Suburban Mom Fears Technology!

I’m thinking about technology and all the ways that I avoid it.

My memories of my youth fondly include: a curly phone cord that I twisted as I talked to a cute boy on the phone, an answering machine that I ran toward while throwing off my coat and books, a clunky and unreliable VCR, listening to the radio while waiting for my favorite song-then diving for the tape recorder when I heard the first few notes, my beloved Sony Walkman used for playing the aforementioned cassette tapes, games that didn’t require software and -get this- a full encyclopedia set on the shelf (for when my parents said, “Look it up”). Coming from this kind of background (I didn’t lay my hands on a computer until my second year of college), technology and I have had a tenuous relationship. I love that I can prop up my I-Pad cookbook-style to follow a recipe, but I miss when you could watch the Sound of Music only once a year, making it’s viewing as sweet as the apple pie that accompanied it’s broadcast on Thanksgiving night.

Education and technology writer Mark Prensky calls people like me “digital immigrants,” struggling to understand and keep up with the new land of computers, video games and the like. My eleven year old is a “digital native,” having been born into this culture of technology. She far surpasses my abilities in digital gaming and we are about neck and neck in computer know-how. Probably tomorrow she will stride past me, creating websites and editing her 5th grade online yearbook with ease. As an immigrant, my sentimentality for the past makes me seem like a dinosaur to her. She still can’t fully grasp that there was no Google when I grew up. It is quite literally beyond her comprehension. And I admit it, it really pisses me off when she confidently shows me how to do something on the computer. I mean, I’m the one who is supposed to know more than her, so WTF?

In suburbia, I can’t help feeling a little judgmental when I see a fellow parent allowing a child to play with a phone or an I-Pad at a restaurant. How many of you have heard or thought, “their brains will turn to mush…” If so, Hanna Rosin’s recent article for the Atlantic called The Touch Screen Generation will go a long way to putting your mind at ease. Brain researchers have concluded that watching television or playing on a tablet will not in fact put your child’s brain to sleep. Their brains remain active and engaged, especially when watching shows like Dora because there are pauses and ways to interact. Of course, there is also controversy that technology deprives your brain of necessary downtime and makes us more prone to distraction. And by the way, if you see me handing my child my phone to entertain them while in line at the post office, well, that is absolutely fucking okay.

There are a host of things that I would like to learn and do using technology:

improve the look and feel of this blog: expand the sidebar, making layout more eye-pleasing etc.
actually uploading and organizing my photos online. For real. I mean it.
using Twitter, Pinterest, Instagram. Like cool people do.
putting my favorite recipes onto my I-Pad, thereby making myself an actual chef.
at work, using my computer instead of my pen for progress notes. Okay, this probably won’t happen.
pingbacks, widgets, #, @, permalinks, CSS, HTML: it’s all fucking Greek to me.

Even my friends who are just five years younger than me are more adept at technology. They can share a photo on Facebook faster than the speed of light! I STILL cannot figure out why I get posts from some people and not from others. I mostly avoid Facebook now, it just seems like too much work. When I was in high school, instead of posting photos, we exchanged actual photos after we went to the photo booth in the mall and got them developed from actual film. Cutting our graduation photos from huge sheets was the shit back then. There were photos that said PROOF on them and you had to wait like a month to get them.

Now, I am fully aware that there is a lot to embrace about technology. My calendar is now fully on my phone and computer which makes my life out and about much easier. Blogging flexes my writing muscle (though I still use a pen and notebook in my writing group). Having fought it initially, texting is hugely fun and effective when you want to chat but are spending time with the family. Because of a three hour time difference, emailing friends and family is often easier than calling.

But…

For me, I worry about a new generation not getting enough time outdoors. About not moving their bodies enough. About technology making decisions for us and not developing our own ability to problem solve. About the energy that comes from simply being with another person being lost. About not getting the quiet and silence in our lives that all humans need. About the loss of community. And selfishly, I worry about getting left behind in a world that is moving so damn fast. And so I resist, pushing against the inevitable when really I should be giving it a big hug.

What is your relationship with technology?

Technology isn’t going anywhere.

Thanks to Barbara Paulsen of Mt. Hood Mama photos. She has been known to stand on tables to get a good shot. I’ve seen her do it.

I know, yet another bastardization of the Keep Calm quote…

Pretty Cool

May1

I'm thinking about being pretty and feeling pretty.

I’m thinking about being pretty, and if that matters.

Next week, I am going on a girl’s trip to a sunny location with some great friends. Stop drooling. Before you get too green with envy, consider that instead of occupying myself with which books I’ll bring or which sundresses I’ll wear, I am instead thinking about how gorgeous my friends are compared to me. I am thinking I am no longer pretty in that singularly youthful way. What does it mean to be pretty? And does it really matter? And does anyone besides me really give a shit whether I am pretty?

Circulating on Facebook recently is a video by Dove. Yes, the beauty bar (apparently NOT soap). In it, female subjects (around my age) are drawn by a forensic artist first as described by themselves and second by someone else who had recently met them. The drawings are of their faces. Without exception, the subjects recounted their own perceived faults and inadequacies. Chubby cheeks. Mousy hair. The other person who was asked to detail the subject’s features was decidedly more focused on the positive aspects of their appearance. Lovely eyes. Shapely cheekbones. In fact, the describers were far more accurate when the artist completed his renderings. (The subject’s faces were occluded from the artist’s view). When the female subjects finally saw the finished product, you could see the heartbreak on their faces. The images were dramatically different. The describers got it right. The subjects got it wrong. Just plain wrong. And then I wondered, am I getting it wrong, too?

Earlier this month, President Obama was praising California attorney general Kamala Harris for being brilliant but in the next sentence, he called her the best looking attorney general in the nation. Whaaa? After an apology brought on rightly by protests, it’s still sobering to consider that women are still being given credit for their good looks on the same level as their accomplishments. It’s bullshit for sure, but it happens all the time. Gordon Patzer PhD, a professor at Roosevelt University in Chicago, runs an institute on physical attractiveness. His website is called Looks Rule. Seriously, it is. He has spent the last 30 years researching why it does matter. Basically, his findings are that attractive people are valued more highly than others. That’s it. On a whole, they’re not happier, more organized, more interesting or smarter. Just more valued. Maybe that’s the reason that all these beautiful people are idolized who really haven’t done anything. Paris Hilton. Kim Kardashian.

They are more likely to have attention lavished on them, such as having others pick up their dropped papers while those less radiant are left to fend for themselves. More attractive candidates get elected. Less attractive students get less attention from professors. It’s no wonder we want to be pretty and attractive. You get to be liked and sought after! You get promotions! You get attention! But then… It’s must be hard to keep up that level of interest after your looks get you in the door. After all, you don’t morph into a different beautiful person every day. You are you. And don’t we all use what we have? Not everyone has supportive parents. Or lots of money. Not everyone is athletically gifted. Or endowed with a high IQ. And you can bet that those things are highly valued too. And also, what happens when your looks fade?

The reward circuits in your brain fire when you gaze upon a person, male or female, with physically attractive features. The subcortical and paralimbic parts of your brain are activated, meaning that this happens without you being aware of it and also that it effects you emotionally. So, as part of human evolution, we are programmed to be drawn to the prettiest of the species. On the whole, men are more influenced by pretty women than the other way around. And women are much more interested in being perceived as attractive. Hmm… So, here in suburbia, do pretty women have more friends? Not that I have seen. Do they have better jobs, better husbands? Sometimes, but not anywhere near statistically significant. Do they seem happier? Maybe. Do they have less worries? Definitely not.

One of my daughter’s friends asked me recently, would you rather be pretty or cool? I told her I’d like to be pretty cool. She seemed to like that answer. Women rail against the status quo, me too, but we are fighting a biological instinct. Attractiveness is a favorable attribute no matter how you slice it.

But here’s the thing.

I am pretty sometimes. When I go out, when I wear mascara, when I watch my children play, when I go on a hike with my husband. But I am loved all the time.

