The Countdown

In the wee hours of December 16th, it occurs to me that my wedding is now less than two weeks away.  In 13 days, 12 hours, and 15 minutes (less by the time I finish writing this), I will be standing under the  chuppah with at least three rabbis and the man who will be my husband.

For as momentous an occasion as this is, the weeks leading up to it have their own events and related stress.  Today I performed in a Brooklyn Symphony Orchestra concert.  This week I have three nights of elementary school concerts, then we're flying back to the Midwest for a week with our families and some last minute wedding prep.  With everything else going on it's almost hard to remember how big of a deal this really is.

13 days, 12 hours, 9 minutes.

I've already told a handful of classes at school that when we return from our winter break in January they will be calling me by a new name.  The youngest ones are excitedly trying out the new name, seeing how it feels on their tongue and proving to themselves they can remember what I've told them.  The older students - girls in particular - understand what the name change means and have also started calling me by the name I won't officially use for another 13 days, 12 hours, and 30 minutes (or so). It makes me smile every time.

I can't really figure out why I'm writing this at...[checking clock]...1:06 in the morning.  Maybe it's just a way of telling myself that there's a reason I can't fall asleep.  Or maybe I'm just awake enough to be thinking of everything that has to get done but too tired to coherently do anything about it.  Whatever the case, the fact remains:

I'm getting married.

This is happening.

13 days, 12 hours.

The Optimism Challenge

A few weeks ago I found myself in the stressful and emotionally tumultuous trifecta that is school concert preparation, wedding planning, and not seeing enough of my fiance.  It seemed that everything had to be done right now! and if I couldn't get it done then surely entropy would ensue and the world would be over as we know it. Such stress was not uncommon for me, but this time it manifested itself in a single sentence, repeated mantra-like every time I stepped on the train, crossed unnoticed through bustling crowds, or dealt with indifferent and outright rude sales clerks:  I hate New York.

Most of my life has been regularly punctuated by these moments of severe stress nestled uncomfortably between moments of slightly less severe stress.  In fact, I distinctly remember a moment in elementary school (5th grade, to be precise) when I found myself stressed and unable to fall asleep well past midnight, trying to convince my parents that maybe I should call my classroom teacher so she could assuage my fears about whatever homework assignment or project was at hand.

I was a special child.

I was also never good at transitions.  The first year of junior high, freshman year of high school, and freshman year of college all featured extreme emotional instability that made it hard for me to cope with anything life had to offer.  I am forever indebted to the people who were closest to me during those years, and I suspect karma will make me pay for that some day.  Big time.

I always strove for success, though, and my need to be a scholastic perfectionist was only strengthened during my periods of self doubt.  I suppose I figured that if I could do well in school, it would be proof for everyone else that at least some of my stress was valid.  "See?" I could say to my parents, "I worked like crazy to get that A!  And if I hadn't worked that hard I definitely would've gotten an A-."

Like I said: special.

So with this insight into my neurotic need for perfection and my utter inability to manage major changes in my life, it is no surprise that from the moment I moved to New York I have been off-balance, and when I found myself surrounded by every obligation in the world a few weeks ago, I lost it.

And Tomm, the saint who for whatever reason will be publicly promising in less than four weeks to put up with this the rest of his life, finally called me out on it.

In no uncertain terms and with a good dose of tough love, he helped me realize that I needed to find a way to stop this vicious cycle of stress, anxiety, and discontent with everything around me.  I needed to pull it together and change something since New York was not going to change itself for me.  I was hurting - everyone could see it - and it simply wasn't healthy for me.

I thought a lot about what he said, and I instinctively knew he was right.  Just as in every other juncture in my life I had a choice about how to respond to it, and now was the moment of truth: How would I learn to love (or at the very least tolerate) a city I never imagined I'd call "home?"

I was reminded of when I was still in grade school and my mom introduced a new family bonding strategy at dinner.  Every night she would ask us "What is the best thing that happened to you today?"  My younger sister and I, being the sullen teenagers that we were, often rolled our eyes but we always found a response.  Sometimes it was "I did well on a test." Sometimes it was "I came home."  But whether we knew it or not, my mom's trick worked and slowly changed the tone of dinner; we began to look on the bright side a little more often.

The day after my stern talking-to from Tomm, I told him I'd like him to do me a favor.  "Every day, I'd like you to ask me: 'What was the best thing that happened to you in New York today?'  I want to start focusing on the good things about New York, and I need your help."

As the days went by, he was faithful to my request.  Most days my best part of New York was a kind stranger on the train, but even such a minor detail made a big difference in my outlook the moment I focused on it.  Suddenly, I noticed my attitude changing.  Instead of blindly muttering "I hate New York I hate New York I hate New York" in rhythmic unison with the train clattering over the tracks, I heard the toddler singing children's songs with his mom in a seat nearby. I saw the disgruntled teenager hold the door open for the old man.  I became more and more aware of the good people, the kindness that had previously been missing from my sights. 

There are still moments when some New York experience grates on my nerves, but it's a work in progress and that's okay.  In the meantime, I'm changing how I see this city, and it seems to be responding in kind.