“There is no finish line. Which makes me wish I’d brought toilet paper.” – The Internet
I haven’t been running much. Not even when chased. When I have, I’ve limited myself to one mile, usually at a ridiculous pace, or sprinting up stairs until I couldn’t feel my face. Weeks ago, I gave it everything I had in an attempt to run a sub-6 minute mile and missed by a few seconds. Today, because I’m stupid, I gave it one more shot: I thought for certain I had failed again. To my surprise, I finished in five minutes and forty-nine seconds. I’m glad – because it allows me to cross this nonsense off my list! I’m going back to running-walking. The good news is that new research reinforces what we already suspected: there is a ‘sweet spot’ for exercise. Beyond that point, it turns out that you actually reduce your life expectancy instead of increasing it. I’m pretty sure my life flashed in front of my eyes at about five minutes. Everything in moderation – even chocolate chip cookies or peanut cluster bites. But at least I can say I did it once as a 54-year old.
“Running your mouth doesn’t count as cardio.” But it should. I’d be a marathoner for sure. .
As I predicted, today was phenomenal. It got even better when the headphones I bought with Sam’s club points arrived. Along with my yellow shirt. Someone at work told me I needed a yellow shirt to go with black pants so I could look like a bumblebee. It seemed reasonable, like climbing a 70 ft tall tree in February. I saw the world from a different perspective up there. Don’t worry ~ I have insurance. Both life and health for that matter. It’s been 5 months since my surgery. Go ahead, ask me if I’m happy. I try to imagine what life would be like if everyday were this sublime. .
The scammer leaned against the brick facade of the inconvenience store as I pulled up. Luckily, someone distracted him as I exited my car. On the way out, though, I made the mistake of eye contact. As he began his elaborate and well-rehearsed story, I listened attentively.
“What do you need the money for?” I asked him, smiling.
“A room, as I said.” He paused.
“I’ll give you $50 for your headphones. Will that help?” His headphones were worth as much as two of my car payments.
He smiled broadly. “Okay, you got me there.”
I laughed. “I tell you what. IF you tell me an interesting story, I’ll give you all the cash I have, $8. Is that fair? Just make it a true story.”
He thought about it a second. “Ooh! That’s easy. For $8, I can tell you ten great stories.”
I leaned against the brick facade next to him. “Hit me, dude.”
Here’s what he told me:
“Back a few years ago, I was in Nashville to scam my way into the VIP area at a private concert. I managed to get inside, of course, insisting I was the sound engineer for the band. I’ve met Nelly, 50 Cent, and a few others doing that. After about an hour, a few of the entourage went to a private bar nearby. Everyone was doing drugs. Even the waitstaff. I like to smoke but I wouldn’t touch the stuff they were using. I’d grabbed at least twenty joints from the little case one of the entourage had and stuffed them in my pocket. After a few minutes, a couple of men entered the main room, and one of them shouted, “Police. Everyone stay put. You are all being detained.” I ducked down to the floor, hoping I hadn’t been seen. I crawled around the bar and crouched low. I pulled out a case of wine from underneath and quickly yanked a couple of bottles out and put them on the floor. I could hear the mayhem on the other side as people were frisked and handcuffed. One of the detectives walked around the bar and saw me there. I looked up at him and nodded, and kept pulling wine bottles out of the case. The detective assumed I must have worked for the bar as he nodded back and walked past me. After a few seconds of that, I stood up and lifted the case of wine to the bartop. Everyone was sitting at tables, most of them cuffed. I kept pulling bottles out and putting them on the bar. This went on for a few minutes. Because of the confusion, I then started putting full bottles of the good vodka, whiskey, and gin in the wine case. When I had it full, I waited for the detective who’d seen me on the floor to look in my direction. I pointed to the case and then toward the back storage area. The detective nodded. I picked up the case of liquor and headed through the storage area. There was a plainclothes cop at the back door. He assumed I had been waved through because he didn’t stop me as I strolled past with my stolen case of goods. I walked out of there, laughing. I sold the liquor for $250. I shared the joints with my friend who was in Nashville with me. We got so high we could barely walk.”
I laughed. “That is a good story!”
“I learned that if you act natural, a lot of times you’ll skate by. And be polite, no matter what. I got caught with an unbelievable amount of pot in Atlanta one time. Enough to smoke up an auditorium full of people. When he asked me what it was for, I told him the truth, that it was to get higher than a kite for about a month. It wasn’t true, no one could smoke THAT much pot in a month. But he laughed and told me to be more careful about driving around with that much at one time. “I get a bulk discount though,” I told him. I think he was just caught off guard by how nonchalant I was about it.”
