I leaned over the railing, watching the red-orange sun as it dropped below the trees in the distance. Seeing familiar sights in new surroundings is a sublime pleasure. Even if you wouldn’t know it by looking at me, I’m inevitably introspective when I recognize such truths. Below, excited kids and one unsupervised Dad continued to bend and light an array of fireworks. Some of the pyrotechnics were small, others were cacophonous grenades, ones which exploded with such force that the l-shape of the building almost bent with the sound waves produced. Occasional squeals and constant happy commentary punctuated the evening. The air was permeated with the pungent and welcomed clouds of gunpowder smoke. The hybrid mix of sight, sound, and scent took me back to many of my youthful days and nights with fireworks. As is the case in so many Southern families, even those populated with violence and addiction, fireworks were a common denominator that brought many of us happiness. The possibility of losing a finger or an eye was no greater than the risk of simply being part of the family. As I watched the kids participate on the cooling cement below, I hoped they’d one day remember this. Several of the kids had dangerously clambered up on the back of a minivan, their legs dangling and kicking. Whether anyone of us realized it or not, we’d formed an impromptu community, one flung together by the beauty and violence of fireworks. When I looked back toward the horizon where the sun hid, I found that night had fallen, surreptitiously and totally. I breathed deeply and inoculated myself against loneliness by filling my lungs with the acrid smoke filling the air. I could get used to this, knowing that life can be a kick in the shins but also a present for the moment if you’re receptive. It’s impossible to know who is making new memories, even as they blink away the unhelpful past that tells us we don’t deserve more moments. I took mine with me and even now, trying to express my love for the moment, I feel the acrid scent of fire in my lungs. .
Saturday, I was driving on 412 East, near the airport. Because I hadn’t eaten much, I pