Category: Life

That little guy resting in his red, white, and blue pajamas is just so cute. The people in the showroom and on the phone at customer service are incredibly friendly and they have their catchy theme song playing in several languages and and music genres on their hold music. I should know I’ve spent my entire day today in my either a) waiting for them to show up, b) on hold trying to reach them to update them on the latest delivery fiasco, or c) in the showroom near my house trying to get the billing fixed.

It is only fair to you if I buy you several stiff martinis before recanting the whole story. Since I don’t yet know of a martini delivery service in Manhattan, I will give you the very brief recap:

1.) Delivery man called at 9:am to say he was 5 minutes away. Two hours later, he arrived.

2.) He showed up with the headboard, foot board, slats, and mattress, no rails to put the frame together. “Well, you’ll just have to call customer service. That will be $736 please.”

“I arranged for financing through the store.”

“Sorry, that’s not my problem. You need to pay it and then go back to the showroom.”

3.) At showroom, re: financing- “What went wrong with the financing?”

“Whoops. Must have not gone through. Did you void the order?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well I don’t really have any answers for you so please don’t ask me anymore questions. Just fill out the application again.” (This is after 45 minutes of waiting.)

4.) On phone with customer service, re: delivery of rails – “oh, they didn’t have the rails? It actually comes as a whole set, so you must have just not seen them.”

“No. They weren’t with the set.”

“Well we’ll see if we can get those to you today. It’ll probably be after 3.”

“Okay.”

5.) Rails finally arrive. However, one of the screws doesn’t fit into the main support.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” says the delivery man. “It’s only slightly defective. You’ll just have to live with it.” (He exits after commenting that I’m the first girl he’s seen in all his time with Sleepy’s that owns an electric screw driver. I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered, surprised, or irritated. I went for surprised.

6.) I begin to put my mattress cover over the new mattress and discover that there is a gaping hole in the back of the mattress. I’m not kidding. I go nuts. I call customer service and explain that I’m at the end of my rope with them and that I need to have a significant reduction in the price or they will need to come out here and replace both the “only slightly defective” frame and the mattress for free. After the salesmen has me on hold for 20 minutes, he says he can take $75 off max. I tell him to send someone next Saturday first thing.

So the Sleepy’s saga continues…..to avoid this mess, please shop somewhere, anywhere, else for your next mattress. Tune in next week to find out if I will spend yet another Saturday getting the “rest of my life.”

I’m awake this time because I have a sore throat – the all-too-common ailment that afflicts me when I’m stressed. Tomorrow I am (partially) moving into my new apartment on the glorious upper westside of Manhattan, my favorite neighborhood in the city. Paying too much rent for a too small space but that’s life in the best parts of the Big Apple.

Since I’m up, I thought I’d do some investigating into the nature of stress, or at the very least some thinking on the subject. My very unscientific theory is that our bodies unconsciously choose where to carry the stress by hitting us where it hurts so we pay attention. For example, I love talking to people, being engaged in conversation, learning about people’s interests and experiences. Having a sore throat completely hinders this process. My mind knows that so my body says, “Hey, pay attention, lady. You are stressing yourself out and you need to SLOW down.” So my throat gets a little dry, then a little scratchy, and then engulfed in flames. Aren’t bodies amazing?

Even just writing about this stress helps to calm me down, helps to alleviate some of the soreness in my throat. I’m off to do some yoga, to meditate on how smoothly my partial move will go tomorrow, how marvelous my parents are to help me do my full move on Saturday despite the fact that they have moved me more times than I can count on my two hands. I may be out of commission for the remainder of the week if I can’t find someone’s internet connection to tap in my new ‘hood. Never fear, though, I’ll be posting more often than ever once I am set up with internet in my new digs next week!