Have you ever known someone and at first you don’t see them as all that attractive, but as time passes, you find them more and more appealing? As you discover their absolutely infectious laugh, their eyes gleam even more. As you find out you both love Rob Lowe movies, you notice a glow about them. As you are hugged by them in your saddest times, you close your eyes and allow yourself to be surrounded by their beauty. That’s the rub. You can change your biology. You can create a pretty face when initially you didn’t see it. You can even do this for yourself. I just did.

Pretty cool.

I feel pretty, oh so pretty!

Thanks to Barbara Paulsen at Mt. Hood Mama Photos for the pretty photos. She is really pretty, too, by the way.

“Mom, I’m scared.” Yeah, me too.

Apr23

I’m thinking about fear; how it affects what we do, who we are and how we live.

As parents, we are often called upon to allay our children’s fears. Spiders, the dark and blood are common fears among the kid-set. But what about when their fears overlay our own? What about when the things they fear bring about thoughts about what we fear in ourselves and our own lives? When your 8 year old says, “I’m afraid that you might die in a car accident,” is there a little voice in your own head that says, oh my sweet girl, that scares the shit out of me, too.

The things I am scared of now are not the same things I was scared of in my twenties. Then, it was more about worry over getting my heart broken, obtaining a speeding ticket, sleeping through my alarm or getting caught with an open bottle of beer in my car. Now, my fears directly relate to my people. I’m sure yours do, too. Am I doing damage by the way I parent them? Subtext: will they get pregnant at 18 and drop out of college? Am I giving my husband the attention he deserves? Subtext: will he finally get tired of the fact that I put my pajamas on at 7:30 and go have an affair? At this point, all my fears come down to one basic fear: There are people in this world for whom I am responsible. They count on me. I can’t screw this up. It is no longer just about me.

This week has piled fear on top of fear in our country: bombs, jihad, chemical explosions and all manner of anarchy. The footage of those young guys calmly preparing to kill people is disconcerting to say the least. The London marathon, held this past weekend, reportedly had significantly fewer and more jittery spectators in attendance. My daughter, despite her fears, rides in the car with me on a nearly daily basis. So it got me thinking. How do we do it? How do we get past our fears? Of course, there is a fear and subsequent emotional response when we encounter situations which make us afraid. Your lovely amygdala, almond sized in the temporal portion of your brain, mediates the fear response. When you get sweaty palmed, tight lipped and tummy-sick from fear, you have your amygdala to blame. So what keeps this little guy from going into overload? Another structure called the rostrate cingulate tells your amygdala to chill out. In my daughter’s case, having been in the car many times, the rostrate cingulate quells the fears by relying on prior evidence that this car thing is actually pretty safe.

That little gem the amygdala.

And also, there is Brene Brown‘s work which tells us that “faith is a place of mystery, where we find the courage to believe in what we cannot see and the strength to let go of our fear of uncertainty.” According to her research on courage and vulnerability, anything worthwhile we get in life is basically because we put ourselves out there. And being fearful is in direct conflict with being joyful in the world.

Ok, so I get it. Fear is part of life. We rely physiologically on fear to prepare us in case we need to get the hell out of a situation. We need to walk through fear to feel relief and relinquish the idea that we actually have some modicum of control in our lives. I think about people like Woody Allen or author Jonathan Goldstein, who have made careers out of their fretful, some would say neurotic manner. Both are highly successful, but retain a certain level of skepticism and arms-distance from the scarier aspects of life. Then I think about adventure junkies like that rock climber who doesn’t use ropes. Or people who hike by themselves for vast distances without knowing where they are going. We are all part of the same human continuum. After the Boston marathon, we can choose to never do a sponsored race again. We can live in blame. Or we can sign up. And show up. And see what happens.

In suburbia, I have heard people wondering if this is the “new normal.” Worrying about the future of our children. Of our country. I get it. I worry, too. While following the news coverage of the hunt for the suspects, I heard the story of a community in the heart of the lock down. The families gathered in a neighbor’s house, made pancakes, the kids played in the playroom and the adults made inappropriate jokes and speculated on the reasons the suspects did what they did. What an awesome gathering! What a remarkable way to heal. Together. Because really, aren’t we all just a little fucking over being afraid?

