Today I'm going to be on the local NPR radio! My "I Believe in Flair" blog won a contest, and so I get to read the entry about Michael Jackson on the air. I'm wearing my pearls. My student today reminded me that it's radio, not television, so it won't matter how I look. But still, I put on the pearls. Besides, I'll know how I'll look.
I'm going to be on the radio! I'm going to use one more exclamation point.
Here: !
Excitement manifests as exclamation points in my world. Some might say I'm a walking exclamation point.
My daughter's the same way. I woke up to her asking why the other neighborhood kids' Easter Bunny hides their Easter baskets. She wanted a hidden Easter Basket, with clues, on Easter morning. She was gesturing with her hands and reenacting the hunt she'd go on to find her basket. She suggested that I write a kind note to the Easter Bunny to explain the new hiding-the-Easter-basket ritual. I agreed.
"And mom," she said hurriedly, "make sure you use lots of exclamation points."
"Why?" I asked, rubbing my eyes and trying to shake off a nightmare I had about my high school.
"Because then the Easter Bunny knows how important this is. He will know how much you care about this."
I thought about how right she is. Exclamation points do signal excitement, passion, flair. In academic writing, we never use them. In fact, my grammar book on writing with flair doesn't even mention them. It's almost as if the exclamation point drains out of us as we age. We lose things to be passionate about (perhaps because it's not sophisticated to be enthusiastic). Sometimes I ask students to make a list of 5 things worth arguing for. Since they have to write rebuttal essays, I encourage them to pick topics that really move them. We are all surprised with how hard this task is. We've lost some flair and replaced it with apathy.
Most children exude passion naturally. They learn apathy. On the walk to school, I've witnessed some serious throw-downs about which website ranks higher (Club Penguin, Poptropica, or Webkinz). I see kids willing to go to the grave about whether or not it's pizza or bagels for school lunch. I've seen them literally not stop talking for 20 minutes about Legos or Star Wars.
I want to be able to talk about things, with passion, like that.
Living with flair means I encourage the exclamation point. I draw out the passion in others; I ignite it in myself. So I'm really excited to go to the radio station! Did I mention I'm wearing my pearls?
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Doing the Thing I Don't Want to Do
I did something I hate today. But the not-flair morphed into the flair. Let me explain.
Several things tempted to destroy flair possibility today: cleaning dishes, dressing reluctant children, driving to the gym to meet my nemesis (the arc trainer machine), and figuring out what to make for dinner. I don't enjoy these things. Couldn't I just do what I want to do today? My impulse tells me to sit on the couch all day, eat chocolate bunnies (have you tried the peanut butter ones?), and play Ms. Pacman.
But I remembered something a wise doctor once told me. You can tame the part of the brain that demands its own way. You don't have to respond to your impulses. Neuroscience suggests that if we practice doing something we don't want to do everyday, we can essentially diminish the power of the brain's pleasure center. We actually feel better, over time, when we do this. By starting with small decisions to do one thing I didn't want to do, I could gradually become less impulse-driven.
Everyday, I can embrace some not-flair. I could make the bed when I don't want to. I could do some push-ups. I could scrub a toilet. And in that genius irony that is most of life, the thing I hate could become a source of energy and pleasure. Funny, that brain.
Runners know this. My sister runs miles before I'm even awake; she can run for an hour while I eat at the same pace. That's some flair (I mean the running, not my eating). My sister always understood the mind game of running. Sure, the body resists. Sure, you don't want to do it. But then you choose to tie your shoes, greet the day, and run around the block. And before too long, you experience, ironically, pleasure beyond pleasure.
Today I chose to exercise on "the beast." The arc trainer terrifies me. If you've never been on one, it's an improved, more demanding version of an elliptical machine. 30 minutes on the arc trainer, and I think I'm going to die. I start mentally planning my funeral. I start writing out my will. But today, I remember my doctor's words. Do one thing you don't want to do. Suddenly, I'm happy and full of energy. I finish the workout by saying "no" to the impulse to get the heck off that machine and run far, far away from that gym, never to return.
Living with flair today means I do some things I don't want to do. And I enjoy them because I recognize the value in being less impulse-driven. I know that scrubbing my toilet can be flair. . . if I choose for it to be.
Several things tempted to destroy flair possibility today: cleaning dishes, dressing reluctant children, driving to the gym to meet my nemesis (the arc trainer machine), and figuring out what to make for dinner. I don't enjoy these things. Couldn't I just do what I want to do today? My impulse tells me to sit on the couch all day, eat chocolate bunnies (have you tried the peanut butter ones?), and play Ms. Pacman.
But I remembered something a wise doctor once told me. You can tame the part of the brain that demands its own way. You don't have to respond to your impulses. Neuroscience suggests that if we practice doing something we don't want to do everyday, we can essentially diminish the power of the brain's pleasure center. We actually feel better, over time, when we do this. By starting with small decisions to do one thing I didn't want to do, I could gradually become less impulse-driven.
