On Thursday, I shivered through my first regular season San Francisco Giants game of 2014. The night air was so cold, I had to slip into my down jacket before the end of the second inning — not a good sign. Unfortunately, I forgot my gloves.
It was “Farewell to the ‘Stick” night — a celebration of more than 50 years of baseball and football played amidst wind, fog and swirling trash at soon-to-be-demolished Candlestick Park. The fitting promotional giveaway was a commemorative scarf that smelled awful when removed from its plastic bag. I wore it anyway. It’s no coincidence that scarves are among the most popular promos at AT&T Park. On my way home, I encountered at least one freezing fan offering to BUY one off someone.
Granted, East Coast teams play in some very cold temperatures in the early months of the season — a few years ago, the Cleveland Indians home opener was SNOWED out — but they have the scorching heat of June through August to look forward to. In San Francisco, we probably won’t see weather like that at a night game unless we make it to the post-season in October.
I’m surprised AT&T Park hasn’t tried a mittens promotional giveaway. Or a hand warmer giveaway.
Naturally, such an extremity-numbing game went to extra innings, and unfortunately the Giants wound up losing to the Arizona Diamondbacks by one run in the 10th. Still, my seat — four rows from the field, right next to the visitors dugout — was something to blog home about. I can only assume that the original owner gave up price-gouging for Lent, because I bought it on StubHub for at or near face value. Bless you, kind stranger.
Apologies for any camera shake. I shot until the shivering made it too hard to keep still…
I have a blog post inside me, just ITCHING to get out. It’s about The Power of Habit: Why We Do What We Do in Life and Business, by Charles Duhigg. Published to great acclaim in 2012, the book is fascinating and confidence-boosting — because Duhigg contends (with research to back him up) that once you break down what constitutes a habit, it’s easier to create those you most want, and nudge those you don’t into hibernation.
The book is also extremely well written. I attended a writing seminar a year or so ago, where the speaker encouraged attendees to hone our way with words by reading great writing… like this.
I’ve decided to hold off, though, until I finish the book… which will be soon. The Power of Habit is 416 pages long, but if you enjoy digging deep into what makes human beings tick, it’s a very fast read.
Today I took a break from examining habit making-and-breaking to experiment with Color Splash, a mobile app that allows users to turn a color photo black and white, then retrieve color in a particular section using his/her finger. I’m hooked.
I’ll take in my first regular season San Francisco Giants game of 2014 tomorrow night, and I guarantee you I’ll frame some of my photos with Color Splash in mind.
Check out my early works, using a few oldies but goodies as canvases.
On April 2, I caught the second half of a double-header between the Oakland Athletics and the Cleveland Indians. (The game had been rescheduled from the previous evening, due to rain.) I sat close the Indians’ dugout. The cheeks in my section’s seats were just as likely to belong to a Tribe fan, as an A’s fan. My people showed up well, and in respectable numbers. Even so, after the game I felt lucky to escape Oakland Coliseum with my Indians jersey intact.
What is UP with Oakland fans? Some of them are crazy, and I don’t mean in a zany, entertaining, endearing way. I suppose if I had to watch baseball in a dilapidated stadium with regular sewage back-ups and remnants of the Raiders’ gridiron still visible in August, I’d be bitter too. In fact, I have traditionally favored building the A’s a new stadium south of San Francisco, because they are an excellent team and lifting them up would be good for baseball. Now, I’m not so sure.
Forget the bleachers, it would seem that the nastiest A’s fans prefer to sit near first base, close to the visitor’s dugout — for maximum heckling effect. They don’t just ridicule opposing players; they also deride their fans, should they dare to cheer audibly. It’s as if they enjoy HATING the opposition more than they like cheering for their own team, which seems twisted and sad.
First baseman Nick Swisher joined the Tribe two years ago, and I’ve seen him play in Oakland before. Each time, A’s fans hurl hateful insults at him like I’ve never heard. I mean it, and I’m from CLEVELAND, where LeBron James committed his crimes against humanity. I understand justified vitriol of fans who have been wronged – but LeBron voluntarily took his talents to Miami in 2010. Since then, like most Cavs fans, I have pulled myself together and moved on.