“Here’s your $8. Thanks for the story.”
As I went to get into my car, he quipped, “Are you sure you don’t smoke? That car color screams “high as-f” to me.”
“You’re right. On the other hand, those shoes you have on bring up an entire litany of questions.”
He was surprised as he looked down at his shoes.
He laughed. “You got me.”
“Offer to tell a story for money. You might make a lot more money.” He nodded.
I woke up at 3 a.m. to a snow moon this morning. I didn’t know until today that it’s called that thanks to Native Americans. The white billowy clouds moved across the sky rapidly and the wind created silhouettes of witch fingers across the parking long as the bare limbs danced and swayed. Güino gleefully ran outside and across the landing, enjoying the 59 degrees of the February morning. I walked down the landing in my bathrobe, waving at the neighbor’s security cameras, in an attempt to corral him back toward home. Since I had to do a metabolism test this morning, I tried to summon the spit demons to produce enough to fill a vial that seemed larger than a beer stein. And then, in the ultimate act of self-amusement, I jabbed myself with the needle to produce enough blood for a blood sample; this resulted inadvertently in enough blood to mimic an impromptu crime scene. The downstairs neighbors had to hear me laughing like a fool up here.
I’m enjoying a bitter cup of coffee, one made so strong that it might melt through the cup. As the minutes fly by and music plays softly on Alexa and Güino sits on my lap as I type, I realize that it’s a beautiful morning, a perfect one, to start the day. I’m going to laugh a lot today, get some sublime hugs, and wonder about the surprising ways that life still sneaks up on me with lemon moments. Whatever I had envisioned for myself in the previous months, this is a morning that’s difficult to complain about.
Güino agrees and purrs as I finish this.
I’m ready for the day. I hope it’s ready for me, too.
This is a post in two parts. I didn’t know how to separate them…
She reached out to me in November, her heart dreading what I might tell her. Sheena and Deanne, my wife who died, were once inseparable comrades in friendship and a little mischief. The early 90s were their heyday. Both Sheena and Deanne were outgoing and beautiful young women.
They’d lost touch. I don’t remember that Deanne told me why other than she often told stories about her friends and the shenanigans and moments she lived before meeting me. As anyone knows, the first few months of getting to know someone is a sublime pleasure filled with stories and insights. We immerse ourselves into the unknown universe of someone else’s life as we get to know them. Deanne was almost ten years younger than me. Despite that, she had a lot of stories to tell and a large family to fill the spaces of her life. I already knew her brother Mark thanks to our jobs at Cargill.
Sheena said she’d seen Deanne once in April of 2001 when Sheena was giving birth to her daughter. Deanne worked at the hospital and surprised Sheena with an impromptu visit. Evidently, it was one filled with smiles and quick words. Sheena did not see her again. But she always wanted to and wondered where Deanne was in the world.
As so often happens when we get older, we think about the people who once touched us. Some of them drift away purposefully; others drift for other reasons. The truth is that some people have a room in our hearts even when we no longer see them. It’s one of life’s bittersweet lessons.
Sheena found an obituary for Deanne. I’d dutifully left a trail of her life and some of her stories on Ancestry and other places. People need to be remembered. Sheena told me that she cried reading it, knowing that her hopes of reconnecting were gone forever. I felt an immense pang of regret on her behalf. Deanne would have lovingly hugged Sheena had she had the chance. She loved a good grudge, but she loved connections more. One of Deanne’s foibles was how quickly she could get irritated. It was a blessing to her in some ways, too, though. As I grew to know her, her ire often made me laugh. She’d punch me in the arm and laugh, too, once the ridiculousness of the situation became apparent.
Sheena ultimately revealed that their friendship probably ruptured because she had told Deanne that we were not compatible. Deanne made up her mind about me very early on. I’m not sure I was consulted!
Sheena reached out to me on Ancestry, and I shared my entire picture collection with her, thousands of pictures – and every picture I owned of Deanne. She was able to sort through Deanne’s short life, as told in pictures. Later, I shared a few stories with her, ones some people have never read or heard.
More importantly, I gave Sheena peace. I let her know that she should feel happy that Deanne and I found each other and stayed together, even when it wasn’t easy. We all do and say things when we’re younger – and often continue the same when we’re older. And if she said the things she said to Deanne with an authentic heart, she should not be accountable for sharing her opinion or truth. That’s the risk of being genuine with other people.
