anxiety – Jaime Alexis Stathis

‎”People with a psychological need to believe in marvels are no more prejudiced and gullible than people with a psychological need not to believe in marvels.” —Charles Fort

This has been a tough post. I’ve rewritten it multiple times both in my head and on the screen. I could blame my second head cold of the winter (and it’s not even technically winter for another five weeks), or a lot of editing, backspacing, cutting and pasting. And don’t forget control + Z.

I’m thinking about what I wrote last week, about how “We’re all doing the best we can all of the time.” I wrote about how sometimes synchronicity abounds, and how sometimes we feel like we’re banging our heads against a wall. And sometimes the wall hammers back.

I’m also thinking of something a friend said years ago while she was dating a particularly challenging man, “If I expected him to act the way I want him to act I’d be disappointed, so instead I expect him to act that way he acts.” So simple. So complicated. So.

Election day had my nerves in tatters and I counteracted that by announcing on Facebook that I was going to send a big box to Sandy victims back east, and that if anyone in Missoula wanted to contribute I’d box their stuff and ship it. Two days later I had two big bundles delivered to my doorstep, and off to the garage I went to dig out more big boxes.

I picked up a few more generous heaps. I wanted to finish what I’d started, but started to worry about the cost of shipping. I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask, so I got in touch with a friend who works for a shipping company and asked if it would be possible for him to ship my boxes using his discount.

Thank goodness he said yes, because then another friend (who works in a real estate office with over fifty agents) said she’d let her co-workers know about my drive. Woah. My drive? Was this getting too big? When did a collection among a few friends turn into a drive? The only answer I could come up with was: when it needs to.

So, “I said yes! That would be awesome!” Her texts started rolled in letting me know about the big bags people were bringing in and the boxes she was packing and maybe I would need to do two pickups. {woah.}

I turned my living room into sorting/boxing stations and categorized the items. Kids clothes together, cozy sweats and fleeces together, guy stuff together. I packed the boxes tight. I rolled t-shirts and tucked socks into gaps and slid scarves into corners until all the air space was taken up. Then I wrote notes on cheap Snoopy cards, because I’m a sucker for a handwritten note and nobody writes enough anymore. I recently heard about Paperless Post—it’s sure nifty, but in my opinion it lacks the punch of finding something in your mailbox.

I’d been semi-annoying the friend who was going to ship the boxes all week. I wanted to be able to use his discount, but didn’t want to create too much extra work for him yet realized that was inevitable. He was going to have to schlep my boxes to work with him, so I felt obligated to let him know that my “one big box” was now looking to be quite a bit more than that, like maybe four, and asked if there was a limit. This guy is a gem of a human for a multitude of reasons, and he told me “No. No limit. Glad to help.” {I didn’t know yet that I’d be getting an incredibly generous SEVENTY-FIVE percent off.}

Before I went to pick up at the real estate company I had seven(ish) boxes, and my station wagon was not quite half full. As I was getting ready to walk out the door my friend asked, “ Is the boy coming? I have treats….” Lucky ran through the office like he owned the place, got his treats, gave his old buddy a bunch of hugs (he jumped up on her when she asked), then posed with her and the bounty.

Two of the best helpers with some of the boxes. Grateful for heavy-duty tape and a handcart. And those two.

Everything fit in my car, no second trip necessary, which was good because I didn’t want the generous shipper to have to make two trips, but I figured one more box wouldn’t tip the scales. Before the drop-off I went back in my house and got ruthless with my drawers, my closet, and myself.

I found half a dozen pairs of good socks. A scarf. Another hat. Oh no, could I pack that hat? The hat is in great shape, but twenty years old. I brought in on my 1992 post-high school NOLS trip. It’s freezing in the Wind River Range, even in July, and I slept in that hat every night for thirty nights. If I took a “bath” in an above tree line lake with a view of the snow that was its source, that hat was the first thing I put on before drying myself with my “towel,” which on a NOLS trip is a bandana that triples as napkin and snot rag. That hat served me well then, but now? I don’t wear it because it barely covers my ears. It’s a kid’s hat. It was time to give it up. (By the way, I still have the the long underwear top and fleece jacket from that trip. Please, no judging.)

