Day One: Wonder of Wonders, Miracle of Miracles

Day One

So here's some open access to the last half hour in my brain:

It's 2:30 am.  You should go back to sleep.

But I'm not tired.  And half the fucking time I can barely get out of bed all day so why waste a good mood?

My mouth feels gross. I need to brush my teeth.  Once I brush my teeth I can't go back to bed.

You should just get up and start your blog or your vlog or your whatever your good idea was yesterday.

I should weigh myself.  I was away all weekend.  Anything could have happened.

Fuck.  I don't even have my glasses on by I can tell that middle number is a 7 not a 6 like it was the last time I was on.  Guess those 8 lbs. I was so glad I finally lost again is back to 2 lbs. since the highest recorded in 2017.

Now you definitely have to go start the thing.  Just start something.

So 20 minutes later I have a new blog (this is probably only the fourth I've started in my lifetime).  I have a new domain name that I am paying an annual fee for (probably the 5th or 6th domain I own--none of which I have ever managed to turn into full websites) and if you are reading this, that means I actually finished writing, managed to publish it and managed to share it on some social media or text or some way that it got out into the world.

And that will be, as Motl the Tailor said, Wonder of Wonders, Miracle of Miracles.

So, since I am about to lose my attention span (which probably means I'm losing yours too) I am going to give you an idea of what this is about.  If we have met--ever--you would know that I am big, loud, funny, loving, and definitely maybe everyone's definition of crazy.  If you like me, you think that those are some of my best qualities.  If you don't like me, you have wanted me to change just about everything on that list.  For those of you who don't like me and are actually stupid enough to be spending time reading my blog, it's true.  Stop saying, "No Nehama.  I never wanted to change you." When you shame me for singing too loudly at a synagogue you've never even been to before, or watch me eat with a look of horror, dread or pity, OR try to get me to be MORE of LESS of myself, that's what you are doing.  If you don't understand that sentence then fuck you. Just stop reading. You won't understand most of this.

Now that my hurt inner child has scared off the potential boogie wo/men reading this, I can tell you what I hope this is about for me. Yesterday was the 2 year anniversary of my dad's death.  If you never met or heard about him, google Bob Benmosche.  Yeah.  That was an intense person to have as a dad--and the greatest gift this fucked up version of trips around the sun has ever given me.  Being Bob's daughter made me who I am today--the best and worst parts of my personality.  I am Big Daddy generous with the people I love and I can lose my temper with a call-center employee like every proper Benmosche should.  Needless to say, losing him has consumed my psyche.  Sometimes it's just sadness. Sometimes it's staring at the size 12 wide New Balance sneakers of his that I saved and wondering how I could ever fill those shoes.  If we are the second generation after our immigrant grandparents who are mostly destined NOT to do "better" than our parents, I'm pretty sure my dad guaranteed that for my brother and me.  I like to think I tricked myself out of that box by stepping sideways a long time ago.  I talk about how my dad's legacy of wealth has been an opportunity for me to pursue a career based on helping people.  I say that my work as a rabbi gets to be fulfilling of my soul because I don't have to worry about bringing home a paycheck to feed my family.  But I still think I should be the rabbi that saves Judaism, just like my dad was the AIG CEO who saved America.  

Ahh...sweet delusions of grandeur (wow, I needed spell check to help me with that one).

So here I sit.  February 28th. Memories of my dad swirling around me.  Little pieces of the Hamilton soundtrack swirling in my head.  Delusions of grandeur, stories of legacies, and the reality that the best piece of wisdom for these kinds of moments was from The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (oh, and I'm sure the line is somewhere in every Eastern tradition, too).

Everything will be ok in the end.  So if it is not OK, then it is not the end!

Instead of committing myself to be something I'm not, I'm embarking on 7 months toward my 40th birthday and trying to make it more meaningful by writing about it.  I am trying to build a network of support people by sharing the writing.  I am trying to be healthier without needing to obsess about the number on the scale, or my move goal streak, or whether or not I ever win the Fitbit challenge again. The passage of time is inevitable.  I can either go with it or against it.  I can either journey toward healthier, or kill myself slowly with the diseases I have and the ones I only have hints of getting one day.

My dad used to do this whole bit about trying to pick up a spoon.  My best friend from college remembers us all being out to dinner one night (my dad and his Big Daddy tendencies would blow into town and take all of my friends to a fancy Italian restaurant which was a welcome relief from Dominos pizza and diet cokes) and somebody make the MISTAKE of saying they were going to try to do something.  Let's blame Nicky for that (because I don't remember who did it, but she's a likely candidate).  So my dad moves his spoon in front of Nicky and says, "Try to pick up the spoon."  So she takes the spoon and he says, "No, Nicky, that's picking up the spoon. TRY to pick up the spoon." So she tries again and he says, "No.  That time you didn't pick it up.  Try again."  My brother, at some point, chimes in with his best Yoda imitation and says, "Do or do not do. There is no try."

The week after my dad died, I got a fortune cookie that said--You are not a failure because you don't make it, you are a success because you tried.

I burst into tears.  It was what I always argued back to him when he did the spoon thing.  Trying is the act of staring into the unknown and attempting something even though you might fail.  For able-bodied people, trying to pick up a spoon would always be a success.  Of course Nicky couldn't try to pick up the spoon.  But I can try to be healthier.  In a way, I am already succeeding--just because you're reading this.  And because writing it makes me feel better.  I called this a journey toward healthier because journeys (in all their beautiful cliché-ness) have high points and low points.  They have successes and they have failures.  It is a miracle to try.  It is a miracle to lose all hope for a better past.  It is a miracle to sit in my library at 3:45 am, at 273 lbs, staring all of my obstacles in the face and say:

Today, I'm gonna try again.