So, yes, my 8 year old is afraid. She frets. She worries. But I admire her deeply. She tells me what scares her. She trusts me listen, help and most importantly, not judge. With such unabashed honesty, her giant pooling eyes well with tears. But she is so smart. She knows she doesn’t have to go it alone, that sharing gives purpose and meaning to things which make no sense. In her fear, she does not blame and she does not get angry. And after we talk and snuggle, she’s better and runs off to play.

We could learn a thing or two from her.

It’s going to be okay.

Thanks to Barbara Paulsen from Mt. Hood MaMa Iphoneography for her beautiful photos. Don’t be afraid to check out some of them.

I confess. I didn’t work out today.

Apr16

I’m thinking about exercise, guilt and time.

I didn’t go to the gym today. My gym shoes lie dormant in the shoe closet, festering in dark silence. My yoga mat sits neatly rolled up in the corner. The pad of my index finger did not sit on a screen to check me into the gym. My dog did not pant gratefully, then flop onto the cool tile after a run. My speedy green road bike hangs on it’s hook, its odometer stuck on the same number from my last ride a few days ago. Still and peaceful in my drawer, my heart rate monitor awaits it’s next challenge. But my brain? Ah, my brain. That’s been going a thousand miles an hour.

The clock now reads 7:47 pm, and I am still thinking about where I could have squeezed in a workout. (Okay, dammit! Not “thinking.” Obsessing.) In the 45 minutes I had before I picked up the kids? Could I have gotten up early? I should have gotten up early. The mental space taken up negotiating, fact checking, brow beating and ass kicking has been a workout in and of itself. I mean, seriously. What a waste of time.

Now, I grew up Catholic and my husband is Jewish so we are no strangers to guilt around here. But my fellow suburbanites also carry around a fair bit of guilt themselves. They work too much. They don’t exercise enough. They don’t make enough money. They should be more crafty, more creative. More interesting. Less critical. More kind. More productive. They should take more classes, go back to work. (I swear to you all overheard in one happy hour). There are multiple structures in your brain which are responsible for how you perceive and process guilt. What motivates one person is different than what motivates another, but we are all profoundly and universally influenced by community. This means that if your friends and community didn’t exercise, it would be a hell of a lot easier to hit the snooze button rather than get up and go to the gym. Conversely, this is often why groups like Crossfit and for me, my yoga community, are intrinsic motivators. You think about who you will see and who will miss you if you don’t show up.

In suburbia, if you see other people making good money, working out/looking fit, having good marriages and managing their time wisely, you want to do it too. It’s a testament to my social network and neighborhood that there are some pretty hot 40 somethings (with great lives to boot). So that’s probably why I feel bad when I miss a workout.

Personal blame, like when you are a lazy ass and don’t work out and beat yourself up for it, is mitigated in the subgenual cingulate cortex by the limbic (primitive and emotional) region of the brain. These layers of emotion, blame and guilt make for some very busy collaborations. It also makes sense to me, given all the stuff your cranium is processing, that you would be exhausted. At this point, you should do yourself a favor. You should, as my grandma used to say, shit or get off the pot. For me, I should either not work out and chalk it up as a rest day or I should just go work out and be done with it. Today, I am choosing to call it a night. And I’ll tell you why.

First of all, it was a great day. Beginning with a fun field trip with my 8 year old daughter, followed by getting some errands done, doing some writing, talking with a friend and ending with some real magic, it’s okay that my day didn’t include breaking a sweat. Also, rest days help the following day to be stronger and better. Maybe it will help that nagging knee pain I’ve been experiencing. Maybe I’ll tackle an 8 or 10 miler tomorrow with my pup. And you know what else? There is SO MUCH more time in the day when you don’t work out! I got my paperwork organized for work tomorrow, got my daughter to swim lessons on time, grudgingly mailed the taxes my hubby thoughtfully prepared, wrote a note to my sister-in-law and did some yard work.

As for the magic, the picture below was a rainbow we saw right out my front window tonight. We would never have even known it was there if my neighbor hadn’t called to tell us to look out our window. Thank you, neighbor.

