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Amy F. Quincy Author/Freelance Writer

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amyfquincy

Freelance Writer

Lonely Planet

the-martian-movie-posterI guess I’m the only one. At least I’m definite in my opinions, right? I mean, you wouldn’t want me to be one of those people who said it was great just because everybody said it was great, right? No one would care what she thought. Maybe I like going against the grain. Maybe negative reviews are just a whole lot easier (and more fun) to write. But, as one critic hinted at to a more positive effect, the only thing worse than being a man stuck alone on a planet is being a woman stuck alone in a movie theater watching a man stuck alone on a planet.

If you’ll pardon the double negative, I did not not like The Martian. I can’t think of any Matt Damon movie not worth at least checking out. I just got really, really bored. At two hours, twenty-one minutes, it felt a lot longer. Like watching potatoes grow. Literally.

There were the ever present shades of movies like Cast Away and Apollo 13 (much more successful movies to my mind). Like Cast Away, it was often just one man and the camera, though Tom Hanks pulled it off for much more of the movie while The Martian kept cutting back to Earth to see what the good folks at NASA were doing – usually mucking things up by playing politics. Hey, you can’t blame director Ridley Scott for trying to drum up some tension.

And who wasn’t reminded of Apollo 13 as we watched scientists tackle problem after problem while the whole world roots for everyone to make it back safe and sound? Somehow though, it was more fun watching Bill Paxton build a carbon dioxide reducing diffuser out of cardboard and some duct tape. And I know I can’t be the only person who rolled my eyes at the live broadcasts to thousands in Times Square and similar locations the world over. I’m not suggesting we wouldn’t care. It’s high drama. We certainly would care. Here. I take issue more with the sheer number and their locale. Are thousands of Chinese or Europeans really going to be glued to the action?

And no offense to the nerds out there, but I think this is kind of a geek-lovers movie. In this world, science is king and NASA execs are superheroes. I can see my dad really enjoying watching Damon make water by burning hydrogen (sorry, Dad). Or a certain friend’s father who used to help me with my chemistry homework (sorry, Mr. Barnhill). And not that I associate bad music and corny jokes with nerds, but I kinda do – and this movie has tons of both. It was somebody’s bright idea to take the running joke of the bad musical tastes of Commander Lewis (Jessica Chastain) and make those songs the soundtrack. Now, normally I like some disco music, but the only song I can stand is Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” and that plays along with the end credits! Fitting. A celebration of surviving the movie. But I’m getting carried away. It wasn’t that bad.

In the end, I don’t know why some movies work and some don’t. Why Tom Hanks is funny pounding on his chest like a caveman when he makes fire but Damon is kind of corny when he poses for a satellite picture as The Fonz from Happy Days. I think Damon is a great actor. Maybe it has something to do with trying too hard. Or that it’s all been done before. You’ll have to decide for yourself. So don’t let me keep you away from the movie or the movie keep you away from the book. The book is always better.

 

 

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3

All In

steamy_showerIt’s funny how you can hear something repeated over and over, even preach it yourself, but never get it until you really get it. And then, all at once it hits you. Ohhh.

Be Present.

I do yoga. I meditate. I’ve even spent time in a Buddhist center. But how do you do that – really?

I think the answer came to me during a single week filled with several a-ha moments. First, there was the true appreciation of the moment – in my case, the shower. My mind was wandering, as it always does in there, and I thought back to my earlier showers, when I’d just returned home from the hospital. I couldn’t be alone in there. Imagine showering with your mother helping and looking on, and you begin to realize just how delicious a straightforward shower by yourself can be. I was able to look upon my current shower with real gratitude for the simple gift that it is.

Next, I was watching TV and a commercial came on for some cable company or other advertising how with their service you could watch multiple channels at the same time. There on the screen was one basketball game, and up in the right-hand corner were other little players running around  – mini feed from a whole other game! Seriously? Why? Just pick one! But the world encourages multi-tasking. Our phones do it. Our computers do it. And we do it. We should seriously cut it out.

