Author Archives: kelly

MRI Don’t Like This

Posted on by
Reply

I went for an MRI on my back a couple weeks ago and I freaked out. Yes, indeedy. I panicked like the girls I despised in school who would squeal in horror if a ball came near them in gym class. I didn’t scream, but I did ask the tech to let me come out right after being put in. I knew that it was a confined space but it wasn’t until my arms were pressed into my body and I could feel the sides of the tube that I panicked. Luckily, the tech was kind and patient. She gave me some time, a glass of water and promised to crank the air up to help me breathe. So, I took some deep breaths, put in the earplugs, put on the eye mask and laid back down.

Josie, the tech, would talk to me before each test and let me know how long each one would be. I would stammer out, “Oh, okay. Thanks!”, in the cheeriest, calmest voice I could muster. Who was I trying to fool? She had already witnessed my girly freak-out, so re-claiming any cred was futile. Still, I had to do it. There’s something in me that doesn’t like to show others what I’m really feeling. I have lots of suspicions why this is, and that’s a whole other blog post for sure. Let’s just say that making myself vulnerable comes about as easy to me as those word problems we used to get in math class. You know what I’m talking about. Two trains are going in opposite directions? I always went down the wrong track (no pun intended) with these problems. I’d get caught up in the red herrings in the story like the conductor was eating a bologna sandwich. It always pissed me off that x + y never equaled the bologna sandwich.

But I digress. So, during the minutes when Josie wasn’t talking to me, I had to do something with my time to keep from hyperventilating. I tried to do some meditating and focus just on my breathing. That worked a bit but then I worried that I was breathing too deeply. Maybe the deep inhalations would mess up the MRI. Then I started thinking about all the other ways I could mess up the MRI:  involuntary muscle twitching, an itch on my nose, a coughing fit. Obviously, this made me breathe shallower and faster. Not good. So back to deep breaths. Josie told me to imagine I was in Hawaii. Nice thought, but I’m one of maybe two people who have never been to Hawaii. When I think of Hawaii, sure I think of how beautiful it must be. But then I think of humidity, how badly I’d burn, and the stories I’ve heard about flying cockroaches. This brings on more shallow, fast breathing. Okay, cancel Hawaii. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts.

Before I can find an image that doesn’t contain hacking coughs or flying prehistoric insects, Josie tells me that I’m done. I feel myself sliding out of the chamber of horrors and I’m free. I thank Josie for her kindness and wait for the pictures. I sneak a peek at one of the pictures and I can’t make sense of it. It’s x + y all over again except this time, I’m okay with waiting to find out the answer. But, I do find myself craving a bologna sandwich for the first time in years.

You Play to Win the Game

Posted on by
2

Back in 2002 when he was the head coach of the New York Jets, Herman Edwards uttered this line and his sentiment really resonated with me in light of the coverage of the defeat of the U.S. Women’s National Team in the World Cup Final. I was puzzled and annoyed by the coverage of their loss mainly because it seemed patronizing. The fact that the U.S. team failed to capitalize on multiple scoring opportunities in the first half, lost a lead twice, committed sloppy errors that led to Japan’s scores and totally broke down during penalty kicks was absent in the coverage. It was all hearts and flowers about their wins over Brazil and France. Don’t get me wrong. Those were great wins and there is no doubt that the U.S. team did wonders for women’s sports, especially soccer, here in the U.S. All you have to do is look at the ratings.

But, if the goal of playing is winning, they failed. Why are people so afraid to say that? I think it’s because no one, especially men, wants to be accused of being a sexist. The fastest, easiest way to shut down debate is to call someone either (a) racist, (b) homophobic, or (c) sexist. By pointing out that they failed to win the game doesn’t mean that they are failures as human beings or that their run in the tournament was a failure. Anyone with common sense knows that. Are female athletes so fragile that they need protection from criticism? Hardly. Female athletes are strong in body, mind and spirit, just like their male counterparts and they deserve to be praised and criticized by the same standards.

Finally, someone said just this very thing. On the July 19, 2011 episode of Real Sports With Bryant Gumbel, host Bryant Gumbel delivered a spot-on commentary. I don’t always agree with Mr. Gumbel, but he said everything I was thinking after the World Cup Final. I applaud him for facing the slings and arrows he’s sure to receive for daring not to parrot the politically correct party line.

Nutella It Like It Is

Posted on by
3

Every once in awhile, a commercial comes along that annoys me beyond words. Well, maybe not beyond words, since I’m now blogging about it. But, you get the idea. This Nutella commercial is the current target of my advertising angst. We see a harried Mom of three oozing gratitude that Nutella came into her life. Now she can give her family “a breakfast they’ll want to eat” and she can feel good “that they’re ready to tackle the day”. Really? You popped toast in the toaster, slathered chocolate and hazelnut on it and threw it in front of your kids. Wow, you are SO getting the mother of the year award!

