am I doing this right?
sorry, I'm a little new to this
Hello, loves! As the cold winter air seeps into our bones, I hope today’s post warms the tender core of your heart and helps you defrost. It’s part of a series dusted off from the archives, like here and here. If you enjoy being here even one tiny bit, consider tapping the ❤️ button! It warms MY heart to hear your thoughts, so as always, feel free to leave a comment or even just hit ‘reply.’ XO
“Sorry, I’m a little new to this.”
I was swimming laps at the YMCA, a little disgruntled because…well…I was swimming laps at the YMCA.
This had become last year’s winter ritual, ever since I heard the Y had sauanas and steam rooms (!) — and since I was rehabilitating an ankle injury that made it trickier than usual to get my steps in.
A few times a week, I’d close my laptop, slap on my navy blue one piece and goggles, goosebumps prickling my skin as I surveyed the scene: the swoosh of water, perfume of chlorine, shrieks bouncing off tiles.
I’d pad along, bare footsteps following the plastic white sign to POOL, where around the corner I’d discover a roiling, boiling soup of humans: some clutching kickboards, butterflying, breast-stroking; some stirring up hurricanes, others kicking listlessly, like sun-warmed frogs on a summer afternoon. Banners of flags strung high, beckoning.
It’s an intimidating scene.
Yup. I usually smack head-first into my own hesitation. We’re doing this.
I peek at the gently bobbing grannies to my left, thundering water polo players to my right. Choose a lane, any lane. Dip a toe, shudder. Chilly! Backward glance. Are we reallyyy sure. It's not to late to—
And always to my own chagrin, I plop myself in, bracing against the chill for a breath before pushing off the wall and gliding to the other side, my body relaxing into the warmth of movement.
Swimming laps often becomes peaceful, but can feel initially angst-filled as my brain whines in reluctant protest: La la la. Boooo-ring. Yawn.
Ladies and gentlemen: my Inner Curmudgeon.
Right on cue, goggles filling with water. And fog. Can’t see a thing. Not that there is much to see anyway. Three laps down…how much longer—oh God okay. Note to self: no more checking clock. GAH!! Accidentally brushed against neighbor!!! Eep! Was that a thigh or a belly or a foot…or a fish… Twenty-seven and a half minutes left.
I want a snack.
Usually, this stream of disgruntled consciousness grows quieter as I swim, becoming more subdued with each lap until she is happily occupying herself, like a toddler who has lost interest in her own tantrum and instead become immersed in finger-painting.
But today is mid-February, freezing cold, and she is particularly cantankerous. As I hurry my laps along, motivated by the promise of sauna and post-swim zen, she rails against people swimming too slow. And people swimming too fast. She is hard to please.
Ugh, they’re on my tail. Chill out, speedracer.
Grrrrr, I’m on THEIR tail. Move it along, slowpoke!
After watching tentatively from the pool’s edge, a man donned in black shorts and a snorkel joins our lane.
Great.
His strokes are unwieldy. He pauses often, right in the middle of the lane, jumbling up the flow of traffic. He seems to bear a flagrant disregard for lap swim etiquette.
Grrrrrrrrr.
Three of us have been swimming — trying to, anyway — in a circle. As one hops out in a flurry of droplets, I perch on the granite ledge and ask if Snorkel Man would like to split the lane down the middle now that it’s just us two, so we can go at our own pace.
He looks up, snorkel askew: “Sorry?”
My inner curmudgeon rolls her eyes, indignant. This guy. I repeat myself.
And then:
“Oh, of course. Sorry, I’m a little new to this.”
He says the last bit sheepishly, with a shrug of his shoulders.
Sorry, I’m a little new to this.
And with that one humble admission, my Inner Curmudgeon and I are disarmed, annihilated, utterly endeared to this stranger. My heart melts into a puddle. My curmudgeon softens to goo. The color returns to our cheeks, like that scene from Ratatouille.
How a single bite, or singular sentence, can thaw our hardened exteriors!
That one sentence — I’m a little new to this — made me melt because secretly, inside, I feel new to everything all of the time.
Not only do I often feel like I have no idea what I’m doing; I also suspect I’m doing it wrong. Whether ‘it’ is yoga (why can it feel like everyone is mad at each other, especially when it’s so quiet, and we’re all rolling up our mats, avoiding eye contact at all costs, like someone has just died or shared a very grave secret?!), or speaking up in a meeting (even when I’m objectively qualified, why am I so worried I’ll say something stupid?), or microwaving my lunch at the office (wanting to apologize for the loud beep at the end, or the smell, or perhaps just my general existence).