“Never do more than one thing at a time. Ever.”  Words from Anna, my yoga teacher. And I’m taking her advice, although multi-tasking kind of became impossible for me after the brain hemorrhage anyway. Seriously. I can’t even take in the scenery in the power chair without running into something. It’s 100% focus, all the time, or there’s trouble.

So, if you’re going to watch a game, grab a big bowl of popcorn, open a beer and just watch one. Along the same lines, if you’re going to take a shower, take a shower. Don’t busy up your brain thinking of all the things you have to do that day. Be where you are. Profound, isn’t it? Take in the suds, the steam, the sensations. You know that moment after you’ve turned the water up a little hotter, right when the goosebumps hit your flesh but before your skin gets used to the new temperature and the goosebumps fade? Experience that. Be in that moment.

It does take practice. As a writer, some of my best ideas come to me in the shower. I don’t want to give that up. So I’ve designated the last ten minutes or so to letting my mind wander and make up sentences to my heart’s content.

Anna posed some interesting questions recently. When was the last time you were “all in?”  Had all five senses fully engaged? Had the world shrink around you until you could only see, hear, smell, taste and feel whatever you were involved in?

Umm … okay, I’ll say it. I can’t be the only person who was thinking about sex here, right? And I don’t want to get all in your personal business, but for me? Let’s just say it would be particularly sad if that were the last time I was “all in.”

In fact, I like to compensate by being all in, all the time. I’ve taken to adopting that little saying to everything I do. Eating a chocolate, I think, “If you’re going to eat a chocolate, eat a chocolate.” And that reminds me to take it in, to savor it. If you’re going to eat dinner, eat dinner. And I turn off the TV. And my favorite and by far the easiest: if you’re going to walk the dog, walk the dog. I do love walking Frankie. I’ve decided never to complain about being too busy again. I like being outside, the nice weather, seeing neighbors, squirrels, Frankie looking happy laying in the grass. My next book should be called Zen and the Art of Dog-walking. I do have the advantage of always having a seat with me, so we can stop anywhere the mood strikes us or his little legs give out. But frequent places with benches. Hit the park. Make it enjoyable, not one more chore. Heck, sit in the grass! I’m sure Fido will be happy for the company down on his level.

Last week, Frankie and I were stopped in the shade. It was one of those pretty, mackerel skies that I love. I was leaning back feeling the breeze on my face, while he was sniffing and kicking in the grass. A woman in a jogging suit and one of those serious fast walking paces went by, phone ear pieces jiggling from her head. She looked extremely jealous. In fact, she said as much. “How nice! Look at you two relaxing. I wish!” she laughed. Well, I ask you – what was stopping her? She was out for a walk the same half-hour that I was. What made my walk more relaxing was that I was in it. Not on my phone. Not planning my day. Not exercising. And not all at the same time. Nothing is stopping you either. Go all in.89

 

 

 

 

5

Techie Troubles

apple1Sorry it’s been awhile since my last post, but I have a really good excuse. My computer died. Well, it didn’t so much die as it was murdered. In cold blood. By a vengeful Mac-hating PC guy posing as a computer technician.

Perhaps I should explain. My mom and I began having problems with both our Macs immediately after a U-verse rep came out to install a new modem. (That should’ve been my first clue right there.) After exhausting all the brilliant minds at the cable company and desperate to get to the bottom of the problem, I called in outside help from an “expert.”

The assassin from Devine Technology Solutions seemed innocent and knowledgeable enough. (Killers usually are charming.) I don’t hesitate to use the actual name of the company here because my letter expressing my dissatisfaction has gone unanswered. (Beware the power of the pen, people!) It was the tech’s, I dare say somewhat biased opinion that both Macintosh computers, being over five years old, had died simultaneously (second clue). They did appear dead. After a few hours of the rainbow wheel, they wouldn’t even load. Still, that’s a huge coincidence, is it not?