The truth is that Deanne and I weren’t compatible at first glance. Or probably second glance. In that sense, Sheena was definitely not wrong. Deanne was an outgoing, buxom, active soul, almost ten years younger than me. I had no clue she was interested in me. Until she insisted I come over for a homemade meal. Believe me, I was not the one wearing the pants at the beginning of the relationship. Call me oblivious.
Sheena got to see Deanne’s life because I am committed to sharing every picture I own with anyone interested. I’m just the custodian. I love pictures, and I love knowing that people always come full circle with wanting to see every picture of someone they love or loved. Avoiding the soapbox, I will limit myself to saying that unappreciated or unseen pictures do no one any good.
I still feel a bit of remorse for both Deanne and Sheena. They could have reconnected. Had I been aware, I would have asked Deanne to look past any past words and find Sheena again. I did the same with Deanne’s dad. Deanne doubted she could forge a new beginning with him. Through the years, though, I encouraged her to try from a new foundation. And she did. I still count it as one of the best things I’ve ever accomplished. More so because she died so young.
I hope Sheena found a way to fill her life with new souls. She seems like the kind of person who deserves it. Her words to Deanne so many years ago would have been received differently had I known at the time. * *
After Deanne died, I didn’t have a big interval of time before I met Dawn, my ex-wife. Whether you can understand or not, I made the choice to plow through life and not let myself get overwhelmed with the loss. When we first got together, I had her meet Deanne’s brother and his wife. I wanted them to know that me getting on with life didn’t negate Deanne. Quite the contrary. I had to make a choice, one that wasn’t really a choice at all. Things could have ended very badly for me. If you’ve lived a life with loss, you can imagine what some of those endings might look like for me. There’s no shame in acknowledging them.
It’s not a choice a lot of people might make. I make no apologies, though. Dawn and I were together when we were very young. She’d had an intervening marriage, one that fizzled and ground down into apathy. We were happy to find each other again.
Deanne never was between Dawn and me. At least not for me. She wasn’t a ghost, but she was a catalyst and reminder for me, something that people misunderstand. When life snatches your optimism through mortality, there are a lot of impossible feelings. This amplifies when you consider how capricious life can be; anyone or anything can disappear at any moment. Deanne deserved more years to continue her journey. She was substantially different from the time when we first met. And that was a great thing to witness. I try to remember to be grateful for the years I had with her. The song always ends, leaving us with a melody we can replay in our heads through memories.
At the risk of repeating myself, one of my biggest mistakes in life has been to occasionally forget the lesson that Deanne’s death dealt me: life is for the living, obstacles will always punch, and love is never wasted, no matter how it ends.
It’s true I shared fewer stories about Deanne than I should have. I did make the mistake of not writing all the stories of adventure and mischief I had with Deanne. And also some about our hard times. We definitely had them. As Dawn and I disintegrated, she seemed to switch the narrative on me about how it was with Deanne. Whether that’s true or not is in the eye of the beholder. I made a choice – as did she. I’d make the same choice again because a choice to live and love is a positive choice; fearing another loss and avoiding taking the risk is a negative choice.
Someone reminded me this morning not to veer. Since she’s a disguised writer, I’m obligated to heed her warning.
Every love is forged with expansiveness and optimism. That we can’t navigate the treachery of daily living and one another’s messes isn’t a knock to love or vulnerability, though. The problem lies within us. Familiarity breeds contempt. We assign motive to actions or words, usually based on our faulty filters. It’s hilariously evident that most of us want the same things.
When love has drawn its last breath, it is easy to focus on the things that were wrong.
When a person draws their last breath, all the doors are shut forever.
Whether you are 31 or 71, the door is always about to shut. We just don’t see it coming. That helps us to forget how precarious our lives are. That same forgetfulness affords us the ability to live our daily lives but it also has the reciprocal defect of failing to focus on what lights us up.
For Sheena, for Deanne, and for anyone who no longer walks the Earth, we can do our best by choosing optimism over despair, deliberate risk over comfort, and for being ourselves, even as the world madly surprises us.
Deanne would tell us that all these years she’s been gone that she would hope we were squeezing the absolute hell out of whatever life has to offer – and shame on us if we aren’t.
She would have loved to be alive and make a lot of mistakes. We should be too. She’d be the first to call me out for being an idiot. And she’d mean it.
Guino sang the song of his people ~ the crystal I placed in the window violated some unspoken compact regarding things in the window. He jumped from the window to my lap as I perched on the end of the bed. And when I tried to take a picture, that too ran afoul of his interminable cacophony of objections.