I kept myself awake for half the night last night, worrying. Worrying about things that I have absolutely no justification to worry about. Old issues that I (thought I had) settled long ago. I meditate. I do yoga – I teach yoga! For a long time, I have wanted to be the personification of serenity, of peace, of calm. And in an emergency situation, I am. Somehow when the world around me is spinning out of control, I can find the eye of the storm and ride it out. When all is quiet on the western front, my worry genes kick in. And this leaves me wondering if it’s possible that some of us are programmed for worry the same way we get much of our personality from our DNA. Am I destined to a life of constant concern?

This would not surprise me. My grandmother was the kindest, most loving, compassionate person I have ever known. And she worried more than anyone else on thye planet, about everyone, all the time. She took worrying to an art form. She made it a sport. My mom on the other hand, never worriesAbout anything. Ever. This astonishes me. Situations that send me right over the edge my mother barely notices.

In my constant quest to be a person of profound contradictions, I am an optimistic worrier. There must be an upside to this constant concern, right? I always have a plan B, and in the event that plan B doesn’t work, I have C and D tucked away as well. Contingencies for my contingencies. And I am meticulous about details as well as having a flair for the elaborate. It takes a great deal of time to create 4 separate, complete plans for every scenario of my life and that’s okay. With my frequent insomnia, I have plenty of time to hatch them.

The other upside to being a constant worrier is that I can actually be comfortable with being worried. Most people panic; I just get out my pen and paper and start drawing decision trees. If I happen to be near a computer, I crack open an excel file and begin to furiously input numbers and formulas – very handy since 90% of the time I am considering and re-considering some aspect of my finances.

I have made my peace with being a worrier (which is not the same thing as ending my worry) because I have accepted that even if I solve my current concern, another one is just over the horizon. Because I am always capable of finding something to worry about, I tend to take my time in considering my options for my current worry. Why rush through the stress when you can savor it?

I have become remarkably good at research. So as I was awake last night, I researched worrying. And for my fellow worriers out there, I have collected a few resources to help you get comfortable with worry, too.

http://www.webmd.com/ – sure to have every possible diagnosis for every arcane symptom you may have
http://www.yogajournal.com/ – the pose finder on the left side of the main page allows you to put in the problem that’s ailing you so you can find poses to alleviate it
http://www.suzeorman.com/ – she has all the answers – love life, financial life. She a straight-shooter and she’s entertaining.

And my favorite…
http://www.reallyworried.com/ – this website allows you type in what you’re really worried about – ANYTHING – and you’ll get real advice from real people. When I have some time, I am going to go through it and see if I can answer anyone else’s worries. In Buddhism, there is a tenant that says, “provide for another what it is you seek for yourself”. So if I want to worry less, maybe what I really need to do is help someone else worry less.

You may also enjoy this one: http://www.letitout.com/. This is the guerilla advertising campaign my Kleenex that encourages people to let their emotions show. I’ve fallen so much in love with these commercials and the sentiment behind them that I almost purchased a blue couch of my very for my new apartment.

When all else fails, I look at a quote by Mark Twain that I keep taped up next to my desk. “The human race has one really effective weapon, and that is laughter.” If I can’t make the worry go away, then the least I can do is have a good time with it. I’ll never be the personification of serenity, though I can at least have moments of it.

I should have known that this was the right business for me long ago. I could be wearing a paper bag during an afternoon of shopping and invariably, a guest will assume that I work in the store and begin a rapid-fire line of questioning. I was recently buying a couch at Jennifer Convertibles, minding my own business, examining the cushions of a floor model. A woman comes out of the restroom (apparently marked “employees only”) and begins to explain that she was given permission to use it so I have no right to yell at her. I said, “Why would I care whose bathroom you use?” “Oh, I thought you worked here.” Literally, I was wearing cut off gym shorts, a yoga top and flip-flops. Not what I would call work attire. I guess I have a natural air of knowledge.

Last week, I spent a day working in one of the stores that my company operates, learning the rope on merchandise offered, stocking shelves, talking to customers. This is the part of retail I love because it is an up-close and personal study of human psychology. Every person who walks is another living, breathing specimen of the human condition. And once you put on anything resembling a uniform, every customer assumes you know the answer to any possible question they may have.