To make a very long story somewhat shorter, I made the rather rash decision to let him rip out the harddrive of my “dead” Mac and load it onto my Windows laptop all while he extolled on the dangers of owning a Macintosh. (PC propaganda no doubt.). Meanwhile my mom, being in less of a hurry, got a second opinion from a fellow Mac owner who said the whole thing sounded fishy and that she should take it to the Genius Bar at the mall. And guess what? Her computer is fine. U-verse sent out a new modem to replace the faulty one causing all the problems to begin with and everything’s working great. The second U-verse rep instilled more confidence too, despite our initial conversation. Me: I hope you know Macs. Him: I’m sorry, I don’t think I know him.

I feel bad. My computer suffered a death that’s the stuff of my worst nightmares. It was buried alive. Or more like, it had open heart surgery without anesthetic. Sent six feet under while it was merely unconscious. But how was I to know? I trusted the doctors! Computers are not my expertise.

My guilt is doubled when I look at the shiny new (refurbished) Mac on which I write this. Tripled, when I joyfully think of the hordes of to-do lists I lost in the shuffle. It was liberating actually, to be unshackled from the weight of all those things left undone. During my computer-less time (well, I always had the Windows laptop but can I declare myself to be a Mac girl without sparking too much debate?) if I couldn’t remember something it was just … well … gone! It ceased to exist. I didn’t stress about all the things I had to do because I didn’t know I had to do them! It must be how more normal, less organized people feel all the time. It’s very freeing.

But the reality of living in the age of technology came calling when I turned on my new Apple and began exploring. There, sitting in Apple Mail was every to-do list I thought was gone, along with every email message I ever sent since 2011.

I’ve learned several important lessons in all this, not the least of which is this: you can always make life easier. Just hit delete.

 

3

Powering Down

thNew rule. I will spend no more than four hours a day staring at a screen of any kind. That’s television screen, smart phone, e-reader or computer. You don’t realize how much eye strain you’re causing till you’ve had eye surgery and are trying to recover. I underwent a procedure last month to straighten the eyes (successful) and alleviate the double vision (not), and since then I’ve become very conscious of my screen time.

For a while, my body let me know it didn’t like how I was choosing to pass the time by giving me a massive headache whenever I logged in somewhere. Even for 15 minutes. It was like reliving the 90s. My smart phone got dumb –  it became (gasp – imagine!) just a device for making calls. And I picked up for everyone, even unknown numbers, because I couldn’t see the screen well enough to make out who was calling. A telemarketer’s delight. Even television became a problem. I was fine for a while focusing on the screen. The difficulty came in trying to look anywhere else, particularly at a different distance. Looking at the remote in my hand to change channels, for example, caused a shooting pain. Some decent show would end and I’d find myself watching a fishing show or some true crime drama, like Southern Fried Homicide. (No lie. It’s a real show.) Eventually, I gave up and closed my eyes. I now incorporate a midday nap into my schedule. (You should change it up too. Even if you work full-time on a computer – take breaks. Look away.)

It’s been a slow recovery. but I’m finally logging more screen time than 15 minutes. I’m back on the computer, playing Words with Friends and starting a book on my Kindle. But the memory of that pain is serving me well. Just because I can spend more time in front of a screen, doesn’t mean I should.

Besides, think of what all that reliance on technology is doing to our brains. When you were a kid you probably knew everyone’s number by heart. Heck, I can still recite numbers I learned in childhood. On the other hand, if my phone went dead today, I’d be hard-pressed to be able to reach a single relative. And what if we actually had to use our minds to find or remember how to get somewhere in our cars instead of just blindly following a computerized voice that politely tells us when to turn right or left? In an Atlantic Monthly article, writer Nicolas Carr proposes the Internet just might be making us dumb, that is to say biologically changing our brains – how we read and gather information and shortening our attention spans.

Now, maybe it’s just me getting older, but I’m tempted to say, “Kids these days …” and shake my head when I look at the following picture. B3eqR4MIMAAtTis

I’m a little worried. Sure, there’s a definite upside to all this technology. But let’s not forget how to be human. To actually look and converse with the person sitting across from you, appreciate the work of art or read an old fashioned book or newspaper – not just the online versions. A little less Facebook isn’t going to kill anyone. It’ll probably be good for you. And remember, it’s easier on the eyes, too.

