Branching Out Life Coaching

A strong sense of humor seemed to be in my family’s genes along with freckles and being musically challenged. My father’s wit was so sharp it induced paper cuts, but we’d laugh at the brilliance and the total silliness of his one-liners or odd little stories.

In grammar school, I kept my classmates entertained with some pretty inane stories while my parents were in constant contact with the principal. I had yet to learn when delivering a punch line was acceptable: All the time was not appropriate.

Years later when I moved out of my parent’s house, I took my coolest clothes, my college degree and my honed sense of humor. Those clothes no longer hang in my closet (thank God); my degree got me in the door of NYC advertising agencies, and my sense of humor kept me employed and out of trouble…sort of.

One day, I think it was a Tuesday, I was cornered by the big boss who commented that when my emails ended with a spiffy one-liner or a sarcastic blurb, the team went forth and accomplished whatever task we were knee deep in. No idle threats came from my co-workers. We all seemed to work as a well-adjusted and productive team. What were we ingesting on company time?

I was delighted (and concerned) when my sense of humor was viewed as a tool that brought people together in the workplace. From that day forward jokes were incorporated into the boss’ presentations and emails. And would I write the boss some one-liners? I begged off and explained that humor had to come from the core, the soul – what was funny to the boss’ ear? Besides me begging for my job?

What followed was a valiant attempt by my boss at reciting some tired, old jokes that were out of favor with the nuances of humor back in 1938. I cringed and slithered out of the corner office. The economy was strong back then. I could find another job.

A few weeks later our boss summoned all departments to the main conference room. I had forgotten about those threats to do stand-up at meetings. All of a sudden the silence was pierced by what appeared to be a joke coming from our boss’ lips. Not a good joke, not a horrible joke, but a small joke with a tiny punch line.

People looked around and for a few seconds there was laughter in the air. Not a lot of laughter, not too little laughter, but just enough nervous laughter for all of us to look at our boss in a new light. Some of us dared to like the boss for trying. The rest of us speculated that the boss had suffered a mini stroke.

But for that short time in history, we all appreciated the universal language of laughter. One little joke turned out to be a great equalizer. By 11 A.M. the boss went right back to biting off the heads of baby chicks, but we felt like a well-adjusted and productive team that morning.

Now, you don’t have to go as far as having open mic night in your workplace. But a little levity at work can work wonders. Humor lowers blood pressure, lessens stress and who can feel lonely when people come together and share a laugh? Just don’t let my former boss know when you are doing it. It could get ugly.

My storytelling father always seemed to be able to hold our collective breaths with his tales of ghosts and the undead. You knew how effective his scary stories were by the number of under the bed inspections that were held in our house. I’m sure my mother appreciated it since my father worked at nights at the New York Times. My father’s imagination and storytelling were legend and so were our nightmares. Just don’t ask me to go down to your basement.

I was listening to “The Second Half of Life” in my car last week. The author, Angeles Arrien, PH.D, talked about how Storytelling can trigger memories, associations and one’s imagination

She went on to recount a true story by Dr. Charles Garfield who has written about high performance people

It unfolded something like this:

Back in 1984, Dr. Garfield encountered a toll booth employee on the Oakland/San Francisco Bridge who was dancing to loud music that was blasting from his toll booth. The doctor asked what was going on. The dancing man in the booth said that he was having a party. What about the other people working in the other booths? Oh, they were not invited to his party. Loud horns blasted from impatient drivers (don’t you just love them) and ended the conversation abruptly but the doctor made a note to find the dancing man again.

And he did.

The dance party was still going on. The Dancing man remembered the doctor and asked him what the other 16 booths looked like to him. The doctor had no clue. “No imagination, no imagination” was the reply that came from the toll booth. “Look again, look again.”

The doctor was stumped, gave up and asked for an answer from the dancing man.

“Vertical Coffins. These 16 people come to work everyday at 8:30 and die in their booths and then at 4:30 they come back to life just in time to go home. They look like Vertical Coffins.”

“What makes it different for you?” The doctor needed to know why this one man was so happy.

“I have a corner office with glass on all sides. I can see the Golden Gate Bridge, Berkley Heights, and San Francisco and while thousands of people travel everyday to visit, I get to live it. I get to dance. I get to do what I love.”

So many of us don’t get to live the lives we are entitled to. We go by someone else’s rules and expectations and we forget that we even had dreams that were so full of hope and adventure. We find ourselves getting by on “no imagination, no imagination” and we struggle in our own vertical coffins.

