chelseahenderson

the midlife crisis

Shifting gears, I have a story. Maybe more of a mission. But first the story.

The other day, I was catching up with a friend. He asked what I’d been up to lately, and I started to tick off my list of ventures: I started my own one-woman consulting firm, wrote two novels, and am in the middle of a yoga teacher training program.

“Oh, right,” he said. “Yoga teacher training. That’s like a respectable midlife crisis for professional women these days.”

I laughed, but then I started to think about his words. I guess when you look at it on paper, my life the last year does contain the classic symptoms of a midlife crisis. But I’ve been so happy, fulfilled and mostly grounded; I haven’t for one minute felt any sense of crisis. (Except the fives days between finding out my COBRA coverage had been terminated and when it was reinstated. But that was more emergency than crisis.)

I digress.

Hours after this coffee-yoga-midlife conversation, I started to wonder: why do we call a change in the direction of one’s life a crisis? I made a mental list of the actions I have been guilty of attributing to midlife angst and honestly, I think we have it all wrong. The man who buys a high performance sports car? Maybe he’s been driving a grocery getter for twenty years, a vehicle that fit his three kids plus all their requisite accoutrements. And now he has not only the freedom to buy a smaller car, but the income. Changing jobs? Why not explore a profession that ignites your passion instead of sticking doggedly to the one you chose in your (perhaps) misguided youth? Getting in shape? Seems like a pragmatic thing to do as one ages and the body needs more attention. Divorce? Okay, it’s sad when a couple breaks up, but maybe the marriage had been eroding for years. Maybe the couple was waiting for their children to finish college. Maybe they fell out of love.

What I’m trying to say is that while in some cases, midlife can be scary and compel people to make bold moves, in a number of instances, the crisis is an exploration of one’s untapped talent or long-held dreams. The crisis is a realization you were meant for something else. The crisis is grounded in the wisdom of age and experience. Perhaps it’s a crisis because those on the outside are uncomfortable with change. Or they wish they had the guts to do the same.

Whatever the case, I propose the midlife crisis needs a rebrand. Maybe we call it a midlife awakening or midlife exploration. In fact, screw the “midlife” modifier all together. None of us knows how long we’ll live, thus it’s impossible to designate a midlife point accurately anyway.

Yes, I started a consulting firm, wrote two novels and am on a journey toward becoming a yoga teacher. These actions reflect who I am inside and out. If I add a convertible or a young boyfriend to the mix, don’t whisper about my crises but celebrate my ability to navigate life so that I’m on the right path for me in the present moment. And I will do the same for you, no matter the make and model of car you purchase.

on rape

I never thought I’d use the word ‘rape’ in a blog title, but all other attempts to name this post rang false.

Like others, I was horrified when I read the Rolling Stone article on sexual abuse allegations at the University of Virginia. I wanted to throw up. Instead, I cried. The next day I had a conversation with my thirteen-year old son about the importance of sexual consent even though in his esteem, girls just recently stopped having cooties.

I was dismayed when it was revealed last week that the “heart” of the Rolling Stone story, the very personal account of one woman who alleged to be gang raped by seven fraternity brothers, turned out to have discrepancies. My first thought was, “here society goes again, doubting the victim.” After all, it seems perfectly understandable that time stood still for her. She blacked out on certain details. Maybe she got the night of the party wrong. Or the fraternity in question tried to save its own skin by denying a party was registered for that night. Whether she was gang raped or not, the Rolling Stone fact checkers should be fired, and whether she was gang raped or not, now few will believe her story. Lost in the fallout of shoddy journalism is that the University of Virginia was already under investigation before the story ran for alleged violations of federal laws governing how the school receives and handles sexual violence and harassment charges. Lost in the fallout is that a young woman was most likely assaulted, though we may never know how, by whom and to what extent.

Sadly she doesn’t stand alone.

