I am in no position to diagnose. With no training in medicine, psychology, or psychiatry it's not up to me to identify who's suffering from what. What I can say is this: I don't need a degree to see and understand there's still pain in post-diaster Tohoku. Two and a half years after Japan's biggest earthquake triggered giant tsunamis, ambiguity and confusion are still the norm. Leaving the question of why recovery is slow aside, those of us involved in disaster recovery focus on what we can do here and now.
Kazu is drunk. The more alcohol he consumes the more honest he becomes. Tonight he let out his pent-up inner most demons. His main concern, he states over and over, is the kids.
"They're just too well behaved," he says. "They don't ask for things, they don't say, 'Daddy can we go to so and so,' because they know what will happen if they do."
My job tonight is to listen and prod. "What do you mean?"
"Well, it's primarily the adults who are the problem. We snap at the kids. We're all tense. We've got short fuses. We're tired, I know I'm tired, and when we get this way we take it out on the kids. It's not right but we do it anyway." He sips his drink. How many has he had? I've lost count.
"So, the kids, because they know we'll get pissy, they don't act out. They're the ones trying to make sure the parents, that's us, don't have a reason to get angry. Or, maybe I should say angrier."
We're silent for awhile. When he speaks again Kazu runs his hand over his buzz-cut hair. "I did it, too," he says. "I snapped at Yuuki."
I think of Yuuki, Kazu's son, a boy who has I swear grown at least 20 cm in the two plus years I've known him. "What happened?" I ask.
"It was dumb. It's true I was mad. Yuuki wouldn't stop playing those video games," and Kazu mimics Yuuki's fingers pressing buttons on a remote control device. "I hate those things," he says. "I had told Yuuki to go to bed. He didn't, of course." Kazu laughs but it's an uncomfortable laugh. "So I yelled at him. Normally, I would have said something about taking him up to his room and helping him get to bed, but that night I snapped and told him to get to bed. We're all like that, us parents. We're all stressed."
It's neither fair nor accurate to say all parents in Tohoku snap at their kids out of post-disaster anxiety. Do some? Yes. Do many? Perhaps. Probably. The take away tonight from Kazu's alcohol-induced honesty is that he is tired, and that many parents around him are, too. Why wouldn't he be? Earlier in the day, another one of my brothers from Tohoku told me how the spirit of gaman, usually a beautiful combination of strength, determination, and perseverance has turned into apathy. "People are giving up," he tells me. "Not in the 'I'm suicidal' way, but they're all tired of waiting. Change and improvement, it's so slow. It's taking so long. Too long." He's now talking to himself more than me, and because I don't have the words to fix what's wrong I stay silent.
In some communities rebuilding has been going on for a good year. Prefabricated homes and stores and businesses have long since been available. It's the newly rebuilt homes and stores and businesses that are marking how well reconstruction is going. In cities like Rikuzentakata where nothing can be rebuilt in what was downtown, the city is far behind its neighbors. The lack of speed in visible progress turns into disaster-fatigue which then turns into snapping parents. Or so Kazu says.
Clearly I don't have the solution. I listen. I let them vent. I nod my head when they need agreement and shake it in disgust when they need an additional soul to commiserate with them. I left Kazu wondering just how useful his venting was for him. I tell myself I listened, and hope that was enough.
Showing posts with label stress. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stress. Show all posts
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Kiki's Meltdown
The call I received from Yuta several months ago warning me about Kiki not only resulted in me going off on him, it cooled off our relationship for several weeks. The "Kiki's wild," and "Kiki doesn't take care of her kids properly, going out with her friends at night instead" irked me and I told Yuta as much. Pitting woman against woman is never a good idea. He knows that now. Never mind she was only doing what men in Japan do without being questioned--out late drinking, partying, letting off steam--when women do this, they're stigmatized as being irresponsible. I lashed out at Yuta for having double standards and for not backing Kiki up. Our chat ended badly.
Kiki and I hadn't seen each other in several months. Both busy (such a terrible word), we'd wave at each other as we passed in our cars. Facebook was our mode of communication, with a lot of "How are you" and "I haven't seen you in such a long time" messages flying back and forth.
Which is why when she called and said, "I have to see you" I dropped everything and made the time. Something was up.
I never thought I'd be celebrating the acknowledgement of a borderline breakdown. On this particular Friday night, however, I find myself doing just that. This woman sitting across from me is recounting her days, openly telling me of her emotional collapse. I try not to show how happy I am for her while looking for the words to help her realize this was in the making.
Kiki starts out by telling me how difficult the second memorial of the tsunami was for her this year. "Last year was tough, yeah. This year, though....I cried for days. I didn't know what was happening to me." Through sips of beer she continues. "Here," and she points to her face, "I was all smiles. But, here," pointing to her heart, "I was screaming. I couldn't take it any more. All this pressure to be 'up' and 'perky' and 'positive.' It was eating away at me. I couldn't fake it. It all came out around the memorial."