Two Yankees caps hung on my back door hooks. Do I need two? No. The unworn one went in, despite the fact that it was a gift from my Uncle Jimmy who sends me the sweetest care packages filled with pieces of New York.

Jimmy was a NYFD firefighter who became President of the Uniformed Firefighters Association. His son Michael hoped to follow in his father’s footsteps, but boarded Engine 33 at its East Village firehouse in civilian clothes—he was off-duty—the morning of September 11, 2001 and died when the North Tower collapsed. His body was among 244 bodies found intact.

Among the many gifts Uncle Jimmy has sent me, I have a few t-shirts commemorating Michael and his childhood friend David Arce, who he worked and died with. In my quest to find things to send to Sandy victims I came across a navy blue t-shirt, too big for me and never worn, with Michael and David’s names on the front and a big, white FDNY on the back.

It was hard to let it go. I never wore the shirt though I enjoyed looking at it, but I wondered if the unearthing of that shirt might make someone’s day the way it had made mine numerous times.

I imagined a pile of meaningless t-shirts on a folding table somewhere in New York or New jersey. I imagined someone just needing something to sleep in. I imagined the possibility that someone who knew Michael or David might find that shirt. The discovery of that shirt might provide a glimmer of hope in a seemingly hopeless situation.

Or maybe they know Jimmy or had heard of him. In addition to his union work for the FDNY, Jimmy also lobbied lawmakers to pass the James Zadroga Act, which provides treatment and compensation for Ground Zero workers. (Daily Blood Boil: Health insurance won’t cover people hurt at work—even in a national crisis such as the attack on the WTC—so this was necessary to help those hurt there.)

And now for the daily non sequitur: New Yorkers are survivors. But we know this.

I ~~didn’t~~ couldn’t stop there.

An old boyfriend gave me a fancy Paul Smith hat and scarf set for Christmas in 2005 (AKA almost seven years ago). I loved it. The bright color blocking, the fine merino wool, the thoughtfulness that he picked something “so me.” I loved that set, but for a variety of reasons rarely wore it. The shape of the hat didn’t quite work with my head, and the unlined Merino irritated my forehead. The scarf was a little stiff. But that’s only part of the story.

I don’t like to be too matchy-matchy (this from a former girl who adored the mix-and-matchability of Esprit in the 1980s), and for whatever reason I didn’t want to separate the pieces. When worn together something that was “so me” became exactly it’s opposite.

He’d bought the set at Barney’s, and each piece probably cost close to two hundred dollars. It was shame for it to be unworn, though they did look cute on the shelf in my closet. Truth be told, I tend to “save” my more expensive things and wear the bargains. This is a habit I’m breaking myself of slowly but surely; I understand why I (and other people) do this, but it’s really silly.

It translates into this: I usually have a brand new cashmere sweater on hand to wear on a date (best not to ask when my last proper date was), but I walk around most days in Mossimo. I’d moved that dang scarf and hat into and out of too many houses and storage units to count; into the box it went.

More. I wanted to put more in there but had just a little bit of room. Then I saw the perfect thing: a pair of sterling silver Tiffany hoop earrings. They’d been re-gifted to me ages ago, and I’d been meaning to sell them on eBay. For years. But I hadn’t. Guilt? Hard to say.

I tucked them into their robin egg blue bags then into a wooden, heart shaped box and placed that heart on top of the box before cramming it between my thighs like a Thighmaster and forcing it closed with tape. Done.

There’s a good chance they’ll make someone’s day, and when I almost second-guessed the decision I reminded myself: Some people lost everything. Everything. It was a win-win. I packed some sentimental value into that final box, but also some needless baggage.

There is tremendous sorrow and suffering in the world, and it’s often beyond explanation. And what do I do with the unexplainable? I look for answers in astrology. Rob Brezsny, one of my faves, let me know that November 13^thwas World Kindness Day. (This is fairly irrelevant, but 11/13 also happens to be my half-birthday, and I dare to ask: what kind of thirty eight year old counts half birthdays?)

