All posts tagged Life Advice

Reunions are Just a Memory Event

So far 2012 has been a year full of school activities. It started with graduations attended (graduate school, college, high school and elementary), moved to being a specatator at extracurricular activities (college soccer game,  high school cheer leading), and continued this past weekend with a college reunion.

I can sum up the weekend in a word: memories.

Memories were stirred: My room mate reminded me of how nice I was for taking care of another friend who was sick from a night of partying. Apparently I was quite the Florence Nightingale. I don’t remember and am sure I blocked the memory because it might make me sick. Anyway, good to know that I pulled through when needed.

Memories were unexpected: At an alumni-student career networking luncheon I met a young woman who said she was in a sorority. This was the last piece of information she offered after stating her major (Learning and Organizational Change and Political Science), hometown (somewhere in New Jersey), and hope for the future (human relations in a corporation and then executive recruiting.) When I learned that she and I were members of the same sorority I offered my hand and we exchanged the secret handshake.

“I haven’t done that in years, ” I said.

“I never expected to do that here,” she said.

“What just happened? Did I miss something?” the boy sitting next to her said.

Memories were confirmed: For years I have tried to confirm the occurrence and particulars of a summer party that had something to do with the university. I lived in Dayton, Oh and have no memory of traveling to a suburb of Cleveland for a summer get-together of either prospective students or accepted, soon-to-be freshmen students, but I do remember being in a classmate’s back yard. I think I remember another friend being there, she had traveled from Columbus, but this friend draws a blank whenever I try to force the memory into and out of her synapses.

The most salient part of the memory is the  backyard soda fountain and ice cream parlor. At the edge of the brick patio, near the grassy expanse of the lawn was a stainless steel home version of Baskin-Robbins. The father of the house treated all guests to a soda or sundae of their choice. I hung out near the chocolate. I remember nothing else of that event.

At the Saturday night party I beeline to the classmate from Cleveland.  She can make or break my memory.

“Did you live outside of Cleveland,” I asked her.

‘Yes,” she said.

“Did you have a summer party one year and served ice cream out of a backyard ice cream parlor?”

“Yes, oh you remember that too?”

“Remember it, I’ve told stories of that party and the ice-cream for years, not quite sure it was true but hoping it was. Thanks for confirming my memory. Now, why were we there in the first place?”

“I don’t remember.”
Memories were awkward: So you haven’t seen someone in a gazillion years and she sees you at the reunion talking to your college boyfriend. Seems just like yesterday. You and he hanging out. In fact, you and he do hang out with a group of friends and have a great relationship.

“Julie, hi,  it’s Susie. How are you?”

“Susie. Hi, it’s great to see you here. Do you remember…”, and I start to introduce said college boyfriend.

“Yes.  Did you two get married?”

This mistaken coupling is not the awkward part of the story. The awkward part happens when my close friend, Abby,  standing with us says: “Oh, almost.” And then laughs. A lot. But my college boyfriend and I didn’t almost get married and we both don’t really know what to say so I just point out my husband, one of the non-alumni spouses watching the Notre Dame football game in the lobby.

Memories were made: I’m sure they were made but I won’t know for sure until I see my friends and classmates again. Will we remember that one of us announced his engagement? Probably. Will we remember that Northwestern beat Iowa for a record of 7-2? Probably not, but we will remember that the football team played better than they ever did when we were there. Will I remember Susie asking me if my college boyfriend and I were married? Not sure. Depends upon how much short-term memory loss I experience between now and the next reunion. And if Susie is there.

Some people are reunion people, others are not. I like them for the memories that are stirred, confirmed and made. I especially like being with people who help me retrieve forgotten memories that when remembered help make my past whole.

Go U Northwestern! Just feeling a little purple pride today.

 

Say Maybe to No Before Yes

Habits comfort and constrict. Reading at night before you go to sleep signals to your body and mind that the day is at an end and dreams are up ahead. Planning your day puts you in control of the hours, or at least makes you feel that way. Saying yes all the time puts me in a bind. I know that no is a good word. It’s just that it sounds so negative I find it difficult to say.

The power of saying no without feeling the guilt of letting someone down or hurting someone’s feelings is a power I’ve just started wielding. Trying to wield, is a more accurate statement. I haven’t gone all power hungry and “Just Say No” tyrant on the world. I’m just saying no a little bit more.