7

My Happy List

This blog post could alternately be titled: Why I Don’t Write Every Day. I know, I know. Writers are supposed to write every day. Most books on writing, writing teachers and even other writers will tell you to write every day. Write when you don’t feel like it. Especially when you don’t feel like it. Pick a time, preferably the same time every day (to train your muse as to when to show up), and just do it. Well, I’ve tried, and dammit, I give up. I’m tired of trying, and failing, to find enough time in the day. I’m embracing my inner lazy person and letting it go. I’m officially letting myself off the hook. No guilt.

What prompted this revamping of my schedule is a post on Facebook. (Facebook is a major time-waster that should probably be re-prioritized by many of you, myself included, though it did inspire this blog.) Anyway, here’s the post.

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1. Make a list of the things that make you happy.

2. Make a list of things you do every day.

3. Compare the lists.

4. Adjust accordingly.

Brilliant. And so simple. I’m sure my cousin, who originally shared this basic wisdom, will be pleased to know I’ve taken it to heart.

So, what makes me happy these days? Taking care of myself. Being and staying healthy. As a result, I’ve decided my time at the gym or time doing yoga is time well spent. I also really enjoy walking Frankie. Which is fortunate because he really needs to be walked once, sometimes twice daily. It’s usually an hour long affair with several stops in the shade where I can listen to the birds and think of nothing while he pees and then kicks, pees and kicks, pees and kicks in the grass to his heart’s content. See, it makes him happy too. So, it’s a win-win. And lastly, I love being involved in a good book. So, reading makes my list. Oh! And I almost forgot – Mom! (How could I forget with the coming Mother’s Day weekend?) We really do have fun together when she’s not driving me crazy. (Sorry, I know that’s kind of a back-handed compliment.) So, there’s my happy list. Taking care of my health. Walking Frankie. Reading. Spending time with Mom.

And I’ve been making adjustments, or re-prioritizing, based on my list. Like last week, I dropped everything to sit on my deck and enjoy the beautiful weather we’ve been having in Jacksonville while reading a book. Or before that, I left dirty dishes in the sink and, still  in my pajamas well after noon, went out back to sit by the pool with Mom. The choices are easier. Dirty dishes? Getting showered and dressed? Hey, not on the list.

You’ll notice writing didn’t make the list. Not that it doesn’t make me happy … Well, wait. Who am I kidding? Show me the writer who joyfully sits down to write every day and I’ll show you a writer with an open bottle of scotch on the ready and a drinking problem. For most of us, it’s torture. The idea of being a writer makes me happy. The idea of writing every day? Not so much. There’s a difference.

I’ve decided to look at it like author Patricia Cornwell, who advised, “Treat your writing like a relationship, and not a job.” I’ve been doing it all wrong. I’ve been punching a clock. And, hey, if that works for you and makes you happy – then punch away. There just aren’t enough hours in my day. If I view it as a relationship, it becomes less like work and more about maintaining that connection. I’ll always come back to it. I’d miss it.

I’ll even take it one step further. My writing is like a marriage. I’m ready to make that serious commitment. To vow that writing will always be a part of my life. Just not my daily life. It’s like my husband lives out of state. Or we have separate houses. But we talk often.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been writing all day and a certain somebody needs a walk.20150315_121425

2

What are YOU reading?

mykI feel like a public service announcement with this month’s blog post. Remember that campaign that started in the late 80s? Well, this is my campaign. And it’s true – the more you know … I’m not sure how that sentence ends, but trust me, it’s positive. So here we go.