Brezsny quotes journalist Andy Fraser:

“Scientific research is showing that being kind and compassionate to others is surprisingly good for you. Did you know that when we do something for someone else it activates the same parts of the brain that turn on when we eat a piece of chocolate, receive a reward, or have sex?”

Oh good. That makes sense. But there was another piece to the astrological puzzle this week. Deborah O’Connor, another favorite astrologer who doesn’t have the exposure of Brezsny, emails notes when the moon, planets and stars align in particularly precarious positions. Below is a condensed version of her notes from this week. If you want the complete version email me at jaimestathis@yahoo.com.

The Sun is eclipsed Tuesday afternoon/evening, and many of the other planets are shifting so intensely that you may feel as if you’ve wandered into a carnival and are wondering which wild ride would be the least bumpy. Hang on. This month promises to stay interesting.

We are being shown what we’ve hidden, or are hiding from. This deep work cannot be carried on by your shining intellect. You must trust your instincts on this, allow yourself to believe those feelings you keep trying to shove back into the depths of your chest. Stop that. It can only lead to more self-delusion and confusion.

If you feel anxious, understand the anxiety is only a light flashing in your inner sanctum, asking you to let go of something you think is of great value but which has completed its role now.

Scorpio asks for the naked truth. “Don’t mess with me,” it says. “I promise you will rise back into the warmth of the Sun if only you will drop away from your debilitating old patterns.”

If you cannot hold back the flood of emotion which may fill you today and over the course of the next few weeks, please just let the dam break down. This week it is time to welcome the dark, to build an enormous inner fire, and let go.

Debilitating old patterns. Let the dam break down. Let go of something you think is of great value but which has completed its role. Let go.

Be kind. Be compassionate. Activate that feel good part of your brain.

I’m not always up for a Naked Ladies party. Sometimes I think the dynamic of a group might be too intense, or I don’t have time to go through my closet, or I just don’t feel like subjecting myself—in bra and panties—to trying on what may or may not work in a roomful of other people. You kind of have to be in the mood for that last one.

I prefer going into any dressing room alone, though will occasionally share with a close friend, but only if no other option is available, and have never even liked getting dressed—from my own closet—in front of my boyfriends. I know many women who are not so shy; they’ll take an entire basket full of clothes into a dressing room and be perfectly comfortable with a friend sitting on the floor drinking an iced mocha and commentating on every hem, collar, and waistline. I am not one of those women.

Erma Bombeck was a slapstick columnist and best-selling author who made a career out of finding humor in the mundane. One of her titles speaks for itself All I Know About Animal Behavior I Learned in Loehmann’s Dressing Room. Loehmann’s dressing rooms are legendary in that they are long, open rooms with three-way mirrors lining the walls end to end. There’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to avert your eyes, nothing to do but hope the women around you don’t narrate your experience of trying to make an 80% off designer dress work for you, when you both know it won’t. Some things you need to figure out for yourself and some things are better left unsaid, but in Loehmann’s dressing room all bets are off. Women have even been known to put another woman down not because she looks bad in something, but because they want the item for themselves. It’s cruel. It’s mean. It’s sad. It’s typical.

Girls are inherently mean. In 2004 Mean Girls debuted as a number one hit movie based on the book Queen Bees and Wannabes by Rosalind Wiseman. Adults thought it was hilarious, but teenagers, screenwriter Tina Fey said, “…watch it like a reality show. It’s much too close to their real experiences so they are not exactly guffawing.”

When we are too close to a situation we might not be able to laugh, but from that uncomfortable place we are prime for retaliation. We only know how to be hard on other girls because we’re so hard on ourselves. Boys are mean too, but their aggression manifests on sports field as physical acts of violence, whereas girls are socially obnoxious and engage in bitchery that seems to know no bounds. The door tends to swing both ways, though, and a trendsetter one day might be eating her lunch in the bathroom the next. Self-doubt and insecurity are generally at the root of “mean girl” behavior, but that’s hard to remember when you’re on the receiving end. One woman had such a terrible experience as a sorority girl that, even twenty years later, she was wary of female friendships and avoided dealing with women, “particularly women in packs,” and wrote an article about it for the New York Times, which turned into a book called “The Twisted Sisterhood” that the Associated Press described as “an earnest look at how women might stop turning away from one another.”