I’ve said no in the past. But I’ve never stopped with “no, thank you.” No, I must add a reason­–I already have plans with so-and–so, or an excuse­­–can’t make that date, or apology–I’m so sorry I just don’t have room in my schedule. I do the same thing when I receive a compliment.

“Your necklace is beautiful.”

“Oh, thank you, it’s my mother’s aunt’s hand-me-down, wasn’t even sure if I liked it when I got it.”

 

“I like your dress.”

“Nordstrom on sale, double points too. I’m sure they have more at the Michigan Avenue store.”

 

“Your story was enjoyable.”

“Well, you know, gee, I just keep getting in these crazy situations.”

My mother always told me to just say, “thank you,” and move on when someone says something nice about you. Instead, I say, “thank you,” and run on and on and on.

The real problem with just saying no might be related to my habit of initially responding with a yes to any question, offer or idea. This then leads me to behave like an appellate court, and reverse my lower court decision, replacing a yea with a nay. And like any good court, I must issue an opinion documenting the whys, wherefores and whatevers of my decision.

Aha! Perhaps the next step in becoming comfortable with the no word is to learn how to say, “Let me think about it,” or “maybe”, or “sounds wonderful however.”  If I’m not justifying a change of mind maybe I won’t feel the need to justify at all.  Maybe, just maybe.

FOMO: Orbiting, Exploring, or A Waste of Time?

The former Chief Guru of Hallmark, Gordon MacKenzie, author of Orbiting the Giant Hairball: A Corporate Fool’s Guide to Surviving with Grace, gave presentations with notcards, not power point.  A picture and a number adorned each card, which  was attached to a clothesline with an old-fashioned wooden clothes pin.  The audience controlled his talks on creativity and innovation by calling out a number and Gordon would pick the card off the line and tell the story behind it.

“You are in control,” Gordon started each lecture. “I’ll talk until all the cards are gone or someone shouts, ‘Stop.’  It’s up to you.” Of course, the lectures usually went the allotted time, not because no one wanted to be the one to stop Gordon’s stories, but because no one wanted to miss out on what might be the best example of how to be creative and innovative in their jobs and lives. The Fear of Missing (FOMO) out drove the young innovators to listen and learn.

I recently thought about the FOMO influence on my own life. How many of my choices have been driven by the need to see what’s happening behind door number 1, and 2, and 3? Answer: a lot. FOMO’s been identified as a quarter-century affliction but this mid-century modern woman has been afflicted for years. And I like it. Or at least I’m used to it.  More on this topic later, I need to check something out.

 

 

“Some day your mouth is going to get you in trouble,” my mother would say.  This wasn’t such a difficult prediction given the number of times I brought home a report card from elementary school with a check mark next to the words: “does not exercise self-control.” That was Catholic school code for “doesn’t know when to stop talking.”

The nuns were just agreeing with what a school psychologist had told my parents earlier. “Julie’s mouth and brain don’t operate at the same speed.” This led to talking without filtering, speed talking, and non-stop talking.  And to check marks and verbal gaffes. Gaffes that could have been avoided if I had just known my audience

Understanding whom you are talking to is the key to effective communication. Talking without understanding often leads to unintended consequences.

If I had known my manager at one of my first jobs, for example, I would not have confronted him after he reprimanded me like a drill sergeant in front of a row of administrative assistants.

I understood that he was upset. I understood that there was a check mark next to my name for “did not meet deadline.” But if I had understood his management style, I would have known that ignoring his outburst versus asking him to not talk to me like that was the key to keeping one’s job.

If I had understood the makeup of a typical comedy club audience I would have never entered the contest to find Jay Leno’s sidekick when he took over the Tonight Show in 1992.  I headed to my hometown, Dayton, Ohio to perform a two-minute stand up routine.  Mind you, I wasn’t a stand-up. I had studied and performed improvisation sketch comedy. I gave 20-minute talks as a business humorist. I was just a marketing consultant looking for a creative outlet.

I whittled down my material, donned my red power suit, and froze when I entered the club. I was not like this hometown audience. This audience did not work in corporate cubicles or talk corporate speak.

This audience laughed till they cried and ordered another beer throughout the stand-up routine before mine – which was filled with tales of working for the man, men behaving badly, and scatological asides.

This audience did not smile when I performed. Thankfully, they didn’t laugh me off the stage. Thankfully, I still had my day job.

