A lull in the conversation at my breakfast table gives me an opening to lob my missile. "When my lease ends this month," I say, "I'm moving to a one bedroom apartment in my building."
My tone is cheery, despite knowing reactions will not mirror my mood. I am prepared for brickbats, so I relax in my restaurant chair, as comfy as if it was upholstered.
One friend starts, "But this is the third move in your building," she says, sounding as stern as a grade teacher who has just slammed a D paper on a student's desk.
"I know," I say, smiling like the classmate with an A plus.
"But this will be your what, 15th move?" says another friend who has joined the firing squad.
"Nineteenth," I say, returning to my plate of Egg-Over-Easy on an English Muffin.
One by one they toss reminders of things I've claimed, promises I've sworn, and then reversed course. Their barbs pile up near my plate, unappetizing.
When did "change my mind" become as shameful as dirty words? Why are others coating my announcement with guilt? And is there something wrong with me that instead of remorse, I feel brave and excited?
Because I have indeed moved more than a dozen times, changed jobs half as much, and reversed decisions often, I have learned that omitting embarrassment has allowed me to experience more adventures than if I permitted naysayers to dictate my life's journeys.
This refusal to cower at others' opinions has worked so well that I'm sharing just two of numerous U-turns to encourage you to give it a try:
*To soothe my longing for a dog after seven years without one, I would daily visit a dog park to get my fix. Inevitably a bench mate would query why I hadn't replaced my pets long gone.
“Too expensive," I would say. Then, as they nodded, I would add, "Chicago winters, fear of falling on ice, disruption to my quiet life, and a messy dog-haired apartment."
Soon after my declared anti-dog decision, my yearning was overwhelming so I adopted Doris, a 1-1/2 year old Terrier/Jack Russell mix. All of my declared qualms proved true, but now I'm grateful I flipped the switch and have my dear, sweet companion nestled beside me at night.
Of course there were a few "but you said" reactions. When they arrived, I smiled and agreed. But unlike a thief caught in the act, I felt no guilt of my switch, only joy.
What if embarrassment had prevented me from bringing Doris home? I might have escaped the scathing words of others, but I'd be left without her closeness, the new friends I've gained at the dog park, and the daily exercise that has curbed my weight.
*Another major switcheroo occurred in 1999 after my second husband and I had been married for a year. "I want trees in my life," I declared to Tommy. "Let's move to the country."
My starry-eyed spouse obliged and we relocated from our townhouse in Chicago's Lakeview neighborhood to Geneva, a small Illinois town 40 miles away. It took 10 months for me to set the swivel in motion. "I miss the city," I moaned to sweet Tommy, "I feel fish-out-of-water, I want to move back."
Friends who had heard my original rationale for small town living and tried to dissuade me with reminders such as, "You're a city gal," puffed up with, "I told you so."
But instead of feeling shameful or embarrassed, I answered with my usual optimism. "It was a great adventure," I had said. "I made new friends, started my memoir in a writers' group, and learned I like trains to the city."
Here's how I respond to those weighing pros and cons and worriedly ask, "What if it doesn't work out? I'd be too embarrassed to face my friends."
"What if it works out better?" I say. "You'll never know if you stay stuck in fear. And if it doesn't work out, you can always move back/seek a different job/divorce/remarry, or find another option." My questioner often takes this advice as a boost and a barrier against trepidation and possible humiliation.
Once I had parried the "buts" of my friends, they chimed in on "good luck" and "can't wait to see it." None of the original mockery had landed or caused me to rethink my 19th moved. So, at the next opening, I plied them with the balcony, east view, and bay window. They nodded warmly, but I'm certain I heard a few mumble, "I'll give her a year."