Nick Swisher left Oakland six seasons ago, and not even by choice! He was traded to the Chicago White Sox in 2008, before again being traded to the New York Yankees. One particularly odious Oakland fan heckled Swisher over and over for his greediness, how much he got paid per strikeout etc., so I assume he thought Swisher had jumped ship to the Yankees for their deep pockets. Unfortunately this ill-informed joker didn’t shut up all night.
Another bad, bad fan sat nearby, solo. (I was also a party of one, but at least I have decent photos to show for it.) This guy drank a lot, and appeared to seethe even when the A’s led on the scoreboard – which was often. His favorite taunt? “You WEEEEEAAAAAK!” Not “you are weak” or “you’re weak”. But “YOU WEAK”. He even called Indians catcher Carlos Santana weak after he got a hit. A double. Whatever.
This sad little man belittled Santana with racist insults I won’t repeat here, because they honestly made me sick to my stomach. (I heard similar taunting, to a much lesser extent, at a spring training game in March.) As if that wasn’t bad enough, strangers around the idiot LAUGHED. I overheard another heckler say, “This guy is so funny, he could keep me going all night!” Oh.My.God.
I refuse to accept the “nervous laughter” defense here. If you are nervous try biting your nails, grinding your teeth or indulging in emotional eating like a normal person. Do not giggle or chuckle. It only encourages a bigot.
Meanwhile, Oakland Coliseum “Guest Services” personnel stood around looking bored. I still am not sure what services they provide.
Oh yeah, I nearly forgot. This last heckler also went after shortstop Asdrubal Cabrera a few times, but inadvertently referred to him as “Melky”. Such was the level of aptitude I was surrounded by. I was tempted to point out that Melky Cabrera is a different player who has never worn an Indians uniform, but the risk of a “they all look alike to me” comeback was just too high.
So it was only fitting that the Indians turned things around in the 9th inning, with the help of A’s pitcher Jim Johnson. Things got very quiet, except for an occasional insult redirected at Johnson, instead of my Tribe. The Indians won, 6-4. As I packed up my camera equipment, I couldn’t help but notice that the heckling mob had already dissipated. Guess they were worried about traffic on a chilly Wednesday night. In Oakland, California. At 9:30 p.m.
Funny, Nick Swisher appeared to find the post-game atmosphere quite comfortable. Very satisfying.
I could say “suck it”, but I won’t. Instead I’ll say, Roll Tribe.. and congratulations to second baseman Jason Kipnis, who signed a six-year, $52.5 million contract with the Indians today — one day after his 27th birthday.
I called it first: He’s a keeper. Happy birthday Jason.
Zach McAllister
Mike Aviles has a crazy swing ritual in the batter’s box
Nick Swisher
Nick Swisher
Carlos Santana, aka “Weak”
Tito returns from pulling Zach MacAllister
Asdrubal Cabrera thinks about it… I love this photo because it looks totally staged. Daric Barton could not strike a more studly pose. He’s almost Tebowing. He’s Bartoning.
Mike Aviles
Cody Allen
Closer John Axford. Big feet, or dainty ankles? You be the judge… could be both.
I returned from Scottsdale and Cactus League baseball less than 48 hours ago, and am clinging desperately to the last shreds of my spring training vacation buzz. I didn’t have much time to blog and post photos while I was away, so now I’m playing catch(!) up. (Playing catch? See what I did there?) I also have some reflections on my five days in the Arizona desert.
America’s pastime isn’t always pretty: I often hear Bay Area dwellers caveat something going on around us with, “but of course, we live in a bubble.” It’s a good economy bubble, thanks to the Silicon Valley, as well as a great weather bubble – and as a result, San Francisco attracts a lot of young, educated, physically active people. Live here long enough, and you can lose sight of how the rest of America actually looks and behaves. Spring training in Scottsdale delivers an eyeful of reality.
