Life is not a Zero-Sum Game.

I have to work to remind myself that life is not a zero-sum game. Just because someone I know is successful in something I want to be successful in, doesn’t mean I can’t be successful in that same thing. If something bad happens to someone else’s family, it doesn’t mean my family is exempt from a similar fate. I tend to feel threatened and envious when I hear about people — especially people I know — accomplishing things I’d like to accomplish. On some level, I believe this diminishes the probability of me accomplishing the things I really want, as much as I hate to admit it. I really hate this about myself. 

On an intellectual level I understand that life is not a zero-sum game, but emotionally, I have a hard time truly grasping the idea that there is no exact balance of gains and losses between people and between situations. Someone else’s success is not my failure, and someone’s loss is not my gain. This way of thinking often hinders my ability to be happy for people (unless their success is in a field I have no interest in), and I need to reign in this pettiness. What does it say about me that I have a tendency to feel this way? That I don’t believe in myself? That I don’t trust myself? That I have a weak sense of self? I want to be better than this; I don’t want my daughter to think this way. 

Public Library.

I love the public library system. I don’t get to my local library as much as I’d like to, but I take advantage of their services quite a lot: Audible books, Kindle loans, book holds. I’m even going to try some of the library book clubs this month.

Today I went in with my three month old daughter to pick up some books I had on hold for a book club, and I felt so happy. It was mid afternoon, Sunday, and the library was completely full, mostly with people of color. My first thought was “Take a look at this, Trump!”

Anyway, I hope that one day my daughter will love books and libraries as much as I do, and we can spend several hours at a time browsing the children’s shelves, picking out books and participating in story-times. Books have been one of the greatest joys of my life, and I’m excited to share this with my daughter.

Grocery Shopping.

I love grocery shopping. Because it’s my favorite chore, I’ve assigned it to myself.

I especially love grocery shopping on early Saturday mornings, before the crowds are out. I like stores like Wegmans, Trader Joe’s and Mom’s, stores where everything seems so artfully and thoughtfully laid out. These stores are mostly financially out of my league, but I allow myself the pleasure every now and again. I make up for it by shopping at Aldi most of the time.

This morning I went to Wegmans, about a mile from my house. I left the baby with my mom and spent about an hour perusing the produce, bread and fresh meats aisles. I spent more than I had to, and I ordered a small decaf cappuccino even though I’d just had a coffee at home.  I bought a small piece of wild-caught cod (not very ocean-friendly, I know), which was almost prohibitively expensive. But I convinced myself we deserve fresh fish. I bought eggs and ready made salad, Icelandic individual yogurts, individual fruits, fresh asparagus and several different types of bread.

Grocery shopping is such a solo joy to me.

Husbands and Wives.

I was thinking how easy it is for a marriage to stagnate. Before, I’d leave my husband loving notes and send him random texts throughout the day letting him know I was thinking of him. A couple of years ago, we moved in with my parents and then, a few months back, we had a baby. I rarely leave him notes anymore, unless it’s asking him (or reminding him) to do something. And all of our text messages have to do with baby updates now. Did she drink her bottle? How many ounces? Is she crying? Has she been burped? How long was her nap?

I can imagine that things can just continue in this vein for years, until it’s hard to remember there was ever romance and excitement, and your loving marriage becomes more like a comfortable business partnership. I don’t want this to happen. I want to have a more affectionate marriage than my parents have. I don’t mean to say my parents have a bad marriage. They married young and have remained married for almost 40 years, always with a degree of respect and comfort between them. That’s an accomplishment. But growing up, I never felt my parents were in love. I would like for my daughter to have two parents who seem (who are!) in love, who freely show affection towards each other. I’d like her to have this as an example when she pursues relationships of her own. Right now, I still remember the giddy early days of our relationship. It seems like I’m at a point, right now, were there’s still time to recapture some of that, to make an effort.  My personality tends towards complacency, so I constantly have to remind myself to make an effort, in all aspects of my life.