After my lunch break, I headed back to the store and into the restroom when I hear someone calling me from behind. “Excuse me. EXCUSE me.” Gosh, I can’t even use the bathroom without someone flagging me down?

“What’s your name?”

“Christa.”

“Hi. I’m Kennedy.”

“Hi, Kennedy. How can I help you (despite the fact that we’re both about 6 inches from a bathroom stall)?”

“Are you a manager at Domino’s pizza?” (huh?)

“No. I work here (which is not Domino’s – not even close).”

“Well you tell Chen that I’ve got his number.” (huh?)

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know anyone named Chen.”

“Oh sure you don’t. I know what you’re all about. These Italians are ruining this country. And you know what else? The Catholics Church is shit, too.”

How did she know I was Italian? How did she know I was raised Catholic? And incidentally, I love pizza despite the fact that I don’t work at Domino’s. Is this woman psycho or psychic? I decide on the former since I don’t know anyone named Chen and she didn’t know my name. Though, I guess even psychics make a few mistakes now and then.

Now Kennedy is pissed. In my face, spitting. This isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with people like Kennedy. It helps that my father was a psychoanalyst and often invited his patients to stay for supper when I was a child. People a little left of center always seemed perfectly normal to me. I thought everyone had schizophrenics, people with multiple-personality disorder, and manic depressives as dinner guests. Some college students spend their work-study hours working in the library. Not me – I spent my freshman year of college working in the psychiatric in-patient unit at my university’s hospital. Some people would ask me how on Earth I could handle it – to me it was just another evening at the Avampato family dinner table.

I slowly backed away from Kennedy and headed for the door without using the bathroom. (If you ever find yourself in close quarters with someone missing all of his or her mental faculties, do not put yourself in the position of being in a bathroom stall with your pants down. Too vulnerable, rendering you incapable of making a run for it.) I went out to find one of the store managers. This could be disastrous if a guest was in the same position I had just been in. We needed to get this woman out of the store, quickly.

The store manager laughed when I told him about the event. I was completely confused. “Oh, you just met one of the crazies.” First off, I was worried that there sounded like there was more than one of them floating around. Next, I was worried that they seemed to make a habit out of frequenting this rest room. We camped out by the restrooms, waiting for Kennedy to emerge. After about 15 minutes later, she did. (I still wonder what took her so long. Maybe an argument with the soap dispenser?)
Kennedy sauntered out the front door, taking her sweet time, shouting a few obscenities here and there. No one, not even the guests, seemed to mind. All this time I thought my upbringing was unique, only to find that I guess more people are having dinner with “the crazies” nowadays. My father always used to say that he was a thinker ahead of his time…

I had a black and white television during my formative years. We were not a technological family so as a result I never developed the critical skills of hand-eye coordination necessary to play video games. Little did I know that this skill translates to nearly every team sport imaginable. I played soccer for a year and basketball for a year (until I realized just how vertically challenged I was), and then took up cross-country. I have run a marathon, just learned to swim, and teach yoga. All solitary sports, until now.

I always felt kind of bad about never playing a group sport. I wanted to belong to a team that accomplished something together, or lived through a loss together. I wanted that camaraderie. I just didn’t have the skills to make it happen. Plus I have an innate fear of harming someone else with my clumsiness. Then my friend Jeff told me about hash, a sport for drinkers with a running problem. This, I could get into….the only requirements: be able to run and enjoy beer and pizza. Done.

Tonight I went to my first hash. On the surface, it’s a simple sport. Someone designated as a hare marks out a course with chalk signs on city pavement. Courses can also include subway stations, departments stores, dirt trails. At one point we were scrambling up some rocks in Morningside Park. There are some false signs that may lead you on a wild goose chase for a bit. That’s all part of the fun. For a more in-depth look at the sport, check out this link: http://web.hashnyc.com/index.php?option=com_receding7&Itemid=34. The group ends at a bar for some rousing, beer, pizza, and community.

