You’re never done. There’s always another day and another pair of dirty socks.

And another chance to clean them.

Share your laundry lessons with Leslie at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on April 16, 2010.

 

Relationship Research

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Photo by stockimages, freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by stockimages, freedigitalphotos.net

I’ve tried to get my husband into therapy for years – and failed miserably. Why is it that those who are most in need of psychological help are the least able to see it?

Anyway, when I saw an advertisement asking for married couples to participate in a UCSB study on close relationships, I jumped at the chance to get my husband on the couch, even if it was only under the guidance of some 19-year-old psychology students. Not only would Zak finally have the opportunity for some long overdue self-reflection (contemplating one’s navel doesn’t count), but also there was 60 bucks in it for us if we attended two sessions.

Talk about a win-win. They even promised us free parking and snacks.

It was surprisingly easy to talk Zak into going. He was actually excited. On our drive out to UCSB he said, “When they ask about our occupations, do we fight crime or do crime?”

“Honey, I think you should just tell the truth and get as much out of the session as you can,” I said.

“Right. We fight crime,” he said.

Yeah, sure. Whatever gets you onto that couch, dear.

After a brief introduction by a spectacled graduate student in a white lab coat who was, I swear, no more than 14 years old, Zak and I were put into two separate rooms to do some tests.

The first exercise was a series of questions about our relationships. We had to weigh our answers on a scale of one (where you strongly disagreed with the statement) to seven (where you strongly agreed with the statement) or a scale of one (I’m not at all like my mother, how dare you) to nine (I’m exactly like my mother, so deal with it) and so on.

I immediately became utterly and thoroughly confused.

I contemplated using my cell phone to call Zak in the room next door to help me with the test. Would wanting to work together show that we had a healthy relationship or that I was being a complete neurotic idiot? I reminded myself that there couldn’t possibly be any “wrong” answers, and tried to answer the questions the way a healthy person would, giving myself props for refraining from calling Zak as I opened my veins and sweated out answers.

A sample question: “How much time do you spend thinking about your relationship with your spouse?” Does wishing he looked like Brad Pitt count?

Or how about this one, “In my conversations with others, I don’t like to talk about things that don’t interest me.” Who likes to talk about things that don’t interest them? I find boredom extremely exciting, but only if I get to use the time to fantasize about Brad Pitt.

So far this study wasn’t really doing much to bring me closer to my husband, although we did go out to lunch with our stipend.

For our final session, they flipped a coin to decide which spouse would do which activity. Zak got to do a puzzle (something that’s incredibly fun and easy for him) while I had to give a speech (something that’s exceptionally painful and stressful for me).

Hmmm … I wondered just how random that little coin toss was as I contemplated my speech instructions, to fill five minutes, as though I were on an interview for my ideal job. While I can fill thousands of column inches writing about myself, actually talking about myself for five minutes felt like an eternity. Luckily Zak stepped in with some questions, coaxing me into describing how working no more than 25 hours a week would benefit my future employer (I’d be in such a good mood if I could sleep in till 9 every morning!) and why the loan of a company car (preferably a convertible) would help reduce my stress and therefore enhance my creativity.

The researchers found our silly banter to be symptomatic of a healthy relationship. Who knew? We later found out that we had been observed by the psych team the whole time. Thank goodness we didn’t turn the waiting room into a “What’s the craziest place you’ve ever made whoopee?” response, as my husband had suggested earlier.

They explained that the study was designed to help understand how spouses help each other cope with stressful life events and how that relates to marital satisfaction.

I didn’t have the heart to tell our grad student (who actually was 24, even if she looked 12) that the tests weren’t really that stressful, especially when she seemed so pleased with our performance. When Zak and I reviewed our answers we found that despite our contention that his father and my mother would make a terrible couple, we were actually more alike that we thought.

If he’s more like me than I thought, maybe he doesn’t really need therapy after all.

I told Zak, column comedy opportunity aside, participating in the study actually left me feeling pretty good about our relationship.

“That’s good,” he said, “because it really took very little work on my part.”

And that just might be the real secret to a healthy close relationship. That and fighting crime together.

Share your relationship secrets with Leslie @LeslieDinaberg.com. For most columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on February 5, 2010.