IN THE LONG RUN

I was indignant when I saw the packet in the mailbox. “What?! They are not even asking us if we will participate? They are demanding?!” I marched into the house, and self-righteously showed my husband the Nielsen TV ratings packet. “Look at this. Just because we’ve done it before…how many times…two….three? They think we are now beholden to complete their survey whenever they feel like sending it to us!”

“I told them on the phone that we’d do it.” My husband didn’t even look up as he replied to my ranting. My jaw dropped as I rolled my eyes and sighed long-sufferingly. “All right…all right… Then YOU are going to have to fill it out.”

Those sneaky Nielsens. If you are ambivalent about keeping their television log for a week, they cunningly send you on a guilt trip, or an ego trip, until they gain your consent. What?! You don’t feel privileged to be one of the elite few chosen, out of the millions possible, to participate? And how could you pass up the opportunity to make a difference in the television industry, by helping form the ratings that actually make or break the shows that all America watches?! This is as American as apple pie, this is trend-setting power, …this is HISTORY!

After you’ve been sucked in, and it’s too late to back out, (since you’ve spent the measly ONE DOLLAR BILL that they send you as an incentive to complete the project—are they SERIOUS??! That’s insulting!) you begin to realize that this is not really your chance to make a difference. It’s the Nielsens’ chance to be a nuisance. They insist that you fill out their TV logs, or diaries, as they call them, with painstaking detail—what family member of what sex and what age and what education level, watched what TV in which room on what channel for how long. (I think there might even be a column that asks you to list what food you snacked on while you watched; maybe that statistic is for “The Biggest Loser” or something?!)

When we had filled out the diaries a few years ago, I religiously followed their directions, and nagged my family until we logged every last minute of TV watched, from Nova (my husband) to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (younger sons). But this year I was rebellious. I didn’t want to be helpful. In fact, I had the urge to poison the pot.

One of the Nielsen rules requires recording television programs in the log if a family member watches for 5 minutes or longer. On one occasion I watched nearly 45 minutes of TV, but watched just less than 5 minutes on each of about nine different channels, thus negating the obligation to write down any of it! I felt so powerful. And on Saturday morning, I watched kids’ shows: “Phil of the Future” and “Trading Spaces: Boys vs Girls”. “This will really skew the results,” I snickered. Finally, I purposely didn’t watch several programs that I might normally watch, just because I didn’t want to trouble myself to keep track of them. My behavior was as un-American as the Black Sox Baseball scandal. Say it ain’t so, Cyppy!

Maybe during our Nielsen week I should have stuck to my regular viewing habits; maybe I should have studiously recorded everything that I watched; and maybe I should have played fairly by the Nielsen rules. But next time, I won’t let the Nielsens connive or bully us into servitude for a week. We’ve done our patriotic duty in the vast wasteland enough times. I will make my statement to the television industry by simply turning off the television and not watching at all.

Posted by Cyppy at 8:11 AM  0 comments

I received a letter from my childhood chum, Terry, recently. She had enclosed a folded, yellowed paper titled, “Letter to the Future.” The page contained several questions, each followed by lines for the respondent’s answers.

I grinned as I recognized the scrawled answers punctuated with plentiful exclamation marks as my own, completed when I was about 13 or so. I vaguely recalled that Terry and I had been in a church youth group class, and had completed this page during a lesson that was probably designed to help us remember the past, but set goals and plan for the future. Somehow she had kept this page all these years, and now had sent it to me.

I read that I had eaten Cheerios for breakfast that morning, and that my favorite subject in school was band, and my worst subject was science. My favorite song was “Leaving On a Jet Plane” by Peter, Paul, and Mary, and I disliked household chores. I wanted to buy a palomino (I don’t remember being “horsey” at that age), my hobby was spying on people (some day I’ll have to write about our G.O.O.S.E. club—the Girls’Organization Of Secret Espionage), and I was infatuated with a boy named Milton.

I was a little embarrassed to read how silly or trite some of my answers had been. Surely I had been more mature than that?! It was also discomfiting that I had left unanswered some of the questions that required deeper thought, or self-analysis. (Perhaps I was a little harsh in judging my Seminary students in my previous blog, Desired Things.)

I smiled and shook my head at that young and giggly, carefree and self-absorbed, girl. In some ways, she has changed a lot, but not so much in others. I still groan about household chores, I still find science difficult to understand, and I still live life with exclamation marks!

Posted by Cyppy at 8:45 PM  0 comments

A few years ago, for the first, and maybe only, time, I ran a few miles with one of my brothers. At that time, I faced a possible move away from my current hometown, and I lamented to my brother about the disruption this would cause in my life. Although I expected him to reply sympathetically, I was not really surprised when he answered, “The change would be good for your family. It would challenge you and make you grow.”

I realize that change can be often straightforwardly positive and helpful. And I see how even seemingly disruptive change, such as I considered the potential move, can have shrouded advantages or eventual benefits. But still, most changes are uncomfortable, at least for a time. That is why the more things change, the more I wish some things would stay the same.

Have you ever wished you could freeze a singular moment, or even a longer period in your life, and suspend time? I know change is inevitable, but that does not deter me from wistfully trying to hang onto certain precious, but fleeting, chapters of my life. And later, when I reflect on those matchless moments, the memories become almost larger and more significant than the actual time, which only compounds the nostalgia and desire to return.

Reluctantly I acknowledge that those moments, if frozen, would never retain their exuberant life and would eventually stagnate and disappoint. Instinctively, as in the conversation with my brother, I know that change should be expected, is often necessary, and can be a prologue to new, precious but fleeting, life chapters. I know that change can make us stretch, reach, and grow stronger.