I choose to let her do the talking tonight. There will likely come a point where I can inject my opinion, but for now, I know this is therapeutic for her. I've been trying for years to get people to talk out their post-tsunami pain with little success. Especially true for women, that Kiki, a local leader of young women and one many here look up to, that she broke now allows for others to follow suit. I wonder if she knows this.
"Then in April, I finally collapsed. I couldn't get out of bed. I didn't want to. I didn't care any more. I stayed in my futon, bawling, crying, hyperventilating. I didn't want to see my husband or kids. I felt like everything around me was broken. I felt broken. I just wanted to be alone."
Kiki goes on to tell me she spent the whole week in bed, getting out for the occasional bath and for bathroom breaks. Her husband brought her food and kept the kids away. She ignored the calls, e-mails, and Facebook messages asking if she was alright.
"Clearly I needed it," she laughs uncomfortably. There's nothing funny about fighting to keep a mental breakdown at bay. "I knew I was in bad shape. I mean, I really didn't care anymore. I really couldn't get out of bed."
I listen and say very little, asking only a question here and there. "I knew I needed help when I saw a poster somewhere about a suicide hotline and thought to myself, 'I actually know how they feel. It would be really easy to die right now.'" Here, I decide to speak. "Did you call the hotline?"
"No. I decided I wasn't suicidal. I didn't actually want to die. I just realized I knew how these people felt." I nod.
"Yes!" Suddenly Kiki is really excited.
"How did you know?"
For the first time tonight I add my opinion in full. "Your breakdown, if I can call it that, gave other women permission to follow your example. You're a leader. If you can break, if it's okay for you to break, then other women know it's okay for them to break as well. You're lucky you're solid enough to work through it on your own. Now you can help other women who might not have that network--a supportive husband like you have--so they can come out safely on the other side."
"Yes! I've had so many women say that to me. That they also stayed in bed for days after they heard about my little breakdown. I didn't realize I was keeping everyone from releasing all this pain."
"Think of it as giving permission, and not that you were keeping people bottled up. The important part is that you let it out."
While Kiki is indeed lucky, to have had the skills necessary to work her way through her grief, there's now a buzz through town about how "all these women are dropping like flies." The men in town don't know what's going on. There are suggestions the women are faking it, asking for attention. Some recognize it's the women who have had to remain strong for the past two years with no outlet. Alcohol helps the men by giving them a space where they can spout off, let out their complaints, cry, and in general cut loose. The women in Tohoku don't have that option. The kids look to mama to see if today is a good day. Grandpa and grandma rely on the daughter-in-law for stability in the household. With no source by which they can let out their pain, grief, stress, and trauma, it's no wonder Kiki and her friends started collapsing. This breaking point has been long overdue.
The good news is with Kiki's self-imposed hibernation and reemergence comes permission for other women to say, "Me, too." Kiki and I agree we must take care of ourselves first, cliche or not, because no one else will do that for us. We talk about how to safely allow for these "breakdowns" as each woman's case is unique. We acknowledge we aren't experts and that some women may require hospitalization. We talk about the consequences and stigma of what it means to break.
Ultimately, this is good news--if a nervous breakdown can be considered good. I will participate when asked in helping with the long walk back to being whole, and I will also watch from the sidelines, cheering my friends on if that's what they prefer. A night out with Kiki left me with a mixture of hope, relief, sadness, and happiness. Do I dare hope for more breakdowns to come along? Do I dare ask for such a thing?
Kiki and I hadn't seen each other in several months. Both busy (such a terrible word), we'd wave at each other as we passed in our cars. Facebook was our mode of communication, with a lot of "How are you" and "I haven't seen you in such a long time" messages flying back and forth.
Which is why when she called and said, "I have to see you" I dropped everything and made the time. Something was up.
I never thought I'd be celebrating the acknowledgement of a borderline breakdown. On this particular Friday night, however, I find myself doing just that. This woman sitting across from me is recounting her days, openly telling me of her emotional collapse. I try not to show how happy I am for her while looking for the words to help her realize this was in the making.
Kiki starts out by telling me how difficult the second memorial of the tsunami was for her this year. "Last year was tough, yeah. This year, though....I cried for days. I didn't know what was happening to me." Through sips of beer she continues. "Here," and she points to her face, "I was all smiles. But, here," pointing to her heart, "I was screaming. I couldn't take it any more. All this pressure to be 'up' and 'perky' and 'positive.' It was eating away at me. I couldn't fake it. It all came out around the memorial."