How many cases go unreported because no one wants the scrutiny of recounting a horrible story? When I was in college, I was date raped, though really, what does this term mean? Does knowing your attacker make it a lesser crime? Are those who are taken by force by someone they are “dating” less traumatized? Twenty-three years later, I still remember his saying to me after as his sweaty body collapsed on top of mine: “Thank God you didn’t mean it when you said no.” In the years that followed, I questioned myself. Had I sent the wrong signal? Did I not reject his advances forcefully enough? Was it my fault for having too much to drink? For making out with him? Flirting? Was my dress too short? I tortured myself with these questions; it took me years to accept that nothing I did gave him permission to take what he took.

The point is, crimes of a sexual nature are horrific, hard to prove and more widespread than we think. Only the victim can truly speak to what happened, and yet who wants to say anything when absent a rape kit, it’s her word against his? I didn’t bear the bruises of struggle. If the police had questioned my friends, they would have delivered a very different account of what happened because in the immediate aftermath, I was embarrassed to admit the truth. Even my best friend didn’t know the full story until years later.

Offenders walk among us, and it’s a helpless feeling. It’s too late for me to accuse my attacker, but I can teach my boys how to respect others and impart on them that sex should not only be consensual, but pleasurable for their future, long time from now partners. And journalists reporting on this sensitive subject can and must do a better job at reporting full and accurate stories.

my cup runneth over

Yesterday, at the prompting of the youngest of my hosts, we went around the table and each shared three things we are thankful for. I gave thanks for friends who feel like family; kids who are funny, smart and thoughtful; and the opportunity to spend the last year exploring my creative interests.

What I didn’t mention for the sake of time and a desire to eat the feast before us: the ability to put words to paper to craft a story, as well as all the tools (computers, writing implements, time) that go along with that effort. Friends and a professional network who are willing to read and critique that writing.

The opportunity to take yoga teacher training under the guidance and wisdom of some wonderful yogis and with my inspiring classmates, all of whom share so much of themselves and help me improve my practice.

Hearth. Home. Health. Family. Health Insurance. Cats. A wine collection that would sustain me and a small army through snowmaggendon 2.0. A safe school for my kids. A paid-off car that gets me where I need to be and economizes fuel while doing it. Accidents that turn into serendipity. Books.

I’m trying to get better at being grateful everyday, not just when the calendar reminds me to. The pause we all took on Thanksgiving was too quickly replaced by the frenzy of Black Friday. As we approach the Christmas season, the challenge will be to not lose sight of what really matters. For me, that means not setting my alarm to score the best deal at my favorite shopping destination (you know who you are and I love you) but keeping with me today the spirit I embraced yesterday.

the family renaissance man

All I wanted my first 12 years of life was a baby sister. Granted I had my brother Nathan, a virtual mini me who didn’t eat unless I was hungry and who hung on my every word and command. But he grew tired of my dressing him up in my clothes. In an assertion of independence, he got a haircut. I could no longer play with his golden locks. My brother refused to pretend he was my sister.

Then when I was 12 years old my mom got pregnant. This was it! The baby sister I’d longed for. I was sure she was carrying a girl. Life would not be so cruel as to saddle me with a second brother.

I took Lamaze classes with my mom, intent on being present in the delivery room. I wanted to buy pink baby linens and clothes but Mom would only consent to gender neutral yellow and green. It was a torturous nine months waiting for her to arrive.

When my mom went into labor, I was in bed with a fever of 101. There was no way the doctor was going to let me greet my baby sister into the world. Those many hours when my mom was at the hospital, in the dark days before text, cell phones the Internet, my brother and I waited patiently. Time dragged. Which flavor sibling would we get?

Alas, I didn’t get what I wanted. Really? Another boy? But then my mom brought him home, and he was pretty darn cute. I quickly forgave him his Y chromosome. Early on he had a killer sense of humor. We gave him a nickname I won’t publicize. He was a favorite among my friends, making a cameo appearance in my Senior project, a film on the Children’s Crusade. Did I give him the acting bug? Maybe.

