Dirty Rugs & Pickleball

Growing up I thought that becoming an adult meant you finally had everything in order. It meant bad things didn't happen to you and if it did it was likely because you brought it upon yourself for all the ways in which you were not prepared or not thinking ahead (I grew up in Minnesota where resourcefulness and your own boot straps are how you survive winter). Adults talked in hushed, pitied voices about the unfortunate things that were happening to others in the extended family or community or church -infidelity, addiction, divorce, behavior of their children- always laced with a hint of arrogance that "those things don't happen to us". The implication being that we were intelligent, educated, healthy, had foresight, made good decisions, knew right from wrong, were better people. Therefore we were safe. Bad things don't happen to those that mind their own business, get their teeth cleaned regularly, and keep their secrets to themselves.

Growing up I saw many rugs being lifted up at the corner and it's-not-polite-to-pry and we-don't-talk-about-this-sort-of-stuff stuff get swept under. I always wondered why the adults around me weren't saying the things that they were thinking. I was not a mind reader (I still am not much to the chagrin of my partner and my children) but I could read it plainly on their faces and in their bodies.

There was a social contract we all followed: keep it light and make yourself look good. When asked how was I doing? how is school? how is basketball?, to respond with anything other than "doing well" or some other sort of answer that would set me up for both the literal and proverbial pat on the back was a disruption of this agreement. The times I toed that line I received a quizzical look and "oh that's nice" or "I'm sure you'll figure it out" from well-meaning, overly polite folks. To be anything other than ok, and to talk about it, made other people feel uncomfortable.

I understand now that people of all walks of life cannot tolerate discomfort. I understand now that people, struggling to be vulnerable themselves, don't grasp the idea of holding space for someone else attempting to be vulnerable. Even someone stating: "I don't have all my shit together right now. I am NOT doing well" prompts people to shush them, tell them they'll be fine, or list all the ways they could fix it right now.

And what we cannot tolerate in others we cannot tolerate in ourselves. So we keep ourselves busy. We try to bat all the bad stuff away like a fucked up game of pickleball and think that if we can just keep that ball flying over the net the other way then phew! we have done our due diligence of keeping our shit together. And we tell ourselves we must be a better pickleball player than that other guy who seems to keep whiffing because look how balls are at his feet! I am so much better than him! And so we travel or we read or we gossip or we play more pickle-ball or we drink or online shop or watch youtube videos non-stop or we overachieve. These are our programs of happiness.

I clean. I clean and sort and organize and manage. This is my program for happiness. I make lists and I check boxes and I don't do other things because I am so busy putting everything in order. Because order feels good. Order is safe. Order gives me the feeling of control. Control makes me feel safe. Control makes me feel better than other people.

But nothing is ever really in order or under control. And I am no better than anyone else. And my life is actually better when I let the house get a little messy -- if I don't try to sweep everything under the rugs, literally and figuratively. I don't know how to always keep it light, or hit all those balls across the net, or keep my shit together. And I continue to be skeptical of those that do and always seem to have their shit together. Just what are they sweeping under their rugs? Just how are they going to handle it when they whiff and a pickleball lands at their feet? I read their faces and body languages for clues. I cannot help myself.