I'm blogging to you from 30,000 feet this evening as my wife and I fly to the Pacific Northwest for a little vacay before things get cray-cray on the work front. Until recently, both of us worked in higher education, which meant despite our commitment to be together forever, forever did not include the month of August. Unfortunately for Sara, I still work in the field of higher education. I say unfortunately because her birthday falls right in the middle of new student orientation, which is my program, and thus, she has not celebrated her birthday on her actual birthday (at least with me) in a bajillion years...okay, eleven, but who's counting? (She is). But more about that later in another blog post...likely taking the form of a blog-apology or an ablogogy as I like to call it.
The actual purpose of my musing tonight is to mourn the passing of my boyish looks. You see, for years, people would regularly assume that I was MUCH younger than I actually was. Each time, they would excuse their foible with the standard line, "When you're older, you'll appreciate your young looks." Maybe so, but in the moment, it was mortifying. Imagine being mistaken for a junior high student during your senior year of high school. Try appreciating being laughed at by the bouncer at a 21+ venue as recent college grad...in front of your (hopefully still) future spouse. These are not cherished memories, my friends, though I hope you are finding humor in my pain.
Especially as a young professional, remarks about my age never seemed to take on a complimentary tone. Parents would make a passing reference to my age, and I'd think to myself, "Yes, I look young, but that neither changes the fact that your son was caught hauling a keg into his residence hall room nor does it impact my competence in handling this matter." Of course, as a young professional, I'd let those comments slide, which probably didn't help my case...but I digress.
After years of annoyance with my boyish looks, I was looking forward to the day of appreciation. But unfortunately, that day never came, and it appears it never will. Throughout my twenties, I continued to be carded regularly and never found it flattering. At 30, the carding suddenly stopped, and while I was mildly okay with not being mistaken for 20, the transition was so abrupt, it was startling. It's not like I had achieved some new found maturity distinguishing me from the twenty-somethings nor had a gray head of hair sprouted overnight. In my mind, I looked/acted relatively the same, but to the rest of the world, I apparently was no longer...boyish.
Still, four years later, I still had a hard time believing that the identity that I had bemoaned for years was no longer part of who I was. That was until my last visit to Colorado State for my doctoral program.
After the last day of class, several of my cohort gathered in the pub of the student union for a drink. I initially did not plan to partake, but later asked a classmate to grab me a glass from the bar...which was about 30 feet from our table. The distance, folks, will soon be a critical player. From the bar, I heard my friend shout that the bartender needed to see my I.D., which made sense, so I stood up, turned around to head to the bar, and before I even took a step, the bartender said, "Never mind."
That's right, folks. Not only is Ben no longer mistaken for years younger than his actual age, that fact is clearly identifiable from up to 30 feet away. One could say that I finally got what I wished for, but I'm not quite sure I wished for this. Regardless, my boyish looks have left me, and some part of me, mourns that a little...and some part still wants to kick that bouncer in the shins.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
Stages of Grief
Those who know me well can attest that I am open book for all to see. I find it incongruent to live my passions but hide my pain, to share my hopes but not my fears, to showcase my talents but ignore my faults. To know me is to to get all of me--the good, the bad, and the ugly. Last April, the loss of my father became a part of my story--a chapter from which I'd like to share.
The mourning process for me has been...well...underwhelming. The five stages of grief have never manifested. Many have said that people grieve differently, and I have been no exception. Let me explain by sharing my stages of grief.
Stage 1: Resignation (duration - 11 hours)
From the moment my sister called me at 1 a.m. to let me know Dad was being transported to the hospital, I just knew. Nothing said indicated things were dire, but somehow it was clear I needed to make the trip immediately from San Antonio to Katy. Even when logic started to will me back to bed so that I could travel with a full night's rest, I found myself wide awake. Deep down I just knew I needed to get there to say goodbye.
Stage 2: Tears (duration - 30 minutes)
When I arrived at the hospital about 5:30 a.m., the updates from nursing staff were guarded but optimistic. Looking back, I think they were simply being merciful as no doctor was present to help us make meaning of the reality--Dad was not going to recover. Once in the ICU, the difficult truth was shared, and it was time for us to say goodbye. My mom and two of my sisters went into his room, and I stayed in the waiting room awaiting the return of my other sister. I just couldn't bare to have her walk into the hospital room alone. It was in the interim that I had my one true meltdown...in front of what felt like dozens of (but really less than six) strangers.
The ICU waiting room is not so much a waiting room as it is a carpeted place you stand for the elevators. It's not the ideal setting to hear life-changing news of the negative bent. But really, where is a good place to hear your father is dying? Chili's? No amount of skillet queso and molten chocolate cake can temper that news.