Thank you, community.

No more guilt for me.

Now that’s a little suburban magic right there.

Thanks again to Barbara Paulsen for the image at the top of this post. She continues to inspire me with her creativity.

Spring-Break that Habit

Apr9

I’m thinking about habits, good and bad.

What makes a bad habit? I mean, some people (probably most people) are perfectly okay with their coffee habit. Some mornings, I just have to think about my hands wrapped around the warm cup, the familiar smokey-brown smell, the resulting jolt, and I am compelled to get out of bed. I guess I am in the okay-with-it camp. But I know a couple cups are my limit. After that, I get jittery, irritable and snippy. I can see why lots of folks may think it is not good for them. But Jillian Michaels (yes Biggest Loser trainer) advocates small amounts of caffeine (in whichever form you desire) for the benefits of appetite suppression, boosting calorie burn and even it’s antioxidants. Who knew!

This past week was Spring Break, and we flew for a little mini-family reunion in San Francisco. During that time, and every time I am on vacation, I am aware of how we all have to relearn little things that we take for granted in our own homes. Where the hell is the light switch? How do you work the microwave? How do we get from point A to point B? And the most mind blowing, where are we going to eat? (The making of this decision is particularly painful. There are literally thousands of amazing restaurants, how do you choose one? And all ten of you agree on it?) Some people just roll with these little difficulties, others are more anxious. But it’s all just part of being in a new place.

And also, you know that feeling after vacation, no matter how great it was, when you wake up snuggled in your own bed and you are just really comfy-cozy? Why is that? I have stayed in some really amazing places, but, Dorothy was right. There’s no place like home. Why? Author and New York Times columnist Charles Duhigg wrote a book about this very phenomenon. It’s called habit. And you have lots of them. Me too.

Inside your brain is a tiny structure called the basal ganglia which really loves being on autopilot. I mean, think about all the things your brain has to think about. You can’t, because your basal ganglia protects you from being overwhelmed by relearning the mundane things you have to do every day like find your underwear drawer and shave your armpits. As Duhigg says, this is the reason why you can get up in the morning, shower, go to work and find yourself not even knowing how you got there. Your brain, brilliant little pile of mush that it is, has put you on a trajectory of familiar actions so seamlessly that you don’t even know it’s happening. And also so you don’t go insane.

Wow.

Okay, so then you go on vacation. And you have to relearn everything. But, as Duhigg states, it’s the perfect time to break a habit. So, there I am in San Francisco, going about my business. Riding in boats. Visiting closed penitentiaries. Walking the Golden Gate. And all of a sudden, I realize I haven’t had any diet soda. Not ground-breaking I know. But drinking diet soda is a bad habit that I have been trying to break for some time now. It’s full of chemicals and nasty stuff but I can’t seem to shake it. It’s just so fizzily good. But I hadn’t had any in 5 days and didn’t even realize it. Now I’m home and still haven’t had any thanks to Duhigg’s insights.

But what about things that really matter like parenting and building your marriage? Yep, vacation can help those things too. Duhigg says you establish habits in a cue, behavior reward continuum. So first a cue is established, then you establish a behavior to deal with it and then you receive a reward. (Like first hunger, then you eat and then you feel satisfied). But in our relationships, those habits can lead to people feeling bad or to making assumptions which aren’t true. Like on vacation, I realized that I wasn’t giving my husband credit or complimenting him in front of his family. Then I realized I don’t do that enough at home. So from now on, I am going to search for cues to give more compliments. Because who doesn’t love a compliment?

Fast forward through that vacation, all those great memories, photos, laughs and fun, to that moment when you wake up on your own pillow. The reason, Dorothy, that it feels so damn good is that your brain gets a rest from all that planning, negotiating, problem solving and relearning. Now the work is to kick that bad habit to the curb once and for all. To not go on autopilot.

What’s your bad habit?

Gotta go. These aren’t going to unpack themselves.

Thanks Barbara Paulsen for the coffee mug image. It makes me feel all cozy.

Modern Martyrdom, or, Getting to Gratitude

Mar25

I’m thinking about respect. And gratitude.