Something came to my attention a few weeks ago that I found odd, if not downright disheartening. My yoga teacher has a tradition of having everyone go around the room at the beginning of class to answer a question. It’s a fun way to introduce yourself, break the ice, let others get to know you. The week’s question: What are you reading? Now I think this group is a pretty fair sampling of society, with people of all ages, from all walks of life. And do you know that the vast majority of folks were not reading anything? I think I could count on two hands those of us who gave legitimate answers. The rest offered up things like online newspapers, magazines or textbooks. Let me tell you something – it may be called a book, but Facebook doesn’t count! In this day and age of the Internet, entertainment technology and social networking, people are much more likely to be looking down at their phone than down at a book. You’re excused if your book is on your phone. Contrary to some, I’m not against e-readers or Kindle apps.

I think I’ve had an answer to the reading question ever since a writing teacher first prepared me for it, if not before. “Always have an answer to the question, ‘What are you reading?'”, he said. Or don’t bother to call yourself a writer. I’m paraphrasing this last part, but you get the drift. If you want to be a writer, you have to read. I think that’s probably in every writing book ever written. But don’t get me wrong. I was like anybody else. I partied in college and just “got by.” Then, when I had a clearer idea of who I wanted to become, I read. I read all the books on old course syllabi in my twenties. And I’ve been reading ever since.

r1But even if you don’t aspire to writing, you should be reading. Take it from Canada’s National Reading Campaign. Geez, socially speaking, that country may have one-upped us here in the U.S. (If it weren’t so damn cold, I might’ve even moved there.) But seriously, they say reading improves your physical health, mental health and empathy. I think I learned somewhere that serial killers lack empathy at an early age. So, we’re raising a society full of murderers? Yikes. If that doesn’t scare you into cracking open a book or sharing a bedtime story with your kid, then consider this next graphic:r2

 

Or this one:r

Six minutes! Who doesn’t have six minutes? Make it a priority. If you really don’t have time to spare, consider shutting off the television or computer a little earlier than normal. I know you make time for that, I see you on Facebook. And you don’t even have to be fast! I read and reread the same page of Wild (yes, the movie) before finally giving up on it. I trudged through Wicked for six months and I’m still not sure what happened. But consider this: being in the middle of a book makes you look smart at the least. Some of that knowledge is bound to seep in. And you know, the more you know …

3

Find Your Magic

thYoga is working its magic again. To be fair, my improved self-esteem could be attributed to several factors. I’m working out at a “regular” (able-bodied) gym and getting stronger. There’s the almost daily meditation keeping me centered. And I’ve been eating healthier (for the most part). Still, there’s no denying it — yoga works wonders for me.

I had an epiphany last week. For the first time in eight years, I didn’t want to be in anyone’s body but my own. Truly. Not that I spend a lot of time wishing I had more physical capabilities than I have — I don’t. At least I think I don’t. I have spent a lot of time comparing. Comparing my body and its abilities with other disabled bodies. (It’s not even close to a fair fight to compare myself to able bodies, so I don’t.) But if comparing is the same thing as wishing, than I confess, I’m guilty of wishing I was disabled in a different way.

For eight years now, I’ve been trying different adaptive sports through Brooks: wheelchair tennis, handcycling, water-skiing, power soccer, rock climbing and horseback riding, just to name a few. The thing about adaptive sports is that they can be adapted to suit most any disability. This doesn’t mean, however, that just anyone can excel at them. For me, with my poor coordination, attempting almost any sport becomes laughable. Good for my spirited sense of humor. Not so good for my confidence.

My bad eyesight and double vision didn’t help matters. But it did help to explain my poor performance. “So you see two balls coming at you?” the manager of the adaptive program asked me on the tennis court.

“Yes,” I replied.

“So how do you know which one to hit?” My problem exactly.

soccerAt most sports, particularly those involving a ball, it seemed everyone was better than me. The grass was always greener. The way I saw it, amputees often didn’t have to be in a wheelchair and paraplegics had perfect upper body control. But me? Take my spastic movements, garbled speech and chameleon eyes and it’s not hard to see why I felt like Goofy on the pity-party train to the Magic Kingdom.

Enter Adaptive Yoga, where volunteers help guide our limbs into stretches. Now this I can do! My muscles remember the poses and with a little help, I can still get there. No ball involved. And I don’t feel goofy. Not even a little bit. Yoga teaches me to treasure me. I relish the fact that I can move everything and still have everything. I’m reminded to be grateful that I’m not in pain and don’t need to take medication. Yoga fertilizes my lawn till it looks just as green. Right where I am.