Just two weeks ago I accompanied Husband to the Principality of Liechtenstein for official diplomatic business. Husband is the Honorary Consul of Liechtenstein to the Midwest, and I his unofficial chief of staff.  Our program included meeting the Hereditary Prince of Liechtenstein, which I was excited about, until it came to packing.  What do you wear when meeting a prince?

On the first day of our visit, a young diplomatic officer met our group at breakfast and accompanied us to the Prince’s castle for Liechtenstein’s National Day ceremonies. The young diplomat sat next to me on the bus and I asked him how to spell his first name.

“U-l-r-i-c-h,” he replied and then asked about my family and work back in the States.

“I’m a former advertising executive,” I said. “Currently I teach on the university level and I’m a freelance writer/blogger.”

“What do you write in your blog?”

“I write personal essays and cultural commentary for women of a certain age who are reinventing themselves. Going through transitions.”

“I imagine there is much to write.”

We talked easily about my writing, my teaching, and my impressions of Liechtenstein.

If I had known my audience I would never have told Ulrich that the title of my last blog post was:  What to Wear When Meeting a Prince”

‘Well, I can imagine that might be difficult to determine,” Ulrich, the diplomat said.

“It is. I’ve never met a prince before. I don’t know anyone who had met a prince before. I want to be appropriate”

I proceeded to give him a synopsis of the endless options listed in my blog:

Formal or semi-formal, long or short, pants or skirt, cocktail, business or business casual, and so on. I did not share my quandary about whether or not to wear pantyhose.

“Later this week I’ll be posting about what I wore when I meet the prince.”

“I will read your blog. Perhaps you will write and tell your friends that you have already met a prince,” Ulrich said, and smiled, and bowed with his head.

And I remembered that when he introduced himself at breakfast I thought he called himself Something Something Liechtenstein, but I thought that can’t be right and let it go and focused on the pronunciation of his first name. Ulrich.

“You. You’re a prince. Of course, you said Ulrich Liechtenstein. Are you a cousin? Oh, I am so embarrassed. Have I hurt Husband’s appointment?” I stammered along until I just had to ask: “Well – what do you think – how am I dressed to meet a prince?”

“Quite fine,” Ulrich, the Prince said.

“You’ll learn your lesson one day,” my mother would say. The best connections are made when you know your audience. Whether it is one person or a group. However, some of the best consequences happen serendipitously when you are just truly yourself.

What Happened When I Met The Prince?


“Seriously? You met a prince and it’s all about what you wore?” my sister wrote, referring to my most recent post.

“Yes, but if you read the post prior to the unveiling of the LRD  you would understand why,” I wanted to respond.

Recap: Last week I met Prince Alois, Hereditary Prince of Liechtenstein. Husband is Honorary Consul General of Liechtenstein for Chicago/Midwest. When I learned about the princely introduction I thought to myself (and aloud), “What does one wear when meeting a prince?” I figured that out and here’s what happened.

As we approached the castle I realized I didn’t know what to call the Prince. Your Excellency? Your Highness? Prince? Sir? Before I could ask Husband, who was several paces behind me, or the Ambassador, who was moving our little group along, we were ushered upstairs to a receiving room. I’m not sure that’s what the room is really called but since that is where we were received that’s what I’ll call it.

Prince Alois met us at the doorway and the Ambassador prepared to introduce each of the four Honorary Consuls and the two HC Spouses in attendance. Husband motioned for me to go ahead of him.

“I don’t want to go first.”

“Please, go ahead.”

“No, you speak the language and I don’t know what to call him.”

The Ambassador introduces Husband and he says something in German that makes the Prince smile and shake Husband’s hand a little longer and harder. I see a friendship blooming in front of me.

“And this is Julie Danis,” the Ambassador says, and indicates that I’m with Husband.

And so the Prince shakes my hand with a great smile and says something engaging–in German.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I only speak English. He’s the German guy in our house. It is a pleasure to meet you, thank you so much.” And I move on, quickly, realizing I had no idea what to call him so I just avoided the greeting all together, much like I do if I can’t remember someone’s name and don’t want to be found out.

“Shall we do the photographs first,” the Prince suggested. We moved to another room/hallway/photo op location. The official court photographer (I’m assuming) positioned us around the Prince and took a gazillion pictures.

“Don’t squeeze my upper arm,” I say to Husband.

“What?”

“Smile.”

After the picture session the Prince steps to face the half-moon of Honorary Consuls and Spouses.  The Ambassador explains where we are from and what we have seen and done in Liechtenstein for the last several days. A server passes beverages and light canapés.  It’s only 4:50pm and a glass of wine sounds like a fine idea.