Having just made macaroni and cheese for my daughter and her friend, my husband quickly cued both girls to tell me “thank you” on their way back down to the playroom. I didn’t even think about eliciting that phrase, I was already onto making dinner in the crock pot. But he was right. That’s the thing about “thank you.” It never gets old.

Standing in our kitchen, he mentioned the often heard refrain that manners are a lost art. But he made it personal when he said we (meaning me and and all my friends) are accustomed to going the extra mile for our kids and other important people in our lives. But do we expect thanks and gratitude? Do we expect respect? Or do we assume, as I did with my own mom, that thanks will come after they have their own kids and realize how hard this shit actually can be? His assertion is that we do so much for our kids that our parent’s generation did not do. Maybe we even overdo it. And that all that work deserves some respect.

But here’s the rub. My husband doesn’t always thank me for everything I do for him. I don’t thank him every day when he comes home from work for being such a great provider. Should I? Isn’t a sincere “thank you” more potent when it comes less often?

Still, I don’t think my husband views some of the work I do in the same way that I view it. Really and truly, I enjoy taking them to soccer and swimming. I like watching them play. Maybe I enjoy the hour to myself in the car during a rainy practice when I can flip through a magazine without being close enough to a computer or stove or washing machine to dive into my work and chores. It’s also fun to drive them (and their friends) and hear their magical conversations, their fleeting and childlike views of the world. Quietly, with my hands on the wheel but my ears in the backseat, I get a small piece of insight into the huge slice of life they are living outside my home. Making meals, folding laundry, restocking outgrown clothing and combing a knot out of their hair all feel like mini-expressions of love. So it feels almost disingenuous to expect a thank you for something that makes me feel so satisfied.

Does that make me a martyr? Let’s consider the definition: ” a person who sacrifices something of great value and especially life itself for the sake of principle.” Well, maybe. It doesn’t always feel like such a sacrifice. But sometimes, yes, it does.

Like when I brought my daughter her lunch after she left it at home, only for her to say that it was pizza that day for hot lunch and she’d rather have that anyway. Now that is the moment where you would like some respect, please. (Which is what I asked for and did receive, by the way). But this goes for all people. Not just your little ones. My neighbor recently headed up the auction for our kids’ school and exceeded everyone’s expectations for the amount of money she could raise and how much fun the attendees could have. This deserves sincere thanks and respect from everyone involved. And respect for the resourcefulness involved in such a huge undertaking. My husband greased the chain on my road bike and replaced my old pedals with pedals to go with my new bike shoes. A huge thank you to him! And respect that he is so handy with bikes. The guy at the coffee shop makes an extra special latte which you truly appreciate. You let him know his skill does not go unnoticed.

Where we are coming from as parents however is probably more along the lines of not wanting your child to be an ungrateful, whiny spoiled little pain in the butt. Have you ever had one of those little gems over your house? Do you find yourself saying, “I hope you don’t act that way when you are over your friends’ houses.” In suburbia this week, there have been many witnessed scenes where a child was seeming to expect their parents to jump to their requests without any thanks required. Demands for toys at Target. Yelling at parents to hurry up. Hot cocoa grabbed from parent’s hands at Starbucks. I find it hard to believe these same kids said thanks when they were given what was asked.

How does one teach gratitude anyway? And respect for that matter? It seems impossible. But at first it’s just rote. You say thank you, every time. You write thank you notes, every time. In our family, we make a paper gratitude chain that we string around the Christmas tree. On each link, a daily remembrance of something you appreciated. When I am bitchy or aloof, I try to apologize to my kids and husband. This shows them that I respect the fact that my actions affect them. A small gesture, but it is enough. Grandiose gestures of thanks are not required. Every day in every way, little eyes are watching us. They see us. So does the community.

By the way, thank you for reading!

Thanks again to Barbara Paulsen for the lovely image at the top of this post. Mt. Hood MaMa Iphoneography.

Keeping up with the Joneses in Suburbia

Mar18

Hell, yes, we are still trying to keep up with the Joneses.