I don’t have kids and have no idea how difficult it is to get them fed, clothed and out the door every day. But, still, is this what we’ve devolved into? I can tell you this, if my mother had sent me out the door with toast and a spread for my “nutritious” breakfast, the neighbors would have called Child Protective Services.

But, you know, maybe I need to not take things so seriously. It’s just a commercial after all. I should look for the lighter side of life. Like this. Ah, parody always makes me feel so much better.

Mastery versus Mollycoddling

Posted on by
4

This article in the July 18, 2011 New York Times posits the idea that today’s “safety first” playgrounds harm children more in the long run than any injuries they could suffer if the playgrounds were less safe. As someone who wrote a paper in college defending cartoons and by extension, their violence, as important to a child’s development, it shouldn’t surprise you that I agree with the conclusion by Norwegian psychologists Dr. Ellen Sandseter and Dr. Leif Kennair.

I’ve noticed a dramatic change when in comes to kids and sports since my early school days in the 1970s. The playgrounds of my youth were full of metal slides that baked in the afternoon sun, monkey bars that were either placed over concrete or if there was sand, you had to watch out for the hypodermic needles lurking just below the surface. Today’s playgrounds are all rounded edges and plastic. Sure, the kids don’t get a boo boo, but what is this protectionism setting them up for?

 Ask this same question about the trend in youth sports to give every kid a trophy just for participating. I’m sorry, but the main purpose of engaging in sports is not to falsely build self-esteem. It’s to provide an opportunity for mastery. Yes, you want kids to have fun and feel good about themselves, but does that mean that disappointment or defeat should be banned from their experience? If a child never learns how to handle defeat and disappointment, how is little Johnny or Jane supposed to deal with criticism from a boss?

A clue may be found in this piece from the Wall Street Journal in 2008. When little Johnny and Jane enter the workforce, they often feel entitled and expect praise from the get-go. These “Millennials”, who were generally born between 1980 and 2001, were pampered and indulged by their Baby Boomer parents from birth. If this isn’t karmic irony, I don’t know what is. To this early Generation X’er (born in 1965), the Baby Boomers can come across as spoiled, ungrateful brats who took all the goodies their Greatest Generation parents gave them and threw it in their faces. To now complain about working with the Millennials they spawned is disingenuous, albeit amusing.

Granted, not every Millennial is an entitled slacker, not every Baby Boomer is a spoiled whiner, and not every Gen X’er is as insightful (or humble!) as yours truly. But, the overall point about whether we are cultivating a culture of healthy empowered individuals or one of coddled, over-protected wimps is worthy of discussion.

What’s in a Name?

Posted on by
Reply

I’m named after a priest and a saint. And not just any priest, but the one who married my parents. And the saint? None other than the grandmother of Jesus, St. Anne. If this isn’t either (a) pressure to be really, really good or (b) a damn good reason to rebel, I don’t know what is. (In case you’re wondering, I practically wore a halo until college.)

Anne is my middle name because of infertility. You see, it took my parents nine years to have me and it was during those nine years that my mother and grandmother would go out to St. Anne’s Church in San Francisco and attend St. Anne’s novenas. Apparently, St. Anne is the “go-to” gal for women who want to have a child. So, for nine days every year for nine years, my mother and grandmother made the pilgrimage and prayed for a baby. I’ve told my mother that St. Anne must have gotten tired of seeing them and finally had a serious chat with Jesus. I imagine it went something like this:

Jesus
(sighing and rolling his eyes):
If this is about my hair again. I can’t help it if
hippies like it. I’m not getting a “Beatles” cut.

St. Anne
But you would look so cute! Like Paul! But this
isn’t about that. It’s about a baby for the Reiterman
woman. It’s been nine years and it’s getting depressing.

Jesus
Well, it sounds like she’s been devout. Have you spied
on her and her family? Are they sane? Loving? Amusing?

St. Anne
Yes, yes and yes. And if they have a girl, they will
name her after a priest and a uh, very special saint.

Jesus
Oh, really? Let me take a wild guess. You?

St. Anne
Well, I have to take the naming where I can.
It’s not like my own daughter honored me that way.

Jesus
How could she? I’m the Messiah and a man! Can you imagine
the teasing I would have suffered with a girl’s name?

St. Anne (pouting)
Still.

Jesus
Okay, okay. I’ll put in the requisition. Happy now?

St. Anne
Yes, dear boy. But, really, just a little trim…

In case you’re wondering about my last name, I’ve been told that Reiterman means, “man riding a horse” or a “horseman”. So, in addition to being named for a priest and a saint, I’m descended from a German jockey. That certainly explains why I’m short.