The intention, of course, is not to make anyone feel bad about their own abilities or lack thereof. It’s to remind you that regardless, there’s something out there for you that supports you where you are right now. That makes you feel good about yourself, too. Maybe for you, it’s basketball, or an adaptive sport. Maybe it’s not a sport at all. Maybe you’re a mean knitter. Maybe it’s your mind or your voice and you have some story to tell. It took me eight years, but I’ve found my thing and I’m celebrating it. Find your thing, too.th2

 

 

7

My Nickel’s Worth

thOkay, now that that’s over with (Valentine’s Day), we can get on to what the rest of February is all about, for me anyway. The Oscars. Next Sunday marks the 87th annual Academy Awards, and as you may have noticed, I’ve increased my value over last year’s two cent’s worth post.

That’s both because I’ve seen more of the movies and performances nominated (all the Best Picture nominees except for Selma, and many films that contain nominations in other categories) and because I value my own opinion on the subject more (thanks, Mom). As for Selma, I opted not to see it. What can I say? I’m kind of a baby. I never saw 12 Years a Slave either. I can tolerate fictional violence if it has a point, but have a harder time with true portrayals, particularly of shameful periods in history. So, without further ado — my nickel’s worth.

indexMy favorite movie of the nominees and personal pick for Best Picture is Whiplash. I’m not saying it’ll win, but I absolutely loved it. Perhaps it resonated with me so much because it appealed to my artistic side. This inspiring film carries the message that what is necessary to become one of the greats in any creative endeavor (in this case Andrew Neyman, played brilliantly by Miles Teller, aspires to be a legendary jazz musician) is a drive that eclipses all else and leaves the rest of the world questioning your sanity. I’ve had this very conversation with writer friends and personally determined that I probably don’t have what it takes to make it big. Not for lack of talent, though unbeknownst to me that may be an issue too, but because I desire to have a long, sane and balanced life!

J.K. Simmons, formally known as “that guy,” plays whip-cracking professor/conductor Terence Fletcher, who takes the concept of tough love to new heights and rattles off offensive insults with rapid, drill instructor precision. Simmons has my vote for Best Actor in a Supporting Role, though I liked Mark Ruffalo in Foxcatcher (is Channing Tatum too much of a hunk to even be considered?) and Edward Norton’s performance is one of the few things I actually liked about Birdman.

indexI had planned a whole separate review of Birdman called “Snobby Bird,” but as usual, time got away from me. I know, I know. A lot of people liked it. I thought it was a pretentious, artsy, load of poo. Okay, maybe calling it poo is a bit much. After all, it’ll probably win. But I’d even prefer to sit through American Sniper again! (Read my earlier review of it here.) Well, wait. I’m not sure that’s true. As a writer and wannabe film critic, I’d probably read up on Birdman and suffer through it again just to try to figure out what all the fuss is about. Am I missing something here?

What bothered me about it is that it took me back to my college days as an English major or even further back to high school drama geek days when I was surrounded by hoardes of goth-styled, eyebrow-pierced young adults all trying to prove how unique and smart they were. At first, it’s intimidating. Like being stuck wearing penny loafers in some dark, artsy dive bar on open mic night listening to spoken word poetry. But then you really listen. And realize no one’s saying anything that profound or that you yourself can’t say anyway.