I am not a perfect physical specimen, and I struggle to maintain a healthy weight, yet when I’m at Spring Training I often find myself both reassured (“Hey, maybe I’m not in such bad shape!”), and alarmed by the amount of morbid obesity around me. Listen, like most fans I indulge in ballpark food with relish (and mustard) – but it’s shocking to see so many overweight, middle-aged people sucking down multiple beers, foot-long chili cheese dogs and double cone soft serve ice cream… then hiring a golf cart to ride – rather than walk — .8 miles to their hotel. A few of these folks may have an injury or disability that impacts their mobility, but not THAT many.
If you see a slim person at Spring Training, it’s dollars to doughnuts (pun intended) that he/she is under 25 years of age, with a metabolism that is still working overtime. And if she’s a woman, she’s probably wearing false eyelashes, a push-up bra, a skin-tight tank top and very short shorts. One such young woman stood next to me before Sunday’s Giants/Indians game, as I took some of the photos below. Flashing her ample cleavage and a button declaring “It’s My Birthday”, she got lots of autographs from Indians players, despite not knowing their names or the positions they play. I SUSPECT it wasn’t the birthday button that did the trick. Speaking of autographs…
I don’t get the autograph thing: Maybe I’m bitter, because the first (and last) autograph I ever got — from Chris Evert, who I adored as a kid and still think is pretty awesome – I misplaced almost immediately, and was heartbroken. I guess I was so scarred by the loss, it soured me on the whole autograph-getting experience. So I am fascinated by grown men who jostle and elbow their way to the edge of the field each day, hoping to get a signature on a ball or cap brim. Many of them enjoy telling players stories as they sign, like “I was at the game where you hit that homer off Clayton Kershaw”, or whatever. The players politely nod and say things like, “Oh yeah? That’s cool.” Once they have an autograph in hand, these men beam like little boys.
To each his own, right? The autograph frenzy only bothers me when I see a father pushing his kid HARD to get a signature, and it’s clearly the dad’s thing. The kid doesn’t care. In fact, before the aforementioned Giants/Indians game, a dad – who I’m pretty sure is an otherwise good guy and loving father – forced his super-shy son to the front of the crowd. When the kid hung back and an Indians player missed him as he moved down the line signing for fans, the dad got overly enthusiastic and shouted “little boy right there, you missed a little boy to your right, little boy, little boy”. The player stopped cold, glared and asked, “You telling me to sign?” He eventually signed the boy’s ball, and father and son thanked him. It was awkward. I was sorry for the dad, getting schooled in front of the crowd. But I also sympathize with players, who must get fed up with pushy fans treating them like employees who OWE THEM an autograph.
Shop much?: The only thing at spring training that’s more frantic than a line of autograph hounds, is the San Francisco Giants shop in Scottsdale Stadium. Step inside and it’s like you’ve been sucked into the famous Running of the Brides at Filene’s basement. There is pushing, shoving and general rudeness by fans who are seemingly unaware that there are Dugout Stores all over the Bay Area, or that most Giants swag is available online. Not sure how they manage to function in society in the off-season. The weird thing is, while the Cleveland Indians/Cincinnati Reds shop at Goodyear Ballpark is always crowded, it lacks Scottsdale’s mob-like, looter vibe. I wonder what the Cubs team shop in Mesa is like? Cubs fans are rabid too, but Chicagoans have Midwestern manners so…
There it is. A recap of my easing into baseball season, in fewer than 1,000 words. Despite wearing 50 SPF sunscreen I picked up some color (in the form of freckles), and I took good photos, consumed a few warm-weather cocktails, and shook off a load of work stress.
Next step: Opening Day! Put me in coach, I’m ready to play!
I love sports photography – you’ve probably surmised that by now – but the truth is, once I get caught up in a game I’m not always ready for the fast and unexpected. Pablo Sandoval’s jumping catch in Monday’s San Francisco Giants game against the Cleveland Indians? Nope, didn’t even have my camera raised. (I applauded wildly, though. Thirty pounds ago, Panda would have missed that ball by 12 inches.)