He followed his dream, majored in drama and after college made a name for himself in the Seattle theater scene. Once he mastered the stage, he picked up the banjo and a few months later was touring with an alt-rock band. He forges iron. (I have a nice fire tool to prove it.) He recently discovered a hidden talent: math. My little brother is a calculus genius. It didn’t surprise me. He excels at everything he tries.

I don’t get to see our family renaissance man nearly often enough and mostly catch glimpses of his life on Facebook. (His updates are hilarious.) I’m only disappointed that he doesn’t live closer. I wish Jack and Collin had more regular interactions with their sarcastic, smart, sensitive Uncle Banty, who just completed another turn around the sun.

the day my computer screen went black

It had happened before. My MacBook Air screen goes black and it takes many rounds of on and off button pushing to get it to wake up.

But it had never happened in conjunction with spilled water.

I didn’t panic at first. There wasn’t that much water. The blank screen was more annoying than anything. I had been struck by the inspiration bug, finally ready to revise the opening chapter of my work in progress after undergoing a workshop critique. I was itching to get my thoughts on paper, and my computer’s lack of cooperation was stymying that effort.

“Fine. I’ll show you. I’ll take you to Apple,” I said to my computer, convinced by the time I drove to Georgetown, found parking, and got to the Genius Bar, the screen would defiantly light back up at me with nothing worse than a crash version of my word doc. Doesn’t all technology behave in front of the experts? “Really, it wouldn’t turn on,” I heard myself explaining to the tech.

But that was not the situation at all. The computer wouldn’t cooperate with my 23-year old wiz kid helper either. He took it in the back so they could check out the guts. His report was grim.

“We found severe water damage.” I groaned and put my head into hands. He quoted the price to fix it, a figure high enough that I considered buying a new computer instead. Then Wiz Kid told me the real bad news. “Unless you pay for data retrieval, the chances are we won’t be able to save anything.”

Those words echoed through my head as tears sprang forth and the contents of my stomach threatened to make an appearance all over the shiny clean lines of the Apple store. It would cost at least $1000 on top of the repairs to potentially retrieve my word files.

I continued to cry. Okay, sob. I shook. I could feel the customers around me both trying to ignore me and to figure out what happened. I had recently started saving documents to Google Drive but I couldn’t remember what I had saved there. My novel? My agent queries? My entire work in progress or just the few chapters I had sent out for critique?

In a moment of clarity, I asked Wiz Kid to let me sign in to Google on one of their computers to check what documents I had access to. I could barely see through my tears though and was unable to focus on the file names.

“I don’t see what I need. I don’t see what I need,” I chanted, desperation spilling off me.

“I get it,” Wiz Kid sympathized. “If I, like, lost a paper for school or something I’d be really upset too.”

“I’m an aspiring novelist,” I snapped back. “I wrote an entire book and am three-quarters of the way through writing the second one.” He didn’t respond. Then my eyes honed in on the two file names I needed. Both books were safe in the Google Drive.
Everything else? Expendable.

But I cried all day nonetheless. I tried to find peace. Hey, I had the two most important documents. I didn’t lose my only hard copy of my novel to fire, wind or theft. But I couldn’t ground myself, and the more I thought about my first world loss, the more despondent I grew.

Today is better. A few people have commented “not having your computer is like not having a limb” but I refuse to buy into that sentiment. I have hands and pens and paper. I still have my imagination and the means to express it. Maybe these five to seven business days while Apple repairs my computer will be good for creativity. Maybe it will be good for me to not be constantly tethered to and reliant on a piece of technology.