Stage 3: Irritation (duration - 4 days)
Though I can't say that I experienced anger, irritation was a state in which I found myself regularly. It seemed farcical that my father had just passed in the morning, and we needed to meet with a funeral home that afternoon. I was amazed how retailers would hem and haw about our requests for a quick turnaround even after explaining that it was for my father's memorial service. (I'm sorry, we'll just ask Dad to give us some advance notice next time). Some of the irritation was justified and some was a circumstance of my emotional state. I realize now that the Starbucks barista was unaware of my father's passing, and thus, it was not a personality flaw that caused him to screw up my Grande Cafe Vanilla Frappucino with soy, no whip. As a normally even keeled person, I was thankful when this stage was over, and I returned to the standard Zen of Ben.
Stage 4: Emptiness (duration - April 17 to present)
The loss of a loved one leaves a void, an emptiness, that cannot be filled...try as we might. Initially, I attempted to fill that void by managing all the "details" that come with death--fielding phone calls, helping Mom with funeral arrangements, stocking the fridge, cleaning the house, picking up family--selfless acts with selfish intentions. Keeping occupied allowed me to ignore the emptiness.
Though the pain of loss has subsided, the emptiness remains...and I think it always will. In some strange way, I'm okay with that. My dad was an invaluable part of my life--an incredible mentor, my greatest supporter, even my best man; nothing can replace or fill that gap in my life. To look closely at the emptiness is to see my father's impact on my life. Yes, the emptiness is bittersweet, but fortunately it is an emphasis on the sweet.
Occasionally, the melancholy of loss will wash over me. I would be worried if it didn't, but the emptiness is quickly becoming a fact of my life. Fortunately, I remain blessed with an amazing mother, a loving wife, three truly cool siblings to whom I grow closer each day, and an extended family that includes a father-in-law and mother-in-law whom I cherish. None are substitutes for my father, nor would they try to be, but each remind me that my life is very full, no matter how empty it may feel at times.
The mourning process for me has been...well...underwhelming. The five stages of grief have never manifested. Many have said that people grieve differently, and I have been no exception. Let me explain by sharing my stages of grief.
Stage 1: Resignation (duration - 11 hours)
From the moment my sister called me at 1 a.m. to let me know Dad was being transported to the hospital, I just knew. Nothing said indicated things were dire, but somehow it was clear I needed to make the trip immediately from San Antonio to Katy. Even when logic started to will me back to bed so that I could travel with a full night's rest, I found myself wide awake. Deep down I just knew I needed to get there to say goodbye.
Stage 2: Tears (duration - 30 minutes)
When I arrived at the hospital about 5:30 a.m., the updates from nursing staff were guarded but optimistic. Looking back, I think they were simply being merciful as no doctor was present to help us make meaning of the reality--Dad was not going to recover. Once in the ICU, the difficult truth was shared, and it was time for us to say goodbye. My mom and two of my sisters went into his room, and I stayed in the waiting room awaiting the return of my other sister. I just couldn't bare to have her walk into the hospital room alone. It was in the interim that I had my one true meltdown...in front of what felt like dozens of (but really less than six) strangers.
The ICU waiting room is not so much a waiting room as it is a carpeted place you stand for the elevators. It's not the ideal setting to hear life-changing news of the negative bent. But really, where is a good place to hear your father is dying? Chili's? No amount of skillet queso and molten chocolate cake can temper that news.
Stage 3: Irritation (duration - 4 days)
Though I can't say that I experienced anger, irritation was a state in which I found myself regularly. It seemed farcical that my father had just passed in the morning, and we needed to meet with a funeral home that afternoon. I was amazed how retailers would hem and haw about our requests for a quick turnaround even after explaining that it was for my father's memorial service. (I'm sorry, we'll just ask Dad to give us some advance notice next time). Some of the irritation was justified and some was a circumstance of my emotional state. I realize now that the Starbucks barista was unaware of my father's passing, and thus, it was not a personality flaw that caused him to screw up my Grande Cafe Vanilla Frappucino with soy, no whip. As a normally even keeled person, I was thankful when this stage was over, and I returned to the standard Zen of Ben.
Stage 4: Emptiness (duration - April 17 to present)
The loss of a loved one leaves a void, an emptiness, that cannot be filled...try as we might. Initially, I attempted to fill that void by managing all the "details" that come with death--fielding phone calls, helping Mom with funeral arrangements, stocking the fridge, cleaning the house, picking up family--selfless acts with selfish intentions. Keeping occupied allowed me to ignore the emptiness.
Though the pain of loss has subsided, the emptiness remains...and I think it always will. In some strange way, I'm okay with that. My dad was an invaluable part of my life--an incredible mentor, my greatest supporter, even my best man; nothing can replace or fill that gap in my life. To look closely at the emptiness is to see my father's impact on my life. Yes, the emptiness is bittersweet, but fortunately it is an emphasis on the sweet.
Occasionally, the melancholy of loss will wash over me. I would be worried if it didn't, but the emptiness is quickly becoming a fact of my life. Fortunately, I remain blessed with an amazing mother, a loving wife, three truly cool siblings to whom I grow closer each day, and an extended family that includes a father-in-law and mother-in-law whom I cherish. None are substitutes for my father, nor would they try to be, but each remind me that my life is very full, no matter how empty it may feel at times.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Boom Boom Pow
After the umpteenth (translation 3rd) mention of my lack of blog activity from various in-laws this weekend, I have decided to teach them a lesson. Rather than interact with them, I will deny them the privilege of my presence in order to blog.