I wouldn’t say I was star struck, but I felt speechless and the need to talk at the same time. Like the time I met President Clinton and was at a loss for words until I couldn’t stop myself from telling him: “We share the same birthday along with one of the Wright Brothers. I’m not sure which one but I think It’s Orville.” (It is.)

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t asked about the format of this meet and greet. Clearly my obsession with what to pack/wear had pushed all other thoughts of protocol out of my mind. Against my late mother’s better judgment (she always said my mouth would get me in trouble) I leaned over and whispered to the Ambassador, “Would it be appropriate if I asked the Prince a question?”

How couldn’t I ask a question? I’m the “why, why, why” girl, according to Husband. Always wanting to know why he’s done, said, or thought something. That’s a hazard of being a consumer insight professional. I need to know the why behind the what.  And truth be known, I had been thinking of what I might ask, if he opportunity presented itself.

“I think that would be fine, okay,” the Ambassador responded.

At the next lull in the back and forth I interjected, “Sir, Prince (I still didn’t know what to call him), if I may, if you can…we’ve had a wonderful program full of meetings with different departments and offices and the university…and I’m wondering, if there’s one thing you would want us to take back to our different regions, one message about Liechtenstein, what would that be?”

Phew. That was the longest, rambling question ever. Why didn’t I just ask the question I really wanted to ask, the one I often asked consumers and clients: “What keeps you up at night?” Because I was afraid it might be misconstrued as personal, and therefore definitely inappropriate.

“Hmm,” the Prince started.

“Feel free to have two or more,” I offered, not wanting to constrain him.

I wish I could quote his answer, but I can’t. I believe his message is this: Liechtenstein’s economy is feeling the effect of being reliant on exports to the EU. The country is small but mighty in entrepreneurship, education, high-tech manufacturing and self-reliance. Increasing awareness and interaction between the United States and Liechtenstein is what Honorary Consuls can do.

Our group agreed that we could carry the Prince’s message back to the United States. We all thanked him for his time and energy. In the end it was a perfect visit, except for one small thing, which I’m sure he would have never noticed or remembered.  I just wished I had said: “Your Serene Highness, I think I can do that.” Because that’s how you address a prince.

What I Wore When Meeting The Prince

I met the Prince. Alois, Hereditary Prince of Liechtenstein. I met him in his family’s schloss (castle) that sits atop a cliff above the capital city of Vaduz, on a steamy afternoon. Husband took the above picture as the gate to the castle’s inner garden was closing on our visit.

You can see what I decided to wear after endless decisions.

A LRD (Little Red Dress), silk (possibly duoppioni) with a standup pleated collar reminiscent of Queen Elizabeth I – but not that big and not completely surrounding my neck.

Black cloth pumps with embroidered flowers and a wooden heel, 2.5 inches tall. A compromise between kitten and stiletto. Remarkably comfortable to stand in, which I knew I would be doing for about 45-60 minutes. It was more like 90, and included walking on gravel and across Medieval pavers.

Accessories included: an antique gold charm bracelet with one heart shaped, garnet charm. Gold hoop earrings with red stones. Red leather clutch, perfect match for the dress.

And I wore pantyhose, sheer pantyhose, out of respect for the Prince and his family who have reigned over the Principality of Liechtenstein forever. Really. Forever. The country celebrated its 300th year this past August 15th, National Day.

Wearing pantyhose was the right thing to do. But it was very, very hot and the castle is not air-conditioned, at least in the man made manner of which I am accustomed in my concrete and brick prairie hometown, because it sits in the Alps where Mother Nature provides the air conditioning.  But even Alpine Mother Nature couldn’t cool the receiving room to a temperature that made pantyhose comfortable, or a jacket and tie for that matter.

I wore pantyhose for the approximate two hours it took for me to dress to meet the Prince, to greet and meet the Prince, and to return to a state of relative deshabile post the Princely meeting activity. It was worth it. My mother would have been proud and I felt appropriately dressed for the occasion.

Alois, Hereditary Prince of Liechtenstein is the princely looking gentleman in the middle, wearing a red tie. The local newspaper, Volksblatt, did not print the picture of the Honorary Consuls and their spouses meeting the prince, so you’ll just have to believe me that I did. My LRD and I did appear in another photo from a gathering immediately following the princely reception, which I’ve included in the above screen shot.