I am full of questions. And sometimes it feels like the world is waiting, with bated breath, for me to mess up. And then the secret will be out: that I have not a clue.
But that is deep down. On the outside, as a member of Adult Society, I feel like I need to at least look like I know what I’m doing.
That’s where the curmudgeon kicks in. It’s an armor of sorts, this crabby disgruntlement. It dampens down the tender place of not-knowing, hardening my exterior, making it stone-like. Too fast! Too slow! Too cold! Humph. Shoulders hunched, eyes downcast. Bristling against the outside world, preparing to point out everyone else’s shortcomings before they can reveal ours. This prickly barbed wire surrounds the tender smudgey center, that soft place of mystery and wonder and not-knowing where we feel so much and long for so much and are so damn vulnerable.
Maybe that is what I am really getting at.
In a recent interview for the New York Times Modern Love column, esteemed British heartthrob and actor Andrew Garfield said: “In the current state of the world…we can feel quite numb, we can feel disconnected and isolated. But — I don’t know. I feel like the feeling, the longing, lives in all of us: the longing to connect, the longing to love, the longing to risk.”
The longing to connect, the longing to love, the longing to risk.
Stay with me here, because I know perhapsss it seems like a stretch, but I really do think this ties back to that February exchange with Snorkel Man: how in uttering that one single sentence — I’m a little new to this — he touched on a condition, and a vulnerability, core to all humankind. Instead of pretending, or strong-arming, or white-knuckling it through, all brittle and impervious, his admission brought forth permission to soften. After all, aren’t we all just a little new to this?
I’ve been thinking, as we go about our busy and bustling adult lives, what if we made more of a habit of remembering to soften? What if in admitting all we don’t know, we made more space in our days for the vast mysteries of the universe — the ocean of questions and longing and wonder we each contain? And what if that sparked an ember, a glow, of recognition, between the tender cores of our selves?
In practicing humility, and lowering our defenses, we open our hearts to that tender place of connection. Yes, that’s where we risk more — that’s kind of the whole deal — but it’s also where we can open ourselves up to the sweetness of the world, to the experience of being alive, the imperfect splashy mess, the ocean of it all.
I finish up my laps, propelled by a newfound warmth, each stroke curiously buoyant. Stepping out of the pool and into the sauna, I let the heat melt me entirely, until there is no cold left, until any stone in my heart has turned to liquid I am dissolved into the world: one with the air and the wood, softened, melted.
I’m a little new to this. It’s okay. We all are.
Xo,
Eden
P.S. A few months ago, as we sat on a stoop passing out Halloween candy, I was struck by how so many people — not necessarily trick-or-treaters, but people coming home from work and walking their dogs — would rush past with downcast eyes and hunched shoulders. Until we called out a cheerful “Happy Halloween!” and watched their faces light up and bloom open, like flowers toward the sun. How quickly a moment of recognition can transform us!
In a recent episode of A social life, with friends, Jessica Pan shared her take on this phenomenon: “Nobody waves, but everybody waves back. So maybe I’m walking down the street in London and everybody looks kind of mean and in their own world, but am I smiling? No — I look exactly like them. But if I started smiling and waving, then of course people would start to smile and wave back. But you have to be brave: you have to be that person to break the ice.”
So: Be brave! Break the ice! Jump in the pool! Embrace newness, and imperfection, and the wonderful vulnerability of trying. Allow yourself to be humbled.
P.P.S. Moments of Intimacy With Strangers
I have been reflecting on moments of intimacy with strangers: chance exchanges that might seem mundane but leave a profound impact, or situations where we break through the Stone Wall Of Adulthood and find our way to the gooey tender center, if even for a fleeting a moment. Here are some, in three words:
subway eye contact
hospital waiting room
annual breast exam
bodega: buying tampons
headphones disconnect — party!
lost; phone died
snoring on shoulder
neighboring bathroom stalls
The name of my new band?
I had one of these recently. A girl walked up to me and said: “Love, is everything OK? If it makes you feel any better, you’re the third person I’ve seen crying out here — and that’s just this morning. Can I buy you a drink?”
Reading this piece made my heart warm!
I love this (especially in the context of lane sharing!)