It's their loss really. If you like blog-Ben, you'd love actual-Ben...if I do say so myself. Though it does appear the family is getting along just fine without me...not missing me at all. I wonder if they actually read my blog...or are they simply trying to get rid of me? I'm on to their underhanded tricks.
Growing up, the 4th of July was an anticlimactic affair. My family would grill burgers, drink kool-aid, and the Newhouse kids would bug the living hell out of my father to let us buy fireworks. And by fireworks, I mean sparklers and poppers--fireworks lite, if you will. But back then, it was awesome...until I realized that July in Texas is hot and mosquitoes found me especially tasty.
Needless to say, my childhood did not prepare me for the event that is the 4th of July with my wife's family. You see, my father-in-law loves fireworks. Actually, that's the understatement of the year. My FIL is the proverbial kid in a candy store at a fireworks stand. The first time I accompanied him, I was charged by my then future mother-in-law to keep him in check. With my frame of reference, that would be no problem. $25 max and we'd be on our way. I was so naive...and destined for failure.
We entered the store, and we headed straight toward the big stuff. Within five minutes we had surpassed "keeping him in check" territory. Being new to the family, I was hoping to make a good impression with my MIL. Clearly, that wasn't going to be happening this afternoon. By that evening, however, the shame of my failure was replaced with awe. FIREWORKS WERE AWESOME!
Since that initial show, I have only feigned mild resolve at keeping my FIL in check. Actually, the last time I gave that role much effort, I thought we were going to come to blows. Now, I am simply a fireworks enabler, insisting we go bigger, better, louder each year. It's ridiculous, really...ridiculously awesome.
This year, the show was no exception. We held the 4th early (the calendar be damned), and despite some near misses with a stray homicidal artillery shell, fun was had by all. Now, I just have to convince my MIL that a suburban full of fireworks only costs $25.
It's their loss really. If you like blog-Ben, you'd love actual-Ben...if I do say so myself. Though it does appear the family is getting along just fine without me...not missing me at all. I wonder if they actually read my blog...or are they simply trying to get rid of me? I'm on to their underhanded tricks.
Growing up, the 4th of July was an anticlimactic affair. My family would grill burgers, drink kool-aid, and the Newhouse kids would bug the living hell out of my father to let us buy fireworks. And by fireworks, I mean sparklers and poppers--fireworks lite, if you will. But back then, it was awesome...until I realized that July in Texas is hot and mosquitoes found me especially tasty.
Needless to say, my childhood did not prepare me for the event that is the 4th of July with my wife's family. You see, my father-in-law loves fireworks. Actually, that's the understatement of the year. My FIL is the proverbial kid in a candy store at a fireworks stand. The first time I accompanied him, I was charged by my then future mother-in-law to keep him in check. With my frame of reference, that would be no problem. $25 max and we'd be on our way. I was so naive...and destined for failure.
Since that initial show, I have only feigned mild resolve at keeping my FIL in check. Actually, the last time I gave that role much effort, I thought we were going to come to blows. Now, I am simply a fireworks enabler, insisting we go bigger, better, louder each year. It's ridiculous, really...ridiculously awesome.
This year, the show was no exception. We held the 4th early (the calendar be damned), and despite some near misses with a stray homicidal artillery shell, fun was had by all. Now, I just have to convince my MIL that a suburban full of fireworks only costs $25.
Tales of a Delinquent Blogger
I owe you, dear readers, an apology.
I have been delinquent in my blogging duties. I have allowed things like work and school to get in the way of broadcasting my unsolicited opinions and self-indulgent anecdotes. I know your lives have been unfulfilled without my musings. For this neglect, I am humbly sorry. My only defense is a desire to keep my aforementioned job and eventually complete my doctoral coursework. Yes, I can be unreasonable at times.
I have been inspired to blog on numerous occasions. Here's are some topics that have made my shortlist:
Happy reading!
I have been delinquent in my blogging duties. I have allowed things like work and school to get in the way of broadcasting my unsolicited opinions and self-indulgent anecdotes. I know your lives have been unfulfilled without my musings. For this neglect, I am humbly sorry. My only defense is a desire to keep my aforementioned job and eventually complete my doctoral coursework. Yes, I can be unreasonable at times.
I have been inspired to blog on numerous occasions. Here's are some topics that have made my shortlist:
- TU's Class of 2011 - This was the first class of students I'd seen from their first day of college to graduation. This group will always hold a special place in my heart, especially members of the O-Team, theProject, and my student staff at the Information Desk.
- The death of the serial comma - All I can say is that I am disappointed, miffed, and perplexed. I guess I should add rebelling to that list.
- The Voice - I am generally not a fan of reality television, but this was a great show. The Voice demonstrated that friendly competition does not diminish quality, and I loved that the coaches were invested in people, not just product. And no offense to the talented Javier Colon, but Dia Frampton, you could sing the phone book, and I'd listen.
Happy reading!
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