I am built for LSD: long, slow distance, and yet I always have a desire to keep up with the pack. So I went out too fast tonight and got pretty slow by the end. All of the hashers were terrific – funny, friendly, welcoming. Some were first-timers, “virgins”, like me. And some have been hashing for a decade, all over the world. They were all supportive, all wanting others to enjoy the event.

I ran the Chicago marathon a month after September 11th, and it was a very life-affirming event. I still have an intense love for Chicago and its people because of it. They came out in droves to support the marathon runners, many offering signs, whistles, and shouts of encouragement, along with orange slices, popcorn, and water. You could feel the love going along that course, at a time in our nation’s history when we desperately needed to support one another.

Though on a smaller scale, my hashing experience was similar. Our course tonight took us from 125th and Lexington, into the Bronx, and back down the westside, ending at 106th and Columbus, soon to be my new neighborhood. Everyone we passed cheered us on, kids ran with us for a block or two, high-fived us as we passed them huffing and puffing. It’s amazing how much that little encouragement can help to lift you up and over a slump. It’s incredible how the support of another person we don’t even know and will probably never see again can make all the difference, even when we feel we are tired and worn out.

We don’t do this enough. Some times I think I get so wrapped up in what I’m doing that I forget that being a cheerleader for anyone trying to accomplish anything is just as important as doing something myself. Yes, we need to get in the game, and we also need to stand on the sidelines and lend support to those on the field.

As I was running, I found myself thinking about the Nash equilibrium, the theorem that would later constitute the basis of game theory. (I have warned you of my nerdiness in previous posts.) The theory was the main subject of the movie “A Beautiful Mind.” Stated very simply, the Nash equilibrium is a point at which two people make the best choices for themselves, taking into account the decisions of the others. The Pollyanna side of my brain likes to state this as “we accomplish better outcomes for all not by thinking just about ourselves, but thinking about everyone impacted by our choices.” We get to a better place when we take others with us. And that’s hashing. Now that’s team spirit – let’s go have a beer and celebrate.

**Incidentally, if anyone is interested in joining me for a hash, just give me a shout!

I treat every evening like it’s New Year’s Eve, or my birthday. I spend a lot of time reflecting on where I was a year ago from today. What was I doing? Where was I working (or hoping to work)? Who was I with? And what’s changed? My friend Katie recently told me about a book called The Secret. I have been under a rock the past few years, also known as a rigorous MBA program, and I missed it despite the fact that it was on Oprah.

The Secret could be classified as a New Age-y self-help book, not that I’ve ever read one of course. It bears a lot of similarities to yogic principles – we live the life we imagine. While in general I am a “grab life by the balls” kind of person, I also think there is value in practicing patience over impulse from time to time and this becomes easier as I get older. There is a sweet spot to be found when we can create a balance between being proactive and accepting that certain events, be they incredible or tragic, are necessary to keep us moving forward. Each moment contains the exact teaching that we need at that time.

There is also a fair amount of research to show that between the ages of 26 and 32, women go through a fantastic amount of change, some of it so difficult that we wouldn’t wish it on our worst enemies. The person we are at the start of that period and the person we become have a radically different perspective on the world. As someone approaching the end of this period, I can vouch for its validity. And thanks goodness that this is the case. Life really is better once the dust from those 6 years settles.

A year ago I had no way of knowing that the life I have now is the life I could really have. I didn’t know how much I could love a job. I didn’t know how much I could love and appreciate my family and friends and their support. I didn’t know that a city could be a living, breathing entity of its own. A year ago, I thought I had veered so far off the track that I’d never be able to find my way to happiness again. It turns out that I needed a detour not only to find happiness, but to keep it and help it grow to something beyond what my imagination could envision. The turmoil made me appreciate happiness. I wasn’t asking too much from life. Just the opposite. I wasn’t asking for enough. I wasn’t asking for anything. And that’s exactly what I ended up with.

A year ago, the most I could do was to ask for a little more light in my life, a little more happiness. And while I was content to let life carry me for a little while, I was also willing to get out there, roll up my sleeves, and get to work building happiness. And I got more in return than I bargained for. Here’s to hoping that good karma leads to more of the same.