“My socks may not match, but my feet are always warm.” Maureen McCullough
As someone who turned down raises twice in my history with my company (during which one year we all took a 5% pay cut due to cutbacks), I’ve never complained about what I’m paid. Especially in the last 18 months, I have been even more grateful to my job overall, even though it drives me bonkers at times. The goings-on with Covid definitely tried my patience. But I do love my schedule and the flexibility my job affords. Some of my co-workers are actually not a total pain in the ass. Besides, they seem to tolerate ME well, which is a feat of both bravery and foolishness on their part.
In the last couple of years, the company had to adjust to market pressure and give the lower-end employees two pay bumps, many of whom finally went to $15 an hour. I now have 17 years with my employer. Given the number of shenanigans and stress I’ve often doled out to my managers, HR, compliance, legal, and just about everyone, it is a miracle that I’m still there. I’m a complete goof but sometimes people forget my background or my contradictory ideas about safety, employment law, and general do-the-right-thing beliefs. I’ve been lucky to be both vocal and humorous, even while doing a very physical job. I’m definitely not my job, but it does afford me the chance to be fickle and fiendish.
I have a minority opinion about seniority – and always have. While we can earn different benefits based on longevity, I’ve always believed that anyone doing my job should earn exactly what I do, regardless of tenure. It’s not exactly a popular opinion, I realize. It’s caused some hilarious team meetings and awkward moments. Not awkward for me; rather, for them. All of us are expendable and are only as valuable as our output and knowledge.
In general, I’d rather have more satisfied co-workers than a slightly higher wage. Since most of them SEEM to be working for money, it follows that more money should lead to better morale. Except for the assholes. There is no pleasing some people, as anyone who has thrown a dinner party knows.
I didn’t know what kind of raise I might get on this paycheck. I would have been grateful for any raise. When I checked my online paystub and did the simple math, I realized that I should not be doing even simple math without a calculator and probably a helmet.
My raise? 10%. That’s substantially larger than any I’ve ever received. I know that the raise was based on complex calculations, probably using a dartboard and while drinking shots at Art’s Place on College. But whatever the reason, I am grateful.
“The hardest arithmetic to master is that which enables us to count our blessings.” Eric Hoffer
So, as for the administrators who authorized the raise, I guess I need to nod in their direction, as much as it pains me. I prefer to snark at them!
I would write more, but I need to go spend this 10% on something vital to my life: notecards and PopChips.
“I will find you and I will hug you.” – Possibly Liam Neeson
Love, X
PS The picture is from this morning. I walked down the trail and listened to the birds. The squirrels scampered along the branches and knocked puffs of snow loose as they did so. It was as if I had the entire world to myself; no traffic, no passersby on the trail. Only the peeking sun, the flow of the creek, and my thoughts. It was sublime and beautiful. .
Yesterday afternoon, as I exited the inconvenience store with a banana and a knock-off brand of Takis, I saw the older gentleman lift the cigarette receptacle off and run his good hand through the pile of old butts there. His other hand was bandaged from above his wrist over his fingers.
I went back inside and came out with cigarettes. I handed them to him.
“Whoa. My son is two hours late picking me up. I’m not going to lie. I’m dying for a cigarette!” He looked at me sheepishly.