I choose to let her do the talking tonight. There will likely come a point where I can inject my opinion, but for now, I know this is therapeutic for her. I've been trying for years to get people to talk out their post-tsunami pain with little success. Especially true for women, that Kiki, a local leader of young women and one many here look up to, that she broke now allows for others to follow suit. I wonder if she knows this.
"Then in April, I finally collapsed. I couldn't get out of bed. I didn't want to. I didn't care any more. I stayed in my futon, bawling, crying, hyperventilating. I didn't want to see my husband or kids. I felt like everything around me was broken. I felt broken. I just wanted to be alone."
Kiki goes on to tell me she spent the whole week in bed, getting out for the occasional bath and for bathroom breaks. Her husband brought her food and kept the kids away. She ignored the calls, e-mails, and Facebook messages asking if she was alright.
"Clearly I needed it," she laughs uncomfortably. There's nothing funny about fighting to keep a mental breakdown at bay. "I knew I was in bad shape. I mean, I really didn't care anymore. I really couldn't get out of bed."
I listen and say very little, asking only a question here and there. "I knew I needed help when I saw a poster somewhere about a suicide hotline and thought to myself, 'I actually know how they feel. It would be really easy to die right now.'" Here, I decide to speak. "Did you call the hotline?"
"No. I decided I wasn't suicidal. I didn't actually want to die. I just realized I knew how these people felt." I nod.
"But, realizing I understood that feeling was a wake-up call. It was several days after that I didn't and couldn't get out of bed. Scary."
I agree with her that it's scary. An hour or so has passed since she's been talking, Kiki recounting her various emotions, her analysis of how and why she let herself get this "out of whack."
Understanding the position she holds among young women in this community, I ask what is to me, the obvious question. "Have other women followed your example?"I agree with her that it's scary. An hour or so has passed since she's been talking, Kiki recounting her various emotions, her analysis of how and why she let herself get this "out of whack."
"Yes!" Suddenly Kiki is really excited.
"How did you know?"
For the first time tonight I add my opinion in full. "Your breakdown, if I can call it that, gave other women permission to follow your example. You're a leader. If you can break, if it's okay for you to break, then other women know it's okay for them to break as well. You're lucky you're solid enough to work through it on your own. Now you can help other women who might not have that network--a supportive husband like you have--so they can come out safely on the other side."
"Yes! I've had so many women say that to me. That they also stayed in bed for days after they heard about my little breakdown. I didn't realize I was keeping everyone from releasing all this pain."
"Think of it as giving permission, and not that you were keeping people bottled up. The important part is that you let it out."
While Kiki is indeed lucky, to have had the skills necessary to work her way through her grief, there's now a buzz through town about how "all these women are dropping like flies." The men in town don't know what's going on. There are suggestions the women are faking it, asking for attention. Some recognize it's the women who have had to remain strong for the past two years with no outlet. Alcohol helps the men by giving them a space where they can spout off, let out their complaints, cry, and in general cut loose. The women in Tohoku don't have that option. The kids look to mama to see if today is a good day. Grandpa and grandma rely on the daughter-in-law for stability in the household. With no source by which they can let out their pain, grief, stress, and trauma, it's no wonder Kiki and her friends started collapsing. This breaking point has been long overdue.
The good news is with Kiki's self-imposed hibernation and reemergence comes permission for other women to say, "Me, too." Kiki and I agree we must take care of ourselves first, cliche or not, because no one else will do that for us. We talk about how to safely allow for these "breakdowns" as each woman's case is unique. We acknowledge we aren't experts and that some women may require hospitalization. We talk about the consequences and stigma of what it means to break.
Ultimately, this is good news--if a nervous breakdown can be considered good. I will participate when asked in helping with the long walk back to being whole, and I will also watch from the sidelines, cheering my friends on if that's what they prefer. A night out with Kiki left me with a mixture of hope, relief, sadness, and happiness. Do I dare hope for more breakdowns to come along? Do I dare ask for such a thing?
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
The Scolding
Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan has a head shaped like a cube. If his head were a cardboard box, a bowling ball would fit inside. His body fits his head--large shoulders that go straight down to his legs with no waist to speak of. He swaggers when he walks and people step aside as if he's a gangster, ready to beat up that one person that gets in his way. His absolute disdain for those who break the law make it all the more ironic he's seen as "one of them."
When my phone rings and I see on caller ID that it's him, I pick up, ready for a nice chat. Good company always, I'm honest with him. No one who sees him walking their way would ever guess this man is gentle and kind. The visual doesn't fit the man except when he gets angry. His usual quiet and unassuming character will disappear if he sees the need to exert his strength. Truly, he would beat the crap out of a gang of hoodlums harassing a homeless man. Here, his stature as a hulkish Japanese man, an unusual sight indeed, would serve him well. The teenage boys would cry, run away, regretting the day they chose the path of deliquency.