Yesterday’s spring training game in Goodyear, AZ – the Indians vs. the Cincinnati Reds – presented greater-than-average challenges for my photography, because my view of parts of the field was partially obstructed by an MLB.TV cameraman. So, I missed the chance to capture some important stuff – including the second-base umpire taking a Brandon Phillips line drive to the groin. (An odious man seated next to me kept yelling, “Ball’s still in play” as the poor ump lay face down in the dirt surrounded by concerned players, until another fan suggested he stick a sock in it.)
Replay umpire John Tumpane was later hit in the backside by a bad throw to second by Indians first baseman Joe Sever. I missed that too. It was a tough day to be an umpire, or a photographer seated in section 118 of Goodyear Ballpark.
The photo above of Nick Swisher was a classic case of right place, right time. I finally got a good view of the batter’s box, and since Swisher had already homered twice in two days I had my camera trained on him. He walked, and (unintentionally) I snapped just as he tossed his bat to the side. I nearly deleted the photo, then noticed the bat’s shadow on the ground and realized I caught it hanging midair, perfectly parallel to the ground. I get a kick out of capturing a split second facial expression, a foot on the bag, the ball making contact etc. If I got paid for my baseball pics, this could be a money shot.
It’s that time of year again: Major League Baseball Spring Training in Arizona. The new season brings a new camera lens for me, which is proving a little unwieldy so far. For starters, when it’s attached to my camera the entire ensemble weights more than six pounds. I got cramps in my arm, and a blister on my zooming thumb. Tomorrow I’ll rub some desert grit on it, and get back in the mix.
It was a beautiful Scottsdale day: hot of course, with breezes that kept us cool while kicking up a lot of dust. Unfortunately, it wasn’t pretty for the San Francisco Giants — or Matt Cain who gave up seven runs to the Oakland Athletics. The Giants lost 8-1.
Matt Cain
Scottsdale Stadium
Buster Posey
Matt Cain casts a long shadow.
Hunter Pence warms up before hitting a home run — the only run the Giants would score.
Like most parents, mine had plenty of rules and expectations, but above all else insisted on academic performance. I don’t mean they set the bar at Harvard Medical School or a Rhodes Scholarship, but they expected maximum effort, perfect attendance and a respectful, cooperative attitude in the classroom. There was no sense in arguing, “My teacher has it in for me” when there was a problem; that protest was always shut down, before I had a chance to complete the sentence. In my family, an education was a gift that was not to be squandered. That said, it was not an inalienable right. My folks agreed to pay, so long as I kept up my end of the bargain – and so I did.
On Tuesday, an 18-year-old New Jersey high school senior lost round one in a lawsuit she’s waging against her parents, to force them to pay what remains of her private high school tuition, her living and transportation expenses “for the foreseeable future”, and her college expenses. (In case you are wondering, according to Collegedata.com, one year at a private American university currently costs approximately $25,000.)
Rachel Canning arrived in court wearing khakis, a button-down shirt, a monogrammed school sweater and eyeliner reminiscent of Amy Winehouse. She also had a chip on her shoulder the size of The Preppy Handbook, which her lawyer had obviously read cover to cover before buying her that get up. Rachel contends that her parents kicked her to the curb and cut her off financially, because they didn’t like her boyfriend. Not true, the Cannings counter. They say Rachel left on her own accord, because she didn’t like house rules like curfews. Oh, and they “claim” she had been suspended from school.
I put the word claim in quotation marks there, because news reports present her suspension as an accusation — something that is being alleged. Seriously, how lazy is the American media? How hard is it to verify a school suspension? What ever happened to old-fashioned gumshoe reporting?
Anyway, a judge denied Rachel’s request for high school tuition and current living expenses but the jury is still out (yep, that’s a pun) on other issues in the suit, including college costs. Regardless of the final outcome, in the age of social media she is screwed. For the rest of her life, a simple Google search will spotlight Rachel Canning’s narcissism, sense of entitlement and crummy judgment.
Even if she eventually wins her lawsuit, she’s already lost.
Where does a kid get the idea that her parents owe her an all-expenses-paid education? Plus, transportation costs! Clearly, the Canning household had problems, but debate rages about whether blame belongs with America’s everybody-gets-a-trophy culture. Maybe, I’m just not sure.