So, with a small sigh, I tuck my idyllic memories into my brain’s back pocket, and contemplate the changes that face me, my family, and my friends. Some of the changes are small, some are significant, some are welcome, and some are heart-wrenchingly difficult. All of them will provide some sort of challenge, but in the long run, there is hope for increased strength and positive growth.

Posted by Cyppy at 9:17 PM  0 comments

I recently celebrated a birthday that is one year shy of a “landmark” birthday—one that puts a person into that wincing category of being eligible for AARP benefits. I’m sure that as a teenager, I would have described the current “me” as approaching middle-age, showing signs of senility, and a definite customer for a cemetery plot.

But emotionally and physically, I don’t feel like I’m over the hill yet. In the last few years I have increased my physical activity almost exponentially. Because of the fitness classes I teach, and my own personal goals, some days I exercise for 2-3 hours. The benefits are that I’m stronger, and have more stamina and endurance now than in my more youthful past. Until a few days ago, I smugly thought I might be robbing Father Time of his youth-slashing scythe.

The reality check incident occurred after a match of my beloved pickleball. I partnered with my friend Bill, against Everett and Leonard, two experienced players who are practicing for doubles play in an upcoming tournament. Bill and I darted from side to side on the court, dinked winning floaters over the net, and even dove for balls that were spinning away. We were spry, we were nimble, we were adroit—we were downright youthful! We won a close game, and we were quite proud of our accomplishment. We graciously shook hands across the net with the other two players, and agreed good-naturedly when Leonard said he wanted to take our picture.

I teased Leonard, “I suppose this photo is for your collection of 'worthy pickleball opponents'!” He asked me to hold my paddle up a little higher, and replied, as he snapped the picture, “No, it’s to advertise the Senior Olympics.”

The scythe of time swung precariously close to the white hairs on my head. He thinks I am a Senior?! At what age is one eligible for the Senior Olympics? Maybe I AM a Senior! The confident smile I had assumed for the picture froze on my face, as the cruel realization hit home. Somehow I was not only “approaching middle age”, I was already being described as a Senior!

Since that occasion, I am resolved to come to terms with my age. After all, there will be no magical elixirs from a fountain of youth, and hours of exercise will probably only age me faster! I think I am making progress on accepting my stage in life, because today when the restaurant host asked if anyone in our party were eligible for the Senior Citizen discount, I barely even grimaced. So bring it on, AARP. Maybe you have some offers that I’ll actually be glad to accept in the long run.

Posted by Cyppy at 9:52 PM  0 comments

I attended my husband’s family reunion this last week, and I had only one major complaint. No, it was not the obligatory family history program with stories about grandma’s quilts or great-great-grandpa’s service in the Mormon Battallion. (That was actually satisfyingly short and interesting.) It was not the stifling heat in an un-air-conditioned lodge. (Though not pleasant, it provided fall-back conversation when the distant cousins visited one night and we had nothing else in common about which to talk.) It was not Cousin Bubba’s gleeful water barrages with a super-soaker that sprayed as forcefully as a fire hydrant. (At times, those attacks were almost welcome and invited.)

No, the bane of the family reunion for me was the straw tick mattress in the cabin to which my family was assigned. I knew going into this trip that accommodations described as “charmingly rustic” had to be unpleasantly primitive. “It’s only for three nights,” I comforted myself as I spread my sleeping bag and pillow out on one of the striped mattresses that, though bulky, appeared to be more substantial than the alternative choice, foam rectangles set in the bunks, which were basically plywood boxes.

That night, I climbed into my bunk close to 1 AM. I was exhausted, and although the cabin was a bit stuffy and warm, I fell asleep rather quickly—and woke up just minutes later. I couldn’t get comfortable. It was like trying to sleep on a bale of hay. I guess that’s because I was sleeping on a mattress of hay. I wriggled and writhed the rest of the night never finding my comfort zone. The next morning I felt as though my body had been put through a hay baler.

The next night I forced myself to go to bed earlier, because not only was I exhausted again, I planned to run a long run of 15 miles the following morning. Mercifully, I fell asleep rather quickly again, and stayed asleep almost an hour until the cabin door squeaked opened as the rest of my family crept in after watching a video in the main lodge.

They whispered, and bumped, and giggled, and clambered up onto their top bunks. I suppose they were trying to be quiet, but I became wide awake, and suddenly very aware again of my horribly uncomfortable mattress. It was lumpy and hard, and hurt my back…and everything else. Soon I noted the others’ peaceful, heavy breathing, and I knew I was the only one awake, still trying to find a comfortable position so I could sleep.

“Miserable mattress,” I seethed. As I squirmed and flopped around for a while longer, my frustration with the mattress transferred to my family. “Not fair…now THEY are sleeping, while I, whom they awoke, will never be able to get back to sleep on this crummy mattress.” I fumed, and found some sadistic satisfaction in the thought of my early alarm waking THEM up in a just a few hours. Although a sad commentary on my character, my vengeful imaginations comforted me back to sleep.

I planned for my last night on the mattress to be the best. My two oldest children and their spouses had left the reunion early, and so their foam mattresses would be unused. I took two of them and piled them on top of my straw tick, and put my sleeping bag on top of it all. Certainly only a princess would be able to feel the straw under six additional inches of foam padding. I guess I’m destined to become royalty. Alas, it was another restless, fitful night, although I think I actually had a dream about being comfortable.

Now I’m home, eagerly anticipating blissful sleep on my plush, king-size bed with its pillow-top cushioning. Although my nights on the cabin mattress were completely miserable, the fun and family camaraderie of the reunion well made up for my suffering insomnia. And in the long run, I think I will sleep happily ever after….zzzzzzzzz.

Posted by Cyppy at 10:27 PM  0 comments