It’s not always so bad, or at least it doesn’t have to be. Most of us grow up, and we have the option to natural select the mean girls out of our lives as we bury our own inner mean girls. We learn to be gentler and more forgiving of ourselves, and in turn we can offer the same to others. In the same way that meanness proliferates, so does generosity.

I had a hunch about last week’s party. I had a feeling it was going to be a good one. I knew a few good friends would be there but that the majority of the group would be acquaintances and a couple of people I’d never even seen before and that new friendships would be made because barriers are instantly bulldozed when you have to ask the woman next to you, “Um, I’m stuck; can you help me out of this?”

I wanted to get rid of stuff and didn’t even care if I brought anything home, while other women went with the intention of taking home a mother lode; that’s what makes these events so great. But is that it? Is it just about cleaning out your closet and/or scoring a new, free wardrobe? Nope, not at all.

There were thirty or so women at the party ranging from early twenties to later forties. Some with kids, some practically kids themselves; some with bigger incomes, some with EBT cards in their pocketbooks; some who always buy new things, some who’ve stuck with the same styles for years. The women in this group were polite, thoughtful, and humane, but I didn’t know that yet. I’d heard horror stories of women being aggressive, hoarding treasures, acting like little girls.

We drank wine and snacked on appetizers before the main event. We introduced each other to our friends, and re-introduced ourselves to each other. With so many women there the pile was epic in proportion, and though we were all excited to dig for treasures, we had so much fun connecting on a human level that we almost forgot about why we were there. One friend called another right before the digging commenced and said, “I think you need to get over here…”

My friend Charlotte and I had our eyes on the same pair of barely worn, apricot-colored, basket weave Seychelles, and we almost bonked heads reaching for them when our hostess told us to “Go!” but came up laughing and each holding a shoe. They were on the smaller end of my range and the larger end of hers. She tried them first, “They’re too big; you should have them.” I tried them on and they were a little tight. I considered trying to stretch them out, but have been down that road before. Bursitis? Tendinitis? I did that in high school when I desperately wanted a pair of loafers from Barney’s (not my size but they were on sale…..), and god help me if I haven’t grow out of certain adolescent behaviors, not the least of which is trying to force square pegs into round holes. We both loved the shoes, and it was almost absurd how we wanted the other to have them. We finally agreed that she could add an insole so should take them, and then we were off and digging through the pile with the rest of the ladies.

Clothes flew across the room as we found things we thought would be great on our friends. It didn’t stop at the friends we came with, and we sized up our neighbors, though not in the bad way. The flatter-chested traded with the bigger-boobed. The taller gals passed the shorter pants and skirts to the more petite. The first round of try-ons went back into the pile, which at times seemed bottomless. Every once in a while we turned the thing like a giant compost pile, and eventually the pile evolved into more of a slug shape so more women could have access to it. We were cooperative and conscientious.

A stranger turned to me in a sweatshirt, “What do you think?” “It’s too big,” I said a little tentatively, “And I don’t think it’s your color. Try this one.” She loved it, thanked me, and then we exchanged names. I downright cheered when a woman found a hot dress and a pair of booties that matched perfectly. My excitement overwhelmed her at first, but other people joined in and the next thing you know she was vogue-ing for us all.

We also told each other, “Sorry, but I don’t think I can get this zipper all the way up,” “That jacket doesn’t do you any favors,” and, sometimes just straight up “No.” It’s amazing what you can say if there’s a genuine smile behind it and a complete absence of malice.

The take-home: you can be honest and still be kind. You can share and expect nothing in return, you can understand that giving and receiving are the same, you can love yourself and others. Can this evolved behavior extend beyond naked ladies parties? It sure can. Ladies: let’s do this.

Tag Archives: anxiety

Sentimental Value