 

Having it all. I don’t know if that’s even possible. The daily minutiae, the dozens of small tasks and chores it takes to get through a day — it leaves me with little energy when I get home after an almost 11-hour day.  I work full time, go to school part-time, have a baby, a husband. This is not unique. We all have a hundred different roles, a thousand different responsibilities. And because I have a strong introverted, independent streak, I yearn for time to read, to walk, to be alone. Giving up that alone time almost seems like giving up a part of myself. But something’s got to give, I guess, and priorities need to be established.

I’ve always felt I think too much and act too little.

Trees

Tree

I think about trees a lot. Or maybe not a lot. It’s more like I never noticed them at all, and then, a few years ago, I suddenly started noticing them all the time: Planted in deliberate ways in neighborhoods and along secondary roads, growing wildly in parks and forests; dying, thriving, peeling, blooming, balding; ugly, pretty, fat, skinny, short, tall, scrawny, stately. You can tell how old a neighborhood is by how big the trees are. The trees in my neighborhood are taller than the houses now, and this means my suburb is “established” and “mature,” real-estate terms meant to sell old houses to people who want character but can’t afford — or can’t stand — city living.

It’s been one of the hottest and muggiest summers in recent memory, but it’s also been unusually rainy, so the trees and flowers are hanging on. Usually the cheaper oaks and maples are drying out and turning brown by now, but everything is still resplendently green despite the heat. I think that means it’s going to be a really nice autumn.

Anyway, my favorite tree is the willow oak, which grows straight and tall. The individual leaves are small and delicate, but its foliage is pleasingly full. It is a good, solid tree. A noble tree, a tree with dignity. I like sugar maples too, because I think they are the most beautiful in fall, and because one time in upstate New York, I ate syrup tapped from a relative’s sugar maple, and I thought that was pretty cool. But you don’t see them in big quantities this far south. I like dogwoods when they’re blooming — such dainty, elegant trees in their blooming state — but they are otherwise unremarkable to me. I love that myrtles bloom through late summer, and I love seeing their pink, purple or white petals pool around their waxy trunks. But I really don’t like how they look with their tops chopped off (as apparently must be done because they grow so quickly and recklessly).

I don’t like holly trees or silver maples and I hate white pine. I hate how white pine takes over and kills everything in its shadow, and I really wish subdivisions would stop planting them. Its only virtue is that it grows fast, but it usually grows leaning precipitously to one side or halfway dried out.  It’s rare to see a good-looking white pine.

That is all. My thoughts on trees.

Baby Slept Through The Night For the First Time.

Last night, my three-month old baby slept through the night for the first time, 10 p.m. to 5:45 a.m. And when she woke up this morning, she had almost 6 oz of milk. This makes me so happy. Right now, she is napping in her vibrating chair, in her yellow African safari pajamas. Isn’t it great that when they are this young, you can dress them any way you please?

I just finished by breakfast of cinnamon raisin toast, a slice of avocado, a fried egg and coffee. I don’t really like coffee that much, but it’s such a part of the global morning routine that I’ve incorporated it as a staple of my daily breakfast.

Commuting.

One thing I like about commuting is that I feel like I’m part of a big awful something.

Is that sad? Maybe it is. You see, I’m not much of a joiner. Well, that’s not exactly true. I’m a big time joiner, but an even bigger time quitter. I like the idea of groups, of belonging, of community. I really do. It’s just that my introverted, indecisive soul rebels against commitment and camaraderie.

But anyway. Commuting lets me feel like I’m part of something without officially being part of something. There’s something so tedious, so infuriating, so prosaic and yet so communal about hitting the road at rush hour and traveling 10 miles an hour until you finally (finally!) reach your destination. I can’t help but feel happy and full of hope during my morning commute. I am a part of this big, angry, soul-crushed crowd of suburban commuters. We have something in common.

Every weekday, before and after work, I turn on my 2005 Subaru Legacy, put on my sunglasses, press play on my audiobook and take deep breaths at every red light and inexplicable slowdown. It’s really something.