So, this is how Birdman struck me. Like a rebellious teenager desperately trying to prove how clever he is, director Alejandro Inarritu dazzled us with stylistic camera shots, an annoying, almost continuous drum soundtrack and heady, superfluous dialogue that had most of the audience nodding in approval while I bet they secretly scratched their heads, particularly at Keaton’s surreal alter-ego’s antics, and wondered but what’s it all mean? I understand the dig it took at today’s audience for needing superhero fueled action and explosions versus thoughtful Raymond Carver adaptations, but I still left feeling like I needed the CliffsNotes. Or Award Nominees for Dummies. Or maybe that’s all me and I just didn’t get it. I ‘d like to think I’m fairly smart, but I guess it’s possible. That’s probably why I prefer straightforward, simple writers like Hemingway.

indeximagesFor other nominations, I like Benedict Cumberbatch in The Imitation Game or Eddie Redmayne in The Theory of Everything for Best Actor. (In Redmayne’s case, he deserves to win for the sheer physicality it took to transform into Stephen Hawking alone.) Speaking of amazing transformations, Meryl Streep would be my pick for her bajillionth award, this time for Best Supporting Actress in Into the Woods, if it wasn’t for Patricia Arquette in Boyhood. Into the Woods, by the way, is my favorite film not nominated for Best Picture. It’ll be a shame if it doesn’t at least take home an Oscar for Costume Design. I pick Julianne Moore in Still Alice for Best Actress. No, I haven’t actually seen the movie yet so I guess I can’t say, but I just bet she’s fantastic. I won’t be unhappy if Rosamund Pike wins either. She was truly twisted in Gone Girl, while Reese Witherspoon and Felicity Jones played parts that really didn’t do much for me.

So, there you have it — my nickel’s worth. I guess you know what I’ll be watching next Sunday. It’s the only thing that could tear me away from Downton Abbey. Well, that or a movie.

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4

St. Kindness Day

cropped-1200154414x08aj6.jpgIt’s a holiday rerun! This is my original post from February, 2012. Or check out a Valentine’s excerpt from my book here. Happy reading. And Happy Valentine’s Day.

Original Post: Happy Kind and Thoughtful Day

Being able-bodied and single for so many years, I have to say that Valentine’s Day used to cause me a lot of angst. If I didn’t have a boyfriend, that fact was made painfully obvious. And if I did, there was the constant worry over what he would or wouldn’t do and the terrible disappointment of not having my expectations met. Either way, I lost.

Now, I actually enjoy the holiday. Without troubling over whether I’m alone or just with someone who makes me feel like I am, I can really get into it. I usually buy valentines for family and friends alike and Mom and I trade red cellophane hearts stuffed with chocolate and gifts so tacky they’re cute, like last year’s plush bumblebee that sang Be My Baby.

I think everyone (who doesn’t have the perfect gift-giving spouse or significant other) should know this joy without becoming disabled. That’s why I’m suggesting that every February 14th become a day of benevolence and general consideration to everyone, even strangers. You know, like the whole random acts of kindness thing, except more concentrated. Make it a day less about romantic love and partners and more about just being nice.

One of the big perks of disability is getting to see lots of human kindness. My mom jokes she likes to take me out cause we might get our bill paid. Seriously! It’s happened at two different restaurants. Some kind stranger has picked up our tab. Another time, a friend and I went shopping at a consignment store. In recounting the total, we figured I got the “wheelchair discount.” It was cheap in there, but not that cheap! And I can’t count the number of times I’ve been walking Frankie and someone has offered to pick up his poop. Can you imagine?

I think that kind of generosity should extend to everyone, not just the handicapped. And if it’s done on Valentine’s Day (or the entire month of February,) a lot of people can avoid a lot of holiday-fueled anxiety. Now, I’m not suggesting you start picking up after some stranger’s dog, but here are a few ideas to get you started:

♥ Open doors for people behind you.

♥ Let someone with just a few items in front of you at the checkout.

♥ Send e-cards to friends.

♥ Don’t forget your “thank you” wave.

♥ Give a carnation to your co-workers — all of them.

♥ Be nice to someone you don’t like.

♥ Call someone you haven’t talked to in a while.

♥ Bring treats to work (or for the health-conscious — fresh fruit.)

♥ Pay the tab of the person behind you in the drive-thru at Starbucks.

And don’t forget — in the event my idea doesn’t take off, be kind to yourself. In my office days, I wasn’t above sending flowers to myself. From a secret admirer, of course. The person at the flower shop is the only one who’ll know. And I’m sure they get it all the time.

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