Carros usados japoneses

• País: Tanzania, United Republic Of
• Data: 2015-12-04

This one is great for the grocery store, the takeout burrito restaurant or anywhere else that involves really tired people trying their best,

. For example, the woman in front of you pays the cashier but then has to rifle through her overstuffed wallet to put away the change, then store the receipt, then mash the whole fat leather money accordion into her purse. She will usually complete this action with frantic fingers because she knows she's delaying the whole line; she knows everybody just want(really? because everybody's in a rush...) and then a flash of sweet wide-open relief. You have just given somebody a three-minute holiday, not from the stress of life, but from the stress we put on ourselves.

My mother was robbed at gunpoint in our home when she was pregnant with my sister. As a toddler, I found the event less scarring than she did (her water broke from the stress). Still, she spent the rest of my childhood instilling in me a fear of strangers and an appreciation of big dogs and high-tech alarm systems.

Three decades later, I've taken her lessons to heart. I live in New York City, a place teeming with strangers. And I never speak to them. Not to the old man playing his cello on the subway platform, or the NYU students scouring the sale rack alongside me at the Gap—hell, not even to the tired moms pushing baby strollers on my block, who seem particularly disinclined to commit violence. With friends, I'm solicitous (after an initial thaw, at least). Toward anyone I don't know, I'm dismissive at best, rude at worst. Why are they taking so long to order their coffee?

This all came into sharp relief when I married a man our friends call the Mayor of Greenpoint. When we walk the streets of our Brooklyn neighborhood, my husband greets each dog and human by name. He gets drinks with his barber; he landed a job through a guy he met at the park. And he frequently brings up the time I used my open umbrella to herd tourists out of my path in Times Square, like cattle. "I could never do that," he'll say, virtuously. I still don't see why it was so wrong—perhaps more evidence that I need help.

I decide to try a little experiment. For a week, I will smile at everyone and will answer warmly when spoken to. I'm curious to see if I can change this crowded metropolis—or at least, my experience of it—by altering my own energy. (It's worth mentioning that I'm visibly pregnant, which predisposes people to be nice to me.)

My experiment starts strong, when our shepherd mutt stops to sniff a cocker spaniel's rear in my building's lobby. This is usually my cue to flash a terse smile and yank his leash. But today I linger. The cocker spaniel's owner reveals that she herself is in the early stages of pregnancy. After a few pleasantries, I suggest we explore sharing a nanny. When she agrees, I'm overwhelmed by that tingly rush you get when you first gel with a new friend.

Soon I take my nicer self for a spin on the subway. When an older couple chats me up—"It's a boy, isn't it?" says the woman, who is wearing a floral twinset—I gamely field her questions about the names we're considering. Feeling bold, I even reveal that I'm starting to dilate—which elicits a raised eyebrow. Too much? I've gone from avoiding eye contact to telling complete strangers what's going on with my cervix.

Still, the world is starting to look different to me. It's full of cute retired couples who remind me of my parents, and neighbors named Sandra with whom to gossip about the stoner who was recently evicted from our building. I start finding Amazon.com boxes perched in front of my door; it seems my new friends don't want me to haul them upstairs in my condition.

Of course, not everyone seems to be relishing the magical new vibe. When my dog nearly trips a woman on the sidewalk, she fixes me with an icy, accusatory glare—a look I've cast at hundreds of strangers over the years. This time, however, I simply smile. "Poor thing," I think. "Doesn't know what she's missing."

Of all the thousands of people I've interviewed and studied over the years—looking for patterns in the data—only about 15 to 20 percent were folks living with their whole hearts, folks who were really all in when it came to their relationships. So I decided I wanted to find out why. What quality did these people have that made them so capable of both receiving and giving love?

When I examined my research, I discovered that these were people who deeply believed that they were worthy of love and belonging. These folks believed this regardless of the circumstances, unlike the majority of us who think: "Okay, I'm worthy of love and belonging a little bit, but I'll be superworthy if I get promoted. Or I'll be superworthy if I lose 20 pounds." These folks believed that they were loveable and that they had a place in the world, and those beliefs translated into specific choices they made every day. They were aware. They recognized shame, and they knew how to deal with it. They recognized vulnerability, and they were willing to feel it—rather than ignore or numb it.

What I wondered was, How do the rest of us cultivate these same qualities? It's not like we can just decide to be vulnerable or say, "Hey, I'm worthy," after which—poof—this instantly comes true. But there are practical changes you can make in your life which encourage these beliefs.
CAR FROM JAPAN