Tolerating Uncertainty

Uncertainty in motion

I have a Post-It note on my bathroom mirror that says, “You have to give up the life you have to get to the life that’s waiting for you.” I keep it there to remind me that uncertainty is not only a part of life, but a spice of life, much like flatulence-inducing Turmeric. I hear so many people describe white-knuckling change in their lives—losing a job, dating a new person, going on vacation somewhere different—because they are unable to tolerate the uncertainty that goes hand-in-hand with it.

The problem with most people (besides the fact that they never remember to turn off their bloody cell phones during movies, meetings, or dates) is that they want the promise of The New Life before they let go of their current incarnation, no matter how badly they want things to change. It’s like waiting to divorce your current husband until after you marry your new guy. “Just in case the new hubby doesn’t work out!” you might say. That’s not the way it works (unless you live in Utah where they call this polygamy).

Tolerating uncertainty is based on faith. Not necessarily Faith, capital F, but just regular, garden-variety faith. The ability to trust without a guarantee. Like the faith we have in electricity—I trust that my lights will turn on the next time I flip the switch (which, by the way, doesn’t always happen in this 1930s building I live in). Like the faith we have that we’ll awaken after falling asleep. Like the faith we have that Trader Joe’s will have All Sortsa Licorice for sale when we’re jonesin’ for it bad.

When we don’t have faith (no matter how much we listen to George Michael insist that we gotta have it), what we have is fear. In the case of uncertainty, this shows up as a fear of impermanence. I used to think that once I achieved a desired state—whether it was my weight, frequency and excitement of sex in a relationship, level of ease in a job, or diminished volume of the voices in my head—I would stay there forever, and if I didn’t, well then something was clearly wrong with me. Ha! What was wrong with me was believing in the absolute permanence of things, including my emotional state. What am I, a robot?

According to Pema Chödrön, author of Taking the Leap: Freeing Ourselves from Old Habits and Fears, suffering is nothing but resistance. As soon as we feel pain, discomfort, uncertainty, we run from it and seek short-term relief. We always feel restless and uncomfortable because we’re always trying to “get ground under our feet”, and that never works because everything is impermanent. Cyclical, perhaps, but impermanent.

But guess what? We won’t die from uncomfortable feelings. I’ve never heard of an autopsy revealing that someone dropped dead of uncertainty. By learning to sit with our feelings of discomfort or even pain, the uncertainty becomes familiar, and gradually it loses its menace.

Occupy My Hair - Please!

Supercuts, circa 1930

Being a 99 percenter, my choice of salon for a haircut is either Supercuts or myself. I used to trim it myself when I had long, unlayered hair (and didn’t mind telling people it was crooked because I had to cut a wad of gum out of it). Now that my hair is short, layered and curly, I opt for a professional. Or in this case, Supercuts.

I’m only kidding about referring to Supercuts as unprofessional. I’ve had great haircuts and lousy haircuts there—but I’ve also had great and lousy haircuts at expensive salons. One time I paid close to a hundred dollars for a trim and a body wave and wound up with a ‘do that made me look exactly like my hairdresser: a cheap ‘80s hooker. In contrast, last time I got the best haircut EVER—for a grand total of $18.50. Strangers were complimenting me on my locks (hair, that is, not mechanism for securing something…)!

So stepping into Supercuts is a bit like playing Russian Roulette. And yesterday was the day I got the bullet.

I asked the hairstylist to give me a healthy trim; since it had been 6 months since my tresses had seen a pair of scissors, I told her not to be shy and lop off a good three inches. But female stylists are always shy. I think because they’re so afraid of going short themselves, they assume that all gals are. But not this one. She started to measure and trim and snip.

“Shorter!” I ordered like I was General Patton.

“Are you sure?” she said, frowning.

How dare she question me. Surely I know what I want. “Of course!”

“Really?” she piped up one last time.

“YES!”

And then she was done. I looked at my new haircut in the mirror—front, sides, back. And…

It was TOO short. Gulp.

I felt her eyes boring into the back of my head.

“Well?” she asked, her voice rich with accusation.

I smiled meekly up at her. “It’s perfect,” I said and hopped out of the chair.

For the rest of the day, I cringed when I saw myself in window reflections and mirrors. It’s not that it’s a bad ‘do, and it’s not like I haven’t had it this short before. It’s just that this time I had something different in mind. 

I wanted fun Amelia Earhart...

Instead, I got fresh out of women’s prison... 

But with a little acceptance, a lot of gel, and a good photographer, I got a stylish new look. 

 

All for under twenty bucks.

Eat the Rich? But I'm Lactose-Intolerant...

Apparently Occupy Wall Street is running out of money. Is this a case of irony or a self-fulfilling prophecy?

Everyone has preconceived ideas about others. Some were embedded in us at an early age (usually the big ones, about a person’s race, nationality or religion) and become beliefs that are so strong they feel like The Truth. Others we create ourselves, often through repetition. For example, after many trips to the DMV over the years, my preconceived idea is that all DMV employees are missing the humor gene.

Many, not all, people who are in the 99 percent of the wealth bracket believe that the rich are greedy, corrupt or assholes. (Or, of course, greedy corrupt assholes.) This view of the wealthy may have been inherited straight from your parents, if that was their belief; you may have watched your Uncle Scrooge screw over his employees or family; you may have even worked for one of these strange creatures yourself whose only offense was offering you minimum wage while he displayed expensive Persian Rugs - on his wall (the epitome of rich)!

But here’s the thing about to-the-core beliefs: if you believe that the rich are the lowest form of life, you will never become rich. How can you? To be rich would mean that you are a nasty son-of-a-bitch, and that ain’t gonna happen. So in order to preserve the idea that you are a good, kind, hard-working soul, you will never allow yourself to break through that particular salary ceiling (we all have a specific limit above which we consider well-to-do; for some it’s $250,000, for others it’s $25,000).

So if you want to escape the confines of the 99% and infiltrate the 1%, peel off your bumper sticker that says, “Eliminate poverty, eat the rich!” How will you ever become wealthy when the clink of cutlery has you looking over your shoulder in fear?