How would it feel to dismantle one or two of those vertical coffins that keep you from what you really want to do? It could be as simple as saying “No” to some of the requests that others pour on you (and not feeling guilty!) so that you can have 30 minutes to read, take a walk or just sit and listen to your own heart beat. It can be as grand as reexamining where your life is going: does the job do it for me, would going back to school open me up again or would Jimmy Choo’s heels really make me feel better? The latter was what Gwyneth Paltrow asked me….in a dream. I assured her that they would.

So it might be a little stretch but how about taking a look at one of your vertical coffins and screaming “boo” at it and making it go back under your brother’s bed?

Your brother will get over it. Eventually.

I don’t think it is just me but are most of the candidates acting like naughty children who need to be sent to the principal’s office for annoying most of the country?

Does the Dummies for President Rule Book include chapters on the fine art of being a playground bully who glares at their opponent with nostrils flaring, to hiring your second cousin to dig up dirt about what some candidates did when they were young (and trust me ,there is nearly a whole generation (except for my sister) who did “stuff” back then and who now won’t run for office because they know that they will be hung out to dry) to spending millions of dollars so they can make up some real nasty stuff about the other guy or Hillary? I mention Hillary by name because she is the only girl running. And I’m a girl.

I watched some of the debates on the days when I wanted to feel like all hope for this country was lost. I have to say if I acted like some of the candidates do, my TV privileges would have been taken away for a week.

And to paraphrase The Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. shouldn’t we judge the candidates on the content of the character and not the color of their skin or their gender or who has got the biggest moneybags?

And if all these candidates are as dreadful, corrupt and big fat hairy liars as the other candidates swear they are, shouldn’t they be in jail and not running for the White House?

I have been thinking hard about the November election and I am excited about the possibility of this country going in a new direction, but if the candidates don’t start acting like politicians that young kids will strive to emulate when they grow up, or as honest statespeople that we adults can admire, respect and vote for then I just might not vote twice in November.

“I will believe in you every day of my life.”

As told to ET by Elliot.

About a week ago I woke up in the middle of the night and heard someone say, “Why don’t you write about me?” I was pretty sure I recognized that voice.

The next morning I picked up a book, opened it and read, “I will believe in you every day of my life.” Okay, so this person is not so subtle!

David is my Elliot. We met 25 years ago. We were both 12 (we were mature for our age) and were employed in the Direct Mail/Advertising department at Bloomingdale’s in Manhattan.

We had that comfort level that comes from knowing someone in another place and time. Don’t know the place or time but we have all met people where there is such a connection right away. If not, please get out more. They are out there. They would like to meet you. Again.

“I will believe in you every day of my life” friends are such an extraordinary gift.

When you feel like a stuffed pig in that little black dress that you didn’t buy on sale, they will tell you that your legs go on for days (they won’t mention that your rent is overdue).

When you break up with a bad boyfriend (and I don’t mean the “good” bad) they are there to soothe your broken heart (or was it the ego?).

When you continue to break up with the before mentioned bad boyfriends they exhibit courage by slipping the business card of a very good therapist in your hand.

When you are blind to your extraordinary and dazzling attributes they are there to tell you that you were always clever, compelling, amusing and a good dancer.

When they stay on the phone with you for three hours they will say it’s because your melodic voice totally engages them. They will never mention that they ran out of sleeping pills and that the drugstore is closed.

When they make you stretch beyond your comfort level and you start to feel the glimmer of your new life emerging, they are there to welcome you home.

There should be a national holiday for “I will believe in you everyday of my life” friends.

Now in fairness to me, I’m a “I will believe in you every day of my life” friend to David. I always felt he did more to enrich my life, but if I think of all the adventures we went thru together (and survived), I know I kept up with him just fine.

We were struggling writers who had a gem of an idea for a TV show about 2 friends(how original): he the handsome, intelligent entrepreneur who saves world from ugly visible panty lines and she the clumsy, sarcastic (and outrageously breathtaking looking) woman who bought all the nations of the world to the peace table and just left them there.

Sadly we never got the chance to write our show. David passed away on Thanksgiving in 1997 from AIDS. It still takes my breath away. I lost my safety net. My darling friend.

Call a friend today and tell them why you believe in them. Then show them that you do. Make another call but don’t stay on the phone all the time. Let someone else have the chance to call you and tell you that they will believe in you every day of their lives.

Elliot found that friendship in ET as I found that unwavering friendship in David. But how unfair it is that David’s the cute, wide-eyed boy while I ended up butt naked with a big fat bald head.

And David, if you are listening, “Call home.” Again.

Visiting David in AZ.