"Hey," his gruff voice greets me in the usual way. "You doing okay?"
"Uh huh."
"You head home soon, don't you?"
"Yup. Tomorrow."
"You should rest when you're home."
"I plan to. I'm going to take it easy."
"Good. Glad to hear that."
"How are you?" I ask because it's polite and because I want to know.
"Nope. Not today."
"Huh?" Does he mean, "Nope. Today I'm not okay" or does he mean "we're not talking about me today." I get my answer immediately.
"We're not talking about me today."
"Okaaay." So, we're not talking about his work, or anything related to him today. That leaves me and everything else.
"You got a minute to talk?"
"Sure. What's going on? You sound upset."
"I'm not upset." He pauses a few seconds here and I suddenly feel dread.
"What?"
He takes a deep breath. "I saw you the other day."
"Where?" He names a part of Tokyo I sometimes travel through. I am amazed all over again at how small of a town this metropolis is at times. I've run into too many people I know at the oddest of places for it to be a one-off coincidence.
"What was I doing?"
"Walking." For some reason, I'm disappointed. Which is ridiculous, of course. Most of what I do in Tokyo is walk from place to place.
"Okay. So, you saw me. Why didn't you stop and say hello?" I don't mean it as an accusation and for a split second I wonder if he'll take it that way.
"I had people in my car."
"Oh." That makes sense, I suppose. And then he says it.
"You've lost weight."
There it is. I know what's coming. This is not a compliment, a "you looked good" comment that people throw at others to flatter.
"You're not eating, are you."
"I am."
He's silent. When he finally speaks, it's slow. "Three meals a day?"
No.
"Yes," I lie. Who eats three meals a day anymore?
"You don't. I know you don't. Your face, it was almost gaunt. I could see your cheekbones."
No way. I look at myself in the mirror everyday. I don't not look gaunt and my cheekbones do not protrude out of my face.
"I may have lost a bit of weight but it's not that bad."
"You're eating three meals a day. You can really say that." He's challenging me and I hold in a sigh. I wanted a nice chat tonight. Instead I'm getting a scolding.
"Mostly."
"Look," he starts, and I decide to cut him off.
"Okay. I don't eat three meals a day. But, I'm not skipping meals so I lose weight or anything like that. Really. I'm fine."
He doesn't say anything for almost ten seconds, a long time on a cell phone and I wonder if I've lost him.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
"Hello?"
"Yeah. Just wondering if you're done." Ouch.
"I'm done."
"Well, I'm not. You need to hear this because you won't take this from anyone else here. Let me talk. Don't cut me off." Yikes. "Got it?"
"Yes."
"Look," he starts again. "You going home this time has to be a real vacation. You need to rest. And, eat. I'm not saying come back looking like me. I'm saying eat the food you like, get caught up on sleep, and spend a week doing nothing. No e-mails, no phone calls, no work. Rest. Get a massage or something." He finishes but I'm not sure he's completely done or just taking a breath. I stay silent.
"Are you listening?"
"Uh huh."
"You're stressed, aren't you."
I feel myself get defensive. "Not more than usual."
"You're stressed." I cringe because I would not take this from anyone else.
"A bit, maybe. Normal stress."
"Which you don't think is a big deal."
I ponder this a moment. Life in Tokyo is wonderful and tiring. Life in Tohoku is totally and completely intense. Gratifying and worth it, but disaster relief isn't supposed to be all butterflies and unicorns. What's he getting at? Of course there's stress in my life. I go back and forth between Tokyo and Tohoku, already a long enough trek on its own, and when I'm up north I'm surrounded by varying degrees of pain. Yes, I'm stressed. But, not so much that it would show on my face. Right?
Thinking back to the time he surprised me by picking me up at the airport, I realize this is his way of showing concern. All this flies through my brain and I realize I'm out of words. Afraid anything I say will sound snippy I wonder if I should just promise to take better care of myself and hang up. I have to pack yet before my flight. That's a good excuse, right? I decide to try this tactic.
But, evidently all this strategizing and wondering came through loud and clear to him on the other end of the phone.
"Here's what we're going to do."
I don't say anything.
"You listening?"
"Yes."
"You want to say, 'I'm fine,' and 'I'll take better care of myself' and all that. That's your defense mechanism. You won't, through. Rather, you don't. So, here's what we're doing. I'm taking you out for food once a week when you get back and you're going to eat. A lot. I don't like skinny women. I'll bet your husband doesn't like them either. We're doing this. That's it. We're doing this. You'll say you don't have the time but we're doing this. We're both busy, but until I'm really sure you're okay, this is how it's going to be. Tell your husband."
Am I that transparent? How did he know I was going to use those exact phrases? I'm focused on that part and not on the mandatory weekly dinners that he's announced will take place forever and ever.