(Volksblatt Fotos: IKR)

 

 

I’m up earlier than normal. But I read the papers for longer than usual. Time saved on hair and makeup is lost in a wardrobe consideration kerfuffle.

Most emails that populate my inbox by 7AM can be deleted without opening. The usual collection of newsletters I thought I wanted and can’t unsubscribe to because I might miss something, the LinkedIn group notices, and spam asking for money to be wired immediately or offering easy and cheap access to a better life through drugs.

An unexpected email causes me to hover over the delete button and start rethinking my day. My day that was so carefully planned out last night: writing group, committee meeting, tax advisor, two errands and home to a list waiting for me on my desk of calls to make and things to do.

I’ve been invited to attend a meeting at WBEZ, Chicago’s public radio station, with a media innovation class that I am helping out. This is a meeting where I can meet everyone at WBEZ I could want to meet. I start to reorder my day in my head.

“You can’t do that. You can’t cancel on your committee meeting, where you are a co-chair, at the last minute,” the good girl angel says on my right shoulder. She’s peeping out behind my silver earring, reminding me of my obligations.

“Oh yes you can,” says the other character – neither angel nor devil, an ingénue perhaps – jumping up and down on my left shoulder. “Seize the day. This is an opportunity waiting to be lost. You know you want it.”

Be quiet. I’ll figure it out.  But first I need to find my car keys. I hate to cancel commitments. I find my keys. Is this opportunity knocking or a detour blocking. My car is dead. What do I tell my committee? Why not the truth?

I drive downtown in Husband’s car wondering how its keyless start option works with a valet.  Stuck behind a concrete truck I negotiate how I can leave the committee meeting early to arrive at WBEZ just a bit late.

If I go to WBEZ what if anything would I say to the people I might meet?  Darn, I wish I had my elevator speech down.

Lake Shore Drive is a dead stop. How can I be responsible while responding to unforeseen opportunities, responsibly? Flexibility is the key to managing life’s twists and turns. Go with the flow, even if it isn’t flowing.

Why does it seem that I always leave early to arrive late? And does it even really matter, if in the end, I am wholly present and honest wherever I am?

 

Aunt with Niephews

“You’re a good aunt,” Carla said, “I’m not sure I’m even invited to graduations.” My friend was commenting on the number of family graduations I attended this past spring. One niece graduated from college, another from high school and a goddaughter marched out of eighth grade.

“Oh, I’m not sure I’m always invited. I just ask for the date and show up.” I responded. “I consider it part of my auntly duties and privileges.”

Jane Austen wrote, in a letter to her 10-year old niece, Caroline: “Now that you have become an Aunt, you are a person of some consequence & must excite great interest whatever you do. I have always maintained the importance of aunts as much as possible…”

Unlike Aunt Jane, I place the importance of the aunt-niephew  (my collective noun for nieces and nephews) relationship on the niephew. He or she is important, not me.  I am not a person of consequence simply by being an aunt. However, I am guilty of trying to “excite great interest” at all times.

I’ve been an aunt forever.  I am the fourth out of five children and therefore acquired niephews quite easily and early in life.  I was aunted for the first time at age 10. Today I have 23 niephews (including great and great-great) and several other young people whom I consider honorary niephews, as well as multiple godchildren. I certainly don’t have the same relationship with each of them, but their presence does inform my identity as Aunt Julie.

From my perspective an aunt is always there for you. She is an open door for when you want to talk, be heard and be engaged. She is a confidante and a friend who gives it to you straight in a safe environment.  An aunt is part of the conversation around the table, listening and inserting her views on topics she thinks people should be talking about.

One of the benefits of aunting is collecting auntidotes. An auntidote is part antidote, part anecdote and wholly my take on my experiences while aunting.  It is informed by what I believe defines “aunting”: humor, honesty, empathy, impartiality, nuance and a little rule bending. An auntidote may offer observations, advice, encouragement and/or insight on all the things that encourage, impede, confound and catapult us through the world.

Here’s one from last year’s beach vacation with my brother’s family, offered in honor of Savvy Auntie’s Day, which was yesterday – July 22nd. This post was held up due to a full weekend of aunting with a young nephew. I never knew that hermit crab races could be so interesting or a dying mole so distressing.