So on this cold rainy day, I’m curled up on the couch instead of sitting at my desk. I have a blanket, cup of tea and two cats. I have four printed out chapters of my work in progress. And today, I will write like so many did before a power source and the right software were required to get the job done.

on the new Mrs. George Clooney

He was not the marrying type. But that was fine because there was little appeal in being married to a guy like George Clooney. The fantasy was in not being married to him. Wouldn’t that make the spontaneous trips to Lake Como more special? Oh, the thrill of the celebrity magazines wondering who I was when I appeared on his arm at the Academy Awards. Hanging out with Matt Damon. Double dating with Brad and Angie. Maybe getting a special seat at the filming of Oceans 14. I was fine not marrying George Clooney in my fantasies of our relationship.

Then he tied the knot.

In the words of Meg Ryan portraying Sally, who was spilling her heart out to Harry right before they almost ruined their friendship by sleeping together:

“All this time I’ve been saying that he didn’t want to get married. But the truth is he didn’t want to marry me.”

Sob.

Hey, I get it. I’d marry Amal Alamuddin too. She’s gorgeous. Smart. Accomplished. I presume she speaks with a British accent, which always makes me swoon. I hope they’re happy. After all, I had my chance. I drove by the Sudanese Embassy in DC the day he got arrested there. I cursed the crowds clogging traffic, only hearing later on the radio that he had been among the protestors. If only I’d have pulled my car over and joined in the outrage. We’d have locked eyes. He’d have flashed that crooked smile at me. And after getting bailed out, he’d have whisked me away on his private jet where we’d discuss climate change policy and what he could do to help me save the world.

It’s okay. I’m moving on.

Before there was George Clooney, there was Hugh Grant, who in Four Weddings and a Funeral posed this important question:

“Let me ask you one thing. Do you think – after we’ve dried off, after we’ve spent lots more time together – you might agree not to marry me? And do you think not being married to me might maybe be something you could consider doing for the rest of your life?…Do you ?”

Oh, Hugh. I do.

on being polite

Spurred by my experience at the soccer game the other day, I got to thinking about what it means to be polite.

When the now infamous swinger soccer dad took our conversation down a particular path, I should have stopped him short: “Excuse me, sir, but I’m trying to focus on my son’s game.” I could have achieved the same result by relocating my seat. I could have told him to shut the fuck up. But I didn’t do any of those things, because I didn’t want to cause a scene.

Nor did I follow my instincts last month when a particular situation made me uncomfortable; I didn’t want to offend my friend and/or her significant other by changing course. And I’ve regretted that decision.

What does all this say about my disposition? I’m not a pushover, but I don’t like to create waves. In fact, I loathe confrontation. I like to keep the peace. And I’ve been doing just that my entire life, starting with my divorced parents, continuing with feuding roommates, and still now when the moment calls for diplomacy.

But there’s a balance to be struck. We teach our kids manners. We tell them to let us know when they seen an injustice being committed. But what if calling out that injustice requires us to temporarily shelve those manners? Frankly, being polite isn’t always the best, or safest, approach. It’s not impolite to protect yourself, be it from jerks sitting in the bleachers or worse.

Does anyone think Creepy Dad is sitting at home thinking, “gosh, I was really impolite to that soccer mom the other day.” Hell, no. He’s probably charting a new course of action to try out at the next game. And I will be prepared with a strongly worded response. If he thinks I’m being rude, then so be it.

30 days

Sunday marked the “end” of my Whole 30 eating challenge. But it’s just the beginning of a new way of thinking about food.

Over the last 30 days, I eliminated dairy, gluten, wheat, sugar (including wine, excluding a moderate amount of fresh fruit) and the so-called “bad fats”. I didn’t eat beans or grains (even quinoa) and only limited types of nuts. I learned to drink my coffee with coconut milk, and I didn’t even indulge in the s’more layer birthday cake I made from scratch for Jack’s birthday. I went to happy hours and out to dinner with relative ease, sticking to water, both flat and sparkling.