This afternoon, I met up with a friend and former colleague whose daughter is considering applying to the high school I attended. I told my friend about the small classes, and the dedicated faculty that generally lives on campus. By graduation day, those teachers knew me inside and out. They had coached my sports teams, helped prep me for standardized tests, reviewed my college applications, and pumped up my confidence when I needed it (which was often).
Once I had a severe case of bronchitis, and a fever so high I could barely raise my head off the infirmary pillow. I lost count of how many faculty members stopped by. I was woozy, and would literally pass out during their visits. Later I’d wake up alone – but not. I knew someone who cared about me would be back to check on me soon.
I shared a story about my American History class, in which I often went head to head with my friend-and-nemesis Brad on political issues. (Believe it or not, I leaned pretty far right back then. My, how times have changed!) When it came time for a school tradition – debates between “management” and “workers” in the Pullman strike of 1894 – our teacher Mr. Army naturally assigned me to represent the oppressed working man, and cast Brad as a fat cat industrialist. He knew us both so well, and wanted to challenge us. Mr. Army had a pretty wicked sense of humor, come to think of it.
That was years ago, but I still remember large chunks of those debates as if they happened yesterday. I wonder if Big Man Baron Brad does too? He certainly has a lot to atone for, having been on the wrong side of history and all…
Bringing us back to the present day, I described to my friend the strong bond among alumni of our little school. A few of my classmates have succeeded in very public ways, and the rest of us couldn’t be more proud. One coaches a professional sports team, and when his games are nationally televised – especially during the playoffs – Facebook LIGHTS UP. Regardless of where we settled after college, allegiances to local sports tend to take a back seat when this guy and his team come to town.
My high school was expensive then, and the current tuition kind takes my breath away. While I didn’t have a full appreciation of the sacrifices my parents made to send to me there at the time, I was aware that I was lucky. No one ever had to warn me, “Don’t you dare blow this!”. I just intrinsically knew, and I suspect most of my classmates did too.
Maybe Rachel Canning will triumph in her lawsuit, and her parents will be forced to pony up five times the income of an American family living at the poverty line, to send her to the college of her choice. If that happens, I expect Rachel will gloat and feel vindicated in her sense of entitlement. She’ll probably get 15 more minutes of fame, as Today and Good Morning America woo her for exclusive interviews.
But, will she be GRATEFUL for her education? Or, grateful to her parents?
Somehow I doubt it, and I don’t think that’s winning. Do you?
Lady Mary Crawley, Cora Crawley, Countess of Grantham and Lady Edith Crawley
The answer is… nothing. Nothing is funny about Downton Abbey — or compelling, or even mildly entertaining for that matter. Not anymore, and not for a long time.
Last night, American viewers flocked to season four’s finale with hope in our hearts — despite all that has come before — and we were let down. It was sad, like Lady Edith. So today I’m one of many bloggers bemoaning what Downton Abbey has become, thanks to Julian Fellows and his writing staff. (At least I assume he has a writing staff; finding a group of people who can collectively churn out such awful storylines and dreadful dialogue must take some doing.)
Like anyone who appreciates smart, imaginative television, I go nuts when a series that once captivated me starts to implode. It’s even worse when the season ends without an enticing twist to make me nostalgic: “Well, maaaaybe I’ll give that show one more chance.” Think Homeland, which deteriorated over time, with a plot so frenetic and characters so deliriously overwrought my head is still spinning. Yet a fourth season approaches, and Brody is DEAD, Carrie is about to GIVE BIRTH, Saul is ON A MEDITERRANEAN CRUISE and Dana is STILL VERY RESENTFUL. Anything can happen, right? I’m not ready to let go!
Meanwhile back at Downton, Julian Fellows appears completely out of ideas. Lady Mary Crawley has emerged from mourning her late husband (and cousin) Matthew Crawley, and make no bones about it — her shingle is OUT and she’s open for business. She is dangling not one, not two, but three suitors with the chilly efficiency of… Lady Mary Crawley, the season one version. Aside from her elusive baby George, and her sudden interest in profitable pig farming, Mary has not evolved one bit.