Everyday, I can embrace some not-flair. I could make the bed when I don't want to. I could do some push-ups. I could scrub a toilet. And in that genius irony that is most of life, the thing I hate could become a source of energy and pleasure. Funny, that brain.
Runners know this. My sister runs miles before I'm even awake; she can run for an hour while I eat at the same pace. That's some flair (I mean the running, not my eating). My sister always understood the mind game of running. Sure, the body resists. Sure, you don't want to do it. But then you choose to tie your shoes, greet the day, and run around the block. And before too long, you experience, ironically, pleasure beyond pleasure.
Today I chose to exercise on "the beast." The arc trainer terrifies me. If you've never been on one, it's an improved, more demanding version of an elliptical machine. 30 minutes on the arc trainer, and I think I'm going to die. I start mentally planning my funeral. I start writing out my will. But today, I remember my doctor's words. Do one thing you don't want to do. Suddenly, I'm happy and full of energy. I finish the workout by saying "no" to the impulse to get the heck off that machine and run far, far away from that gym, never to return.
Living with flair today means I do some things I don't want to do. And I enjoy them because I recognize the value in being less impulse-driven. I know that scrubbing my toilet can be flair. . . if I choose for it to be.
Monday, March 29, 2010
15 Minutes of Flair
So far, finding daily flair hasn't been too hard (thank you Michael Jackson, seashells, doughnuts, crab teething rings, and worms), but today seemed profoundly flairless. I walked to school, taught classes, held office hours. All good things, but nothing extraordinary stood out. I did see someone wearing the brightest blue shirt I've ever seen--it was practically glowing--and I thought about stopping him, taking a picture, and asking if he minded appearing in my flair blog.
But then, my cell phone rang. My husband was picking me up from campus, and he'd be 15 minutes late. I stood on the curb, wondering what in the world I could do with 15 minutes. What can anyone do with just 15 minutes? It's exactly the sort of time increment worth wasting away doing absolutely nothing.
Instead, I called my friend (I knew her office was across the street from the coffee shop).
"Hey," I said.
"Hey," she said.
"I have 15 minutes," I said.
"Where are you?" she asked.
"By the coffee shop," I said.
"I'm coming," she said.
For exactly 15 minutes, I drank a skinny mocha (I put that in just in case my Weight Watchers friends are reading), sat outside of the coffee shop, and had a wonderful conversation. In 15 minutes, we covered the topics of men, teaching, clothing accessories, children, procrastination, spirituality, over-committing, class presentations, sandwiches, and, finally, my husband's new glasses.
This friend knows how to create conversation flair. She knows the art of asking great questions to draw me out quickly. I've noticed that she asks about my day, but she'll do so in a way that encourages me to tell a story about it. She'll say, "tell, me more," or "what was that like for you," or "what is that making you think about?". She'll mention things she's observing about my life by saying, "I noticed this about your daughters," or "you seem to really enjoy this about teaching." And then I ask questions and make observations of her in return. We laughed together, expressed sadness with each other, and most of all, celebrated our day. We talked deeply, with flair, for 15 minutes, exchanged a quick hug, and then I was off to deal with groceries, grading, play dates, and laundry.
Living with flair means I turn any moment into a worthwhile one. It means spending time building relationships through meaningful conversation whether I have 15 minutes or 15 hours. Deliberate questions, connecting deeply. That's flair.
But then, my cell phone rang. My husband was picking me up from campus, and he'd be 15 minutes late. I stood on the curb, wondering what in the world I could do with 15 minutes. What can anyone do with just 15 minutes? It's exactly the sort of time increment worth wasting away doing absolutely nothing.
Instead, I called my friend (I knew her office was across the street from the coffee shop).
"Hey," I said.
"Hey," she said.
"I have 15 minutes," I said.
"Where are you?" she asked.
"By the coffee shop," I said.
"I'm coming," she said.
For exactly 15 minutes, I drank a skinny mocha (I put that in just in case my Weight Watchers friends are reading), sat outside of the coffee shop, and had a wonderful conversation. In 15 minutes, we covered the topics of men, teaching, clothing accessories, children, procrastination, spirituality, over-committing, class presentations, sandwiches, and, finally, my husband's new glasses.
This friend knows how to create conversation flair. She knows the art of asking great questions to draw me out quickly. I've noticed that she asks about my day, but she'll do so in a way that encourages me to tell a story about it. She'll say, "tell, me more," or "what was that like for you," or "what is that making you think about?". She'll mention things she's observing about my life by saying, "I noticed this about your daughters," or "you seem to really enjoy this about teaching." And then I ask questions and make observations of her in return. We laughed together, expressed sadness with each other, and most of all, celebrated our day. We talked deeply, with flair, for 15 minutes, exchanged a quick hug, and then I was off to deal with groceries, grading, play dates, and laundry.
Living with flair means I turn any moment into a worthwhile one. It means spending time building relationships through meaningful conversation whether I have 15 minutes or 15 hours. Deliberate questions, connecting deeply. That's flair.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)