“How much weight did you lose?” a few friends have asked. The rules of Whole 30 included no hitting the scales, but I checked this morning, and the answer is two pounds. Weight loss was not the point though; the benefits have been much more extensive. I have more energy because I’m sleeping better. The inflammation around my gut has decreased. My skin looks amazing. The only time I found myself ravenously hungry was when I didn’t get enough protein at the previous meal. Oddly, I really haven’t craved anything and didn’t cheat. No one ever believes me, but it’s true. When you give your body what it needs, you lose the taste for the bad stuff.

I don’t intend to sound preachy, so skeptical readers, don’t take it that way. We all have our own particular relationship with food, and mine is reward driven. “I’ve had a bad day, so I deserve this” and “I worked out today so it’s okay to indulge” are phrases that frequently swirled around my head. But I was “rewarding” myself by ingesting foods/beverages that actually don’t make me feel better. What’s up with that?

Many people wondered what my first meal would be once I’m off the plan. But with the exception of indulging in a glass of wine or a nice piece of cheese now and then, I plan to remain compliant with the Whole 30 plan. So this morning, I had the breakfast I pictured on the first day: hard boiled eggs, tomatoes, avocado.

a funny thing happened at soccer

For the first time in his eight-year soccer career, Jack plays for a travel team. Making this big league move was just short of monumental; the time and financial commitment is greater than any activity either kid has pursued to date. But so far, three games into the season, the only real difference between the travel team and the town team seems to be longer drives to games, better uniforms, and new parents to get to know.

On that note…

Before yesterday’s game started, I staked out territory on the bleachers, book in hand to entertain me until kick off (or whatever you call it in soccer). Soon after I took my seat, a dad I didn’t know walked up and sat beside me.

Stranger Dad: “Hey, whatcha reading?”

Me: “The Sleepwalker’s Guide to Dancing.”

Stranger Dad: “How is it?”

And I knew like you know when a chatty passenger sits next to you on an airplane that no matter how good I proclaimed my book to be, I would no longer be reading it for any duration of the game.

I marked my page. We talked. The game commenced. We did that eyes on the field multitasking conversation thing sports parents are good at.

Stranger Dad: “What do you do? Hey, he’s offsides!”

Me: “I’m an aspiring writer-slash-lobbyist. Go defense!”

Our conversation proceeded like this for the first half of the game. I abandoned hope of picking my book back up at half time. The second half got underway. And then there was a shift in conversation. I’m not sure what cued him, but on a warm pre-fall day, watching our kids run up and down the field, this happened:

Stranger Dad: “Do you have any friends in an open marriage?”

Me: “Um, yeah. I do know one couple in an open marriage.”

He proceeded to ask details about their arrangement, but I’m not deeply involved in my friends’ private lives, nor would I share them with a stranger even if I were up to speed. I stammered out an answer.

Stranger Dad: “My wife and I have an open marriage.”

I’m never sure what protocol is when a complete stranger over shares. In this case, I choked out a squeaky “oh really?” as my spidey senses kicked in: this was more than chitchat. It was a proposition. He mistook my silence for interest. He explained in great detail the terms of his arrangement with his wife. She prefers not to know what he does outside the marriage, but he wants to know everything. In fact, I got to hear all about a “date” she went on recently. He leaned in close and told me that while he’s a stay at home dad, he’s the aggressor in bed.

Me: “Run, Jack! Defend the ball! Get in there, Jack!”

The game ended in a 1-1 tie and a handshake. I’m pretty sure he expected more. I collected my kids and quickly herded them into the car. I immediately checked the game schedule to see how many more games I’m likely to run into this guy. Because while I turned it into a humorous story to share at a backyard BBQ later, honestly, he made me uncomfortable. I was happy to have a new parent to talk to when the topic of conversation bounced between living in New England, raising boys, and the unpredictable DC weather. But he pushed the bar, and I’m not exactly sure why. Was it how I was dressed? Because I was alone? Did he misinterpret my friendliness for flirtation? Or is he just an aggressive asshole? All I know is instead of being excited that my son is a starting defender who played all game, I’m focused on ways to deflect unwanted attention from this creepy dad.

And that really sucks.