Her hangdog sister Lady Edith is still the unluckiest character England’s fictional aristocracy has ever seen. In the first three seasons, Edith was dumped twice by Anthony – the second time at the altar. She also fell hard for a mysterious World War I veteran, wrapped in more bandages than an Egyptian mummy. He too flew the coop, as NPR’s Linda Holmes blogged, “as quickly as a writer who suddenly realizes he has no idea where this plotline is going.”
At the start of season four, Edith falls in love with Michael Gregson, a London newspaper editor. He’s married but his wife is mad. (Julian Fellows, meet Charlotte Brontë.) While he’s planning a trip to Germany – sure to be a romantic paradise for generations to come! — for a quickie divorce, he and Edith enjoy a quickie of a different sort, and she ends up in a family way.
Of course she does, because she’s Lady Edith.
Alas, Michael disappears on his first night in Berlin after a run in with a band of Nazis(!), forcing Edith to flee to Switzerland for nine months with Aunt Rosalind to (a-HEM), “learn French”. She has her baby there – a girl she puts up for adoption — then returns to Downton, her absence having scarcely registered.
Nearly every other plotline on Downton Abbey is now superfluous. Tom the ex-chauffer remains in a limbo state, wrestling with his socialist conscience while enjoying port and cigars in the Downton drawing room. He flirts with a suffragette and considers moving to America. (I’d offer to help him pack.)
Thomas still schemes, engineering the hiring of lady’s maid Baxter, who he is blackmailing – with what, after nine episodes, we still don’t know. And there’s Bates and Anna, Molesley, James the pretty boy footman, Alfred and Ivy and, um… ZZZZZZ.
And so it is after four seasons: I’m through with the Crawleys and everyone who works below stairs at Downton Abbey. Sunday night simply must have more to offer.
Come to think of it, Baseball — America’s pastime — resumes in April and there’s always a Sunday night game on Fox Sports.
Blimey, enough with the manor born. It’s time to put down the Pimms cups, strap on your athletic cups (not you, ladies) and PLAY BALL!
My life is pretty busy at the moment. Don’t worry; I’ve not become one of those humble braggarts who respond to each “How are you?” with, “I’m soooooo slammed”. I am busy, though, as I’m sure you are. I’m also fortunate; I don’t have to work insanely long hours or weekends, or endure a brutal Bay Area daily commute. I can generally squeeze in a few early morning gym visits each week, and an occasional night photography class. I’m rarely forced to cancel weeknight plans because of a last-minute work conflict, and it’s been years since I pulled an all-nighter (on purpose, at least).
Even so, each evening I struggle to shake off the day and relax. I try to walk home at least one night per week — up and over some of San Francisco’s steepest hills — but once I cross my apartment’s threshold and kick off my shoes, I feel the inevitable pull of… multitasking. Preparing dinner (as Jerry Seinfeld says, take out is still effort), cleaning up afterwards, sorting through mail, and reading and answering emails – there’s not much time left for pleasure reading, or giving a movie my undivided attention. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to restart a DVRd episode of Frontline or Homeland halfway through, because I got so distracted by blogging/tidying/emailing.
Thankfully, I recently abandoned my to-do list long enough to discover a German detective series, Marie’s Mind For Murder on PBS. Mariele Millowitsch stars as Cologne homicide inspector Marie Brand, a soft-spoken, gentle and sober alternative to Prime Suspect’s brilliant-but-self-destructive DCI Jane Tennison. When Marie is not solving brutal crimes, she’s tending to turtles in her husband’s reptile-specializing pet store, helping colleagues’ children with their math homework (she’s a numbers genius) or completing police paperwork using both hands simultaneously. Her partner, Inspector Jürgen Simmel, sneaks in friends to watch her fill out forms, double-time.
Committing to two hours of Marie and Jürgen each week is a departure for me because the series is subtitled, which makes multitasking impossible. To watch, I have to go all-in. I’ve loved getting completely lost in the smart plots revolving around decent characters (except for the murderers, of course) that are relatable, realistically sized and silicone-free. So far, all the violence has happened off camera – a most welcome change of pace.