––––––––––

The silence in the car is louder than the a million vuvuzuela’s at a South African soccer match.  It challenges me to keep quiet when my impulse is to fill the void with observations: “Look at that sky.”  Ask a question: “So, do you have a crush on anyone?” Or, read a sign on the side of the road, just like my Dad, “Stomach issues, Come to Indiana’s Stomach Specialists” But I don’t. I hold my tongue and find I’m also holding my breath. So then I just breathe in the quiet and out the tension.

I’m not sure if my 17-year-old niece feels the tension. She exudes a certain teenage tension now. Angst of being on a family vacation without a sister or friend to pal around with. I’ve dragged her along on an outing – a made up outing actually – with me, just to get her out of the house while the rest of the family – her younger brothers, mother, and father go on a boat ride. She hates boats, she says. I share her lack of enthusiasm.

She was always game for a ride with Aunt Julie when she was 8, 9, 10, even 12 years old.  She jumped at the chance to ride up front – something she rarely got to do with two older siblings claiming dibs on the shotgun seat. She would play with my phone and make up riddles or rhymes.

But today, this teenage niece controls any display of playfulness or interest in conversation. Today, this teenage niece has her own phone on which she sends and receives text messages, breaking the silence in the car with a click, click, click, and click.  So I listen to the clicks and I observe, silently: “What a beautiful sky,” I remark, silently, on the billboards: “Thank goodness I don’t have stomach issues,” and, I resist asking, “Who are you texting, is it a boy?”  I can wait until she’s ready to talk again. Being together is good enough for right now.

 

 

 

Exercising Self-Control – Or Not

“Some day your mouth is going to get you in trouble,” my mother used to warn me. She wasn’t a fortune-teller. She just believed that history repeats itself. Throughout elementary school the nuns marked a check on my report card next to the words: “does not exercise self-control.” That was Catholic school code for “won’t shut up, even when asked to be quiet, repeatedly.”

I tried, in the best Catholic schoolgirl way, to sit and listen, but since I knew that a school psychologist had told my parents that my mouth worked faster than my brain, I pretty much resigned myself to checkmarks and verbal gaffes.

One performance evaluation noted that I often interrupted people in meetings. I’m not a good judge of when the speaker will stop talking so I can naturally start talking. Sometimes I jump in too early. Sometimes I wait too long and lose my chance to contribute to a colleague with better timing – or just a louder voice. I’ve tried raising my hand to be acknowledged, but that only works if everyone in the room follows that standard of behavior.

I’m guilty of the common “wish I hadn’t said that” mistakes such as asking a non-pregnant woman when she was due. I’ve made assumptions based on limited information such as:” you look tired” – this person was not tired and now felt bad about her appearance, “how long have you been married” – this couple had a child but were not married much to the dismay of the mother, and “your daughter looks just like you” – the daughter was in fact adopted.

Sometimes I just say things to fill the silence, when a more thoughtful, more silent approach would work better. During a high school musical, one of the chorus members missed his musical cue so I burst into his song, “June is busting out all over.” Might have saved the day except I was a dancer, not a singer.

Then there’s the humor card. Levity eases tension. Levity reduces boredom. A joking remark fills space. However, humor, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.

“I was just joking,” I said to Husband.

“You said I looked like Woody Woodpecker in front of everyone. It got a lot of guffaws.” Then he stuttered something a la Porky Pig.

“See, they thought it was funny, and your talking like Porky Pig not Woody Woodpecker, and I was only talking about your hair, which had a decidedly Woody profile.”

“Still, why would you say that?”

Why would I say that? That is the question Husband often poses to me after something escapes my mouth before he’s stopped talking, during an awkward silence, when I’ve made a wrong assumption, or when I’m just trying to be funny. Sometimes he just looks at me with amazed eyes and I can see those words form in a little thought bubble over his head.

“My mouth just works faster than my brain,” I tell him. That’s my best and only defense.

(Picture Credit: www.drawingtodraw.com)

Managing The Bucket List

Out on Lake Michigan last night, I discovered a new way to manage my bucket list. I have problem with lists. I make them and then think I’ve accomplished the items on the list just because I’ve listed them. So when my friend, Pamela, announced “I have just fulfilled something on my bucket list that I didn’t even realize was on my list,” I took note. Do something and cross it off the list that it wasn’t even on and embrace the sense of accomplishment that comes from the mental check mark that says, “Done.” Now that’s an efficient and winning way to manage a list.

Just in case you’re wondering what Pamela crossed off her list…”listening to the Grateful Dead (via Further:Phil Lesh & Bob Weir) while swimming under the stars!”

“…just keep truckin on.” Grateful Dead

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