That damn Jones family! Why do they have to have everything? Be so rich and desirable? Why is their prosperity simultaneously my misery? Here in suburbia, the Joneses remain the ever elusive ideal and we continue to chase them. Their beautiful new car, their well manicured lawn, their Harvard-bound children and their fabulous dinner parties. And you know what? You will never ever be the Joneses. It’s time to get off that bus.

“Keeping up with the Joneses” was in fact a comic strip created by “Pop” Momand circa 1920′s America. It was a parody of American life which depicted the petty jealousies of neighbors to the Jones family, who are mentioned but never actually seen in the strip. This is fascinating because the idea of the Joneses really is an illusion to all of us. This was made clear over the past couple months in which a number of our friends picked up and moved, mostly to bigger and better places. Isn’t that how it always happens, after all? My husband and I, after viewing these spectacular new houses, sat down in our kitchen and thought, hmm… Maybe we should move.

Right there. That’s where it starts. They have a hot tub. Don’t we need a hot tub? They have a gazillion square feet. Don’t we need a gazillion square feet? Never mind that we are completely fine in our 1950′s fixer upper and that before this we hadn’t had a moment of dissatisfaction (well maybe a couple but nothing move-worthy). Plus, our house is paid off, why would we do that? One simple reason. Those fucking Joneses.

Dave Goetz’s noteworthy book “Death by Suburb” addresses this topic in a novel way. He calls various ideals of suburban culture “toxins” and offers “practices” to guide sane living in the ‘burbs. Goetz talks about leading a “thicker” life, letting go of expectations and relying on faith. While I did not read the book for it’s faith and church principles, it does have meaning for suburbanites in and out of faith communities. In Brene Brown’s amazing book “Daring Greatly,” she also talks about how there is a culture of what she calls scarcity, meaning we feel like we can never have enough. We always want more, and are left feeling culturally and personally inadequate if we don’t.

Now, not everyone feels this way. There are folks like my friend Barbara who don’t seem ride the Jones bus. But most of us do. In any event, Goetz gives us some suggestions for relief from the rat race. Instead of seeing yourself as your job or even your stereotype, try to see goodness in the world. Instead of wanting your neighbor’s life, he suggests budgeting time to “hang with the poor and broken.” Instead of thinking that life should be as easy as it is for the Joneses, he suggests we just quit fighting a war that is not winnable. Both Brown and Goetz suggest silence and gratitude as daily practices to stop “jonesing” for the next purchase. The next high.

When you do begin accumulating all this stuff, what are you supposed to do with it all, anyway? I recently have been going on a donation blitz, collecting stuff in large bags and toting it to the appropriate drop off site. This feels good. And moving, after all, is one giant purge. There is also something so attractive about the simple life, the pared down existence. Getting rid of excess. Being free of material goods. Letting go of consumerism. But then, living the thicker life also means not feeling green with envy when that Jones kid gets the lead part in the school play. And when Mrs. Jones always seems calm and together. And how they always seem to make time to have a beautiful yard and a devoted relationship.

Oh, and there we go again. Your brain just went to that place. Actually, there really is a place in your brain that processes jealousy, and it’s the same place ironically that processes pain. This may explain why it felt like a dagger when your high school boyfriend cheated on you. It’s called the ventral striatum and it sits in your prefrontal lobe. So, as many discoveries in behavioral neuroscience, you can take comfort that it’s your brain causing you to behave this way. Because the Joneses aren’t going anywhere. Even if you move.

An so ultimately, we decided not to move. We are happy where we are. No, it’s not the biggest or newest house on the block. The floors creak and it’s on a steep hill. At the risk of following the above advice, we are lucky to have this old house, even with it’s quirks and it’s imperfections. It has been here to come home to through the births of two children, through new jobs and new pets. Through acquisitions and donations alike. And plus, moving is a lot of work.

What about you?

So there.

Keeping up with the Joneses strip from Pop Momand, 1921.

Above image from findingthevoicewithin.blogspot.com.

suburbotypes

Finding the truth within suburbia

Suburban Mom Fears Technology!

Modern Martyrdom, or, Getting to Gratitude

Keeping up with the Joneses in Suburbia

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