Meanwhile the walls of my apartment are still standing. I haven’t been evicted or passed out from household dust inhalation. It’s a miracle.
I’m having so much fun, in fact, that I’ve branched out to The Returned, another riveting subtitled series (French, this time), broadcast on the Sundance Channel. It’s set in a small mountain community that is stunned when a group of residents — who have long been presumed dead — return, entirely un-aged and unaware of their seven-year absence. The episodes have languished on my DVR since last November. You guessed it; I put off watching, because of the subtitles.
Tonight I cooked and blogged, but also managed to carve out some single-focus me time with women’s Olympic figure skating. Yuna Kim just gave such an exquisite performance, I nearly broke down and cried. I’m glad I paused my typing and experienced it live (or, as close to live as prime time NBC coverage can get) rather than via DVR.
Living in the moment, one weeknight at a time. I could get used to this. At least, I am determined to try.
“If you ever win a trip to Hawaii, and it rains the whole time, at least one person you know back home will secretly get some satisfaction from that.”
My mom told me this once, when I was young. I don’t recall the context of the remark, nor do I know why it has stuck with me for so many years. As kids we lack the guile and emotional baggage of adults, so maybe the concept seemed so crazy I needed a few decades to decide for myself if it was true. Who would be mean-spirited enough to wish someone a crummy vacation?
I’m now a battle-scarred veteran of life, who is still waiting to win that trip to Hawaii. In the meantime I’ve had opportunities to test my mom’s theory in other ways, and I must admit: she had a point. Of course, our true friends want us to succeed and be happy no matter what. (If you doubt this for yourself, now is probably a good time to reassess your definition of friendship.) Facebook got it right, though; relationships are complicated.
I’m talking to all you single ladies out there. How often have you seen BFF’s fall out, because one of them starts dating a new guy? Sometimes, she blows off her female friends for the sake of being a “good girlfriend”, which is hurtful and lame, and her friends have every right to be resentful. But often, it’s just a matter of the dynamic changing. What happens when your best single friend — your go-to weekend brunch and movie date — isn’t single anymore? It can feel like you’ve been left behind, and being left behind hurts.
Changes to dynamics at the office can have similar impacts. At my company, employees take a yearly survey to measure our engagement, with the recurring question, “Do you have a best friend at work?” It was confusing at first, but it’s not a suggestion that everyone’s best friend SHOULD BE a colleague. Rather, it’s intended to measure the depth of our workplace relationships, and how many of us has a teammate we believe really has our back.
I’ve blogged quite a few times about my job change last October. Reactions to my seizing a new opportunity were mixed, with good work friends – the ones I often socialize with outside the office – of course being the most enthusiastic and supportive. Other colleagues who had spent much of their careers in the group I was leaving were a bit more… reserved. While warmer wishes would have been welcomed, I didn’t much worry about what those folks thought. I figure we’re just cut from different cloth. They were not my BFFs at work.
What DID worry me was the impact on relationships with friends at work who had been company in my previous misery. How much enthusiasm could I show for my new job without alienating one of them? A few years ago, a close friend/colleague and I went through rough patches at work together, and spent many lunches and happy hours commiserating. But when I emerged from my funk before she did, our friendship went south. I’ve often wondered if I seemed insensitive or boastful. If I did, it wasn’t intentional. I suspect in fact, we just weren’t as close friends as I’d thought we were.
Last week, I joined a particularly happy happy hour, with a group of colleagues who stood by and supported me in last year’s gloomiest days. We were five tipsy ladies, celebrating recent career changes that, without exception, had been positive. We high-fived and congratulated one another, and laughed a little harder and louder than we’d done in the past. Our work war stories lacked the bitter edge they’d sometimes had.
It wasn’t a true test of my mom’s theory because everyone at the table was in a good space personally and professionally – but even if that weren’t the case, I hope those who had found their happy place could have offered encouragement to the ones still struggling, even while celebrating their own good fortune without self-consciousness. By doing so, they’d be showing there’s light at the end of the tunnel, if nothing else.
In Write Field 