“In that case, have twenty,” I said and laughed. * * * Standing in line at Harps, I was fascinated by the woman in front of me. She was probably in her late 70s, dressed in frayed-bottom pants, a white jacket with bats, converse-style sneakers, and her hair was done up in a dazzling pile of twists and a red band. Her eye shadow was surprisingly dark, and her lashes were long. I could tell that she was interesting. For whatever reason, she needed to pay for her items in three batches, so I watched the clerk impatiently adjust. I could hear the audible exasperation of the person behind me in line. When the woman spoke, her voice surprised me. It was at least two octaves higher than what I expected, like a voice strained through piano wire. She piled her three orders into her cart and exited the store. As I put my groceries in the so-called trunk of my little car, I saw that she was loading her items into the trunk of a luxury car. Before I stopped myself, I walked over across the two aisles and stood about fifteen feet away from her. “Ma’am?” She turned, her eyes open and curious. “I just wanted to say that I love your style and that I think you’re beautiful.” She smiled, even though she wore a mask. The smile went up into her eyes. She laughed. She nodded and said in her peculiarly high voice, “Thank you, that made my day! No, my month!” We both laughed. I walked back to my car, curious about the woman with the colorful and vivid sense of style and superbly high voice. Another interesting person I’ll never know. * * * Paraphrasing, someone wrote me and asked me, “…why I thought everyone should see into my past life and from my point of view…” The weirdness of the question threw me off a bit. Is there another way to write about one’s life? Or from whose point of view should I write? Of course I write from my point of view! Implicit in everything I write is the idea that it’s my own opinion. There’s no escaping I’m prone to revisionism or self-imposed blinders to my stupidity at times. We all are. Equally valid is that I’m often the first to admit I’ve done something stupid. Previously, I wrote a post titled “Get Your Own Soapbox.” All of us have the option to share or not. We all have the option of using social media platforms, whichever we enjoy, ones that allow us to share in whatever capacity we’re comfortable. We have access to the internet, blogs, YouTube, and countless other means to express ourselves. As for me, I make an effort to avoid needlessly bludgeoning across moving lines of privacy and telling my story. Anyone who reads what I write can see that I make a concerted effort. It is a mistake to ask anyone to refrain from telling their story because it makes you uncomfortable. You have to trust that the people in your life will respect the boundaries and expectations they’ve created. All social media is like television. Change the station if you don’t want to see it. Fighting other people’s opinions seldom leads to a happy resolution. In some stories, you’re a villain. In others, a kind soul. If you live a great life, such a distinction won’t afflict you much. Life takes too much energy and effort to look over one’s shoulder constantly. Even if you live a perfect life, someone’s going to question your life, your motives, or your ideas. That’s in part because there is no single way to live one’s life and live it well.
* * * Today, I got another reminder that people are inscrutable. It’s just a fact of life that some people don’t like others having a good time when they aren’t happy or able to do the same. Both sets of people can be in the same environment, yet some are satisfied and happy, and some are miserable. Infrequently, I run up against people who resent that I find ways all day to enjoy the zaniness of things. And if there are no interesting things? I make them. I can’t turn it off. Those who go out of their way to impede others from enjoying themselves seldom realize that their actions and attitude convey their own unhappiness. They do NOT appreciate it if it’s pointed out to them, either. Yes, I know this from experience. 🙂 happiness or fun is not a zero-sum game. It can be created infinitely. Just like love, if you are receptive. For those people who try to stifle me, I feel sorry for them. Instead of focusing on others, just a little bit of that same energy transposed into being more creative for themselves would transform their days. It is one of the reasons I annoy people by saying that I don’t know what boredom is. * * * “You can kick your feet but not your neighbor” is both a call to energy and happiness even when you experience a setback, but also a tacit reminder to be nice in the process of your day. * * * “Routine saves us. Lunacy revives us.” – X * * * “A box fan is one of the best intruder/break-in devices ever created. It won’t stop the break-in, but it will keep you from hearing it.” – X * * * “Gambling is only a problem if you’re not winning. It seems obvious. We use the outcome to determine objectionability when in reality, it is the act itself.” – X
I haven’t finished the melody, but I wrote this song, something I haven’t done in a long time. When I finished, I realized that it could be both spiritual plea or a personal promise. For those whose lives are filled with God, let that be your premise. For those who love, may this be your optimism and purposeful promise of anticipation of another day. And for those souls who have both? Stand together and watch the sunrise, if you can.
Or the sunset. And be renewed. – X . .
hallelujah hallelujah
I shall never know if you’re listening only that I’m whispering the words
That my life not be made easier only fuller and always in anticipation
I don’t want to know the obstacles nor the slap of who will precede me
only that I’ll have one more variable day before the shadows grow feet and approach me
I make this unrequested promise to you let me arise and see the sunrise, anew
just one more time, one more snapshot another measure of loving enduring optimism
and if you do, I vow to sing
hallelujah, hallelujah
not for me, but for you
hallelujah, hallelujah
I shall never know if you’re listening only that I’m whispering the words
hallelujah, hallelujah .
Love, X .
P.S. The picture is two superimposed pictures of a man celebrating both sunrise and sunset. Because the sun never sets upon the Earth, only upon our eyes. So much of us is limited to our narrow perspective, and we grow to trust only the things we can touch – instead of the things we can feel and experience.
I looked up in the trees after hearing a commotion. Two squirrels were relentlessly chasing and fighting across the tall tree in front of me. One did something audacious, something I’m not sure I’ve ever seen. He climbed up on the limb about 8 ft above the other squirrel. And then he jumped on the back end of the squirrel below. The lower squirrel was so surprised that he fell out of the tree to the ground below near the creek. After a few moments, I saw him move away. That’s what he gets for starting a fight with Evel Knievel squirrel!
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 