All of a sudden I'm tired. I don't want to be scolded tonight. I don't want to talk about this. I just want to go home. I speak into the phone and call him by name.
"Can we talk about this when I get back? Please?"
He must not have expected that, as his next words are not as rough. "Are you upset?"
Yes.
"No." Why do I keep lying to him?
"I know I should take better care of myself. I just don't want to talk about it tonight." I decide to skip the "I have to pack" part and hope he believes we will pick this up in a month.
"I'm tired," I say. "You're right about that. Help me figure out a better system when I'm back." Pause. "Okay?"
"Yeah."
And so it went. I know he cares. I know he's echoing what my husband would say if he were here and saw how I ate. (Or didn't.) Alpha Male is an important presence in my life here in Japan, but I wasn't in the mood for this tonight. Perhaps I could avoid these scoldings if I would just take better care of myself? Nah. Nothing is that simple.
When my phone rings and I see on caller ID that it's him, I pick up, ready for a nice chat. Good company always, I'm honest with him. No one who sees him walking their way would ever guess this man is gentle and kind. The visual doesn't fit the man except when he gets angry. His usual quiet and unassuming character will disappear if he sees the need to exert his strength. Truly, he would beat the crap out of a gang of hoodlums harassing a homeless man. Here, his stature as a hulkish Japanese man, an unusual sight indeed, would serve him well. The teenage boys would cry, run away, regretting the day they chose the path of deliquency.
"Hey," his gruff voice greets me in the usual way. "You doing okay?"
"Uh huh."
"You head home soon, don't you?"
"Yup. Tomorrow."
"You should rest when you're home."
"I plan to. I'm going to take it easy."
"Good. Glad to hear that."
"How are you?" I ask because it's polite and because I want to know.
"Nope. Not today."
"Huh?" Does he mean, "Nope. Today I'm not okay" or does he mean "we're not talking about me today." I get my answer immediately.
"We're not talking about me today."
"Okaaay." So, we're not talking about his work, or anything related to him today. That leaves me and everything else.
"You got a minute to talk?"
"Sure. What's going on? You sound upset."
"I'm not upset." He pauses a few seconds here and I suddenly feel dread.
"What?"
He takes a deep breath. "I saw you the other day."
"Where?" He names a part of Tokyo I sometimes travel through. I am amazed all over again at how small of a town this metropolis is at times. I've run into too many people I know at the oddest of places for it to be a one-off coincidence.
"What was I doing?"
"Walking." For some reason, I'm disappointed. Which is ridiculous, of course. Most of what I do in Tokyo is walk from place to place.
"Okay. So, you saw me. Why didn't you stop and say hello?" I don't mean it as an accusation and for a split second I wonder if he'll take it that way.
"I had people in my car."
"Oh." That makes sense, I suppose. And then he says it.
"You've lost weight."
There it is. I know what's coming. This is not a compliment, a "you looked good" comment that people throw at others to flatter.
"You're not eating, are you."
"I am."
He's silent. When he finally speaks, it's slow. "Three meals a day?"
No.
"Yes," I lie. Who eats three meals a day anymore?
"You don't. I know you don't. Your face, it was almost gaunt. I could see your cheekbones."
No way. I look at myself in the mirror everyday. I don't not look gaunt and my cheekbones do not protrude out of my face.
"I may have lost a bit of weight but it's not that bad."
"You're eating three meals a day. You can really say that." He's challenging me and I hold in a sigh. I wanted a nice chat tonight. Instead I'm getting a scolding.
"Mostly."
"Look," he starts, and I decide to cut him off.
"Okay. I don't eat three meals a day. But, I'm not skipping meals so I lose weight or anything like that. Really. I'm fine."
He doesn't say anything for almost ten seconds, a long time on a cell phone and I wonder if I've lost him.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
"Hello?"
"Yeah. Just wondering if you're done." Ouch.
"I'm done."
"Well, I'm not. You need to hear this because you won't take this from anyone else here. Let me talk. Don't cut me off." Yikes. "Got it?"
"Yes."
"Look," he starts again. "You going home this time has to be a real vacation. You need to rest. And, eat. I'm not saying come back looking like me. I'm saying eat the food you like, get caught up on sleep, and spend a week doing nothing. No e-mails, no phone calls, no work. Rest. Get a massage or something." He finishes but I'm not sure he's completely done or just taking a breath. I stay silent.
"Are you listening?"
"Uh huh."
"You're stressed, aren't you."
I feel myself get defensive. "Not more than usual."
"You're stressed." I cringe because I would not take this from anyone else.
"A bit, maybe. Normal stress."
"Which you don't think is a big deal."
I ponder this a moment. Life in Tokyo is wonderful and tiring. Life in Tohoku is totally and completely intense. Gratifying and worth it, but disaster relief isn't supposed to be all butterflies and unicorns. What's he getting at? Of course there's stress in my life. I go back and forth between Tokyo and Tohoku, already a long enough trek on its own, and when I'm up north I'm surrounded by varying degrees of pain. Yes, I'm stressed. But, not so much that it would show on my face. Right?
Thinking back to the time he surprised me by picking me up at the airport, I realize this is his way of showing concern. All this flies through my brain and I realize I'm out of words. Afraid anything I say will sound snippy I wonder if I should just promise to take better care of myself and hang up. I have to pack yet before my flight. That's a good excuse, right? I decide to try this tactic.
But, evidently all this strategizing and wondering came through loud and clear to him on the other end of the phone.
"Here's what we're going to do."
I don't say anything.
"You listening?"
"Yes."
"You want to say, 'I'm fine,' and 'I'll take better care of myself' and all that. That's your defense mechanism. You won't, through. Rather, you don't. So, here's what we're doing. I'm taking you out for food once a week when you get back and you're going to eat. A lot. I don't like skinny women. I'll bet your husband doesn't like them either. We're doing this. That's it. We're doing this. You'll say you don't have the time but we're doing this. We're both busy, but until I'm really sure you're okay, this is how it's going to be. Tell your husband."
Am I that transparent? How did he know I was going to use those exact phrases? I'm focused on that part and not on the mandatory weekly dinners that he's announced will take place forever and ever.
All of a sudden I'm tired. I don't want to be scolded tonight. I don't want to talk about this. I just want to go home. I speak into the phone and call him by name.
"Can we talk about this when I get back? Please?"
He must not have expected that, as his next words are not as rough. "Are you upset?"
Yes.
"No." Why do I keep lying to him?
"I know I should take better care of myself. I just don't want to talk about it tonight." I decide to skip the "I have to pack" part and hope he believes we will pick this up in a month.
"I'm tired," I say. "You're right about that. Help me figure out a better system when I'm back." Pause. "Okay?"
"Yeah."
And so it went. I know he cares. I know he's echoing what my husband would say if he were here and saw how I ate. (Or didn't.) Alpha Male is an important presence in my life here in Japan, but I wasn't in the mood for this tonight. Perhaps I could avoid these scoldings if I would just take better care of myself? Nah. Nothing is that simple.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Why I need a secretary
In the spirit of being nice to myself, and because I'm one of these people that notices chipped toenail polish on others (and myself, of course) I went to my local nail salon today and plunked my feet into the hot water. This is all to reduce stress. Just so we're clear.
Here, I'd like to make a totally unrelated statement. Simply put, dogs should not be allowed in nail salons. Period. It's unsanitary. They're gross. No, I'm not a dog person. No, I don't think dogs are cute. But, aside from that, it irks me to no end when women show up with their little "partners" (I swear that's what they're called here), coo at them, oohing and aahing over every little yip they make. The ones that yip, the dogs Mariah Carey carries around with her in her purse--those are the worst. (I'm sure Mariah Carey is a nice person and all. It's her dogs I'm objecting to. Not her.) All salons should ban dogs. And, their owners, while they're at it. Just saying.
An hour later, I like my toes, and am headed back to my apartment. At one stop on my subway line, I glance down at my phone and see I have a message. I have just enough time to listen to it before I lose reception, and what I heard hit me hard.
"We're wondering if you're on your way to our 5pm meeting today." Noooooo! What 5pm meeting?! I frantically look through the e-mails that scheduled this meeting. Sure enough. April 10th, 5:00pm. My calendar shows the meeting at 5pm on Friday. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I get off at the next station, run up flights of stairs, and completely winded, hail a cab. Now, in my defense, my subway line is the newest, which means it's furthest down into the ground, which means I have to run 40 meters up to get to ground level. I'm not winded because of my age, like some people might assume. In case you were wondering. Again, just saying.
I make it to the meeting, apologizing profusely, because tardiness in Japan is equivalent to BO in the States. It's simply unacceptable. You are never late. Here I am, half an hour late. I cringe. But, the meeting is wonderful. They're great people, and we promise to get together again on Friday.
The problem with today is not the dog in the nail salon. It's the fact this is the third time this month I've either double-booked, or simply missed a meeting. Am I really that stressed out? Is my calendar-system (in triplicate, mind you) really not working? What's going on?
This requires some serious self-reflection. I am not this sloppy. I am not this careless. If I'm so stressed I can't even keep my schedule straight, I'm a bit more concerned than I was when I woke up this morning. This kind of stress cannot be fixed by a new coat of polish on my toenails, or spending money to fix the bags under my eyes. Yet another task on my to-do list. This one won't get misplaced.
Here, I'd like to make a totally unrelated statement. Simply put, dogs should not be allowed in nail salons. Period. It's unsanitary. They're gross. No, I'm not a dog person. No, I don't think dogs are cute. But, aside from that, it irks me to no end when women show up with their little "partners" (I swear that's what they're called here), coo at them, oohing and aahing over every little yip they make. The ones that yip, the dogs Mariah Carey carries around with her in her purse--those are the worst. (I'm sure Mariah Carey is a nice person and all. It's her dogs I'm objecting to. Not her.) All salons should ban dogs. And, their owners, while they're at it. Just saying.
An hour later, I like my toes, and am headed back to my apartment. At one stop on my subway line, I glance down at my phone and see I have a message. I have just enough time to listen to it before I lose reception, and what I heard hit me hard.
"We're wondering if you're on your way to our 5pm meeting today." Noooooo! What 5pm meeting?! I frantically look through the e-mails that scheduled this meeting. Sure enough. April 10th, 5:00pm. My calendar shows the meeting at 5pm on Friday. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I get off at the next station, run up flights of stairs, and completely winded, hail a cab. Now, in my defense, my subway line is the newest, which means it's furthest down into the ground, which means I have to run 40 meters up to get to ground level. I'm not winded because of my age, like some people might assume. In case you were wondering. Again, just saying.
I make it to the meeting, apologizing profusely, because tardiness in Japan is equivalent to BO in the States. It's simply unacceptable. You are never late. Here I am, half an hour late. I cringe. But, the meeting is wonderful. They're great people, and we promise to get together again on Friday.
The problem with today is not the dog in the nail salon. It's the fact this is the third time this month I've either double-booked, or simply missed a meeting. Am I really that stressed out? Is my calendar-system (in triplicate, mind you) really not working? What's going on?
This requires some serious self-reflection. I am not this sloppy. I am not this careless. If I'm so stressed I can't even keep my schedule straight, I'm a bit more concerned than I was when I woke up this morning. This kind of stress cannot be fixed by a new coat of polish on my toenails, or spending money to fix the bags under my eyes. Yet another task on my to-do list. This one won't get misplaced.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Bears, Bags, and Shiseido
I blame my low blood pressure. Having wished forever I could some day be one of these perky people that, upon hearing the (first) alarm of the morning, stretch, yawn, and jump out of bed ready to hit the day, I long ago resigned myself to the fact I will never be that person. It's easier to hate them.
To compensate, I learned how to put make up on in the car, saving precious morning minutes for extra sleep. Even 10 years ago, I showed up at jobs with two minutes to spare (never be late!). I had my routine down pat. Comments like, "Wow, those are some amazing suitcases under your eyes" were met with curt retorts on where the man could shove those words. Sleep always trumped.
When Alpha Male (my favorite man in Japan) says to me several weeks ago, "You look better without make up" I am stunned.
"When have you ever seen me without make up?"
"The night I took you to the bus stop."
That was over a year ago, the night of my first trip up to Tohoku. To show him how agreeable I can be, I arrived at one of our recent lunches without make up. As I hop in his car, he looks over and says, "Did you just wake up?" I'm immediately pissed.
"No, I did not just wake up. This is me without make up. You said you liked it better this way." I flip down the sun visor, stare at myself in the mirror, and am amazed at the puffy bags of skin below my lids, surrounded by dark patches. I almost look like I've been punched. I curse. There will be no more leaving the apartment without make up. Period.
He's silent. I can just hear the pedals going backwards, his mind spinning with how he's going to get out of that comment. The next lunch? I show up with make up, and he knows better than to say anything.
More recent comments from others about how "You looked much younger a year ago" have made me, begrudgingly, accept the fact I don't handle stress very well, and I'm yet again showing it on my face. Having been blessed with good skin genes from a young age, and having equally been "blessed" with low blood pressure, my morning routine has never been much in the way of an extensive beauty routine. I have it down to a science. Lotion, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick. (If it can be done in a car, even better.)
All of which--age, stress, years of not putting more time into my skincare--is now evidently catching up with me. I have silently apologized to Nora Ephron for all the snide remarks I made about her (presumed) lack of skin maintenance, obviously causing her to write "I Feel Bad About My Neck" all because my neck now, too, needs extra care. I get it. Getting old isn't a lot of fun when the aging process shows up prominently in our faces.
Enter my decision to take action. I march to the Shiseido counter in a major department store in Tokyo, plop myself down in a chair, and promptly "command" the saleswoman to "Do something about these" pointing to the black circles and bags around my eyes.
"Oh, the kuma" she says. Kuma? That's bear in Japanese. I have bears around my eyes? Suitcases and bags are bad enough. Now bears?
"Whatever," I think I snapped back. "Just fix them." I'm in no mood to expand my vocabulary today.
I know what's coming. She will bring out every Shiseido product under the sun, promising me they will make my skin "glow" and "look fresh" and the like. I'm ready to be convinced. The bears must go.
Thirty minutes later, with a bunch of lotions, creams, powder, and concealer on my skin, I look back at myself in the mirror and ask myself whether I can actually commit to spending time on this routine. True, the bags are less visible, and the blackness around my eyes is gone. But, I can feel the crap on my skin. It feels foreign. Is it me, or is my skin itching?
The same saleswoman tries to tell me I should use Shiseido cotton to "maximize its effectiveness" and I stare at her with this, "please tell me you're kidding" look and she stops. I know buying all this will cost me. I also know the bags or bears (whatever) bother me. A lot. I decide to spend the money.
Blame aging, sun damage, and hormones. Or, blame the less obvious culprit? I'm obviously stressed. What good will it do to spend too much on the promise "if you use it properly, you should see results in two months" when I could just do something about my stress level? Ah, yes. My stress level. Right. Fix that and my skin will once again glow. Right?
Until I can find the cure for my stress, you're all welcome to invest in Shiseido stock. I'll be relying on them for awhile.
To compensate, I learned how to put make up on in the car, saving precious morning minutes for extra sleep. Even 10 years ago, I showed up at jobs with two minutes to spare (never be late!). I had my routine down pat. Comments like, "Wow, those are some amazing suitcases under your eyes" were met with curt retorts on where the man could shove those words. Sleep always trumped.
When Alpha Male (my favorite man in Japan) says to me several weeks ago, "You look better without make up" I am stunned.
"When have you ever seen me without make up?"
"The night I took you to the bus stop."
That was over a year ago, the night of my first trip up to Tohoku. To show him how agreeable I can be, I arrived at one of our recent lunches without make up. As I hop in his car, he looks over and says, "Did you just wake up?" I'm immediately pissed.
"No, I did not just wake up. This is me without make up. You said you liked it better this way." I flip down the sun visor, stare at myself in the mirror, and am amazed at the puffy bags of skin below my lids, surrounded by dark patches. I almost look like I've been punched. I curse. There will be no more leaving the apartment without make up. Period.
He's silent. I can just hear the pedals going backwards, his mind spinning with how he's going to get out of that comment. The next lunch? I show up with make up, and he knows better than to say anything.
More recent comments from others about how "You looked much younger a year ago" have made me, begrudgingly, accept the fact I don't handle stress very well, and I'm yet again showing it on my face. Having been blessed with good skin genes from a young age, and having equally been "blessed" with low blood pressure, my morning routine has never been much in the way of an extensive beauty routine. I have it down to a science. Lotion, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick. (If it can be done in a car, even better.)
All of which--age, stress, years of not putting more time into my skincare--is now evidently catching up with me. I have silently apologized to Nora Ephron for all the snide remarks I made about her (presumed) lack of skin maintenance, obviously causing her to write "I Feel Bad About My Neck" all because my neck now, too, needs extra care. I get it. Getting old isn't a lot of fun when the aging process shows up prominently in our faces.
Enter my decision to take action. I march to the Shiseido counter in a major department store in Tokyo, plop myself down in a chair, and promptly "command" the saleswoman to "Do something about these" pointing to the black circles and bags around my eyes.
"Oh, the kuma" she says. Kuma? That's bear in Japanese. I have bears around my eyes? Suitcases and bags are bad enough. Now bears?
"Whatever," I think I snapped back. "Just fix them." I'm in no mood to expand my vocabulary today.
I know what's coming. She will bring out every Shiseido product under the sun, promising me they will make my skin "glow" and "look fresh" and the like. I'm ready to be convinced. The bears must go.
Thirty minutes later, with a bunch of lotions, creams, powder, and concealer on my skin, I look back at myself in the mirror and ask myself whether I can actually commit to spending time on this routine. True, the bags are less visible, and the blackness around my eyes is gone. But, I can feel the crap on my skin. It feels foreign. Is it me, or is my skin itching?
The same saleswoman tries to tell me I should use Shiseido cotton to "maximize its effectiveness" and I stare at her with this, "please tell me you're kidding" look and she stops. I know buying all this will cost me. I also know the bags or bears (whatever) bother me. A lot. I decide to spend the money.
Blame aging, sun damage, and hormones. Or, blame the less obvious culprit? I'm obviously stressed. What good will it do to spend too much on the promise "if you use it properly, you should see results in two months" when I could just do something about my stress level? Ah, yes. My stress level. Right. Fix that and my skin will once again glow. Right?
Until I can find the cure for my stress, you're all welcome to invest in Shiseido stock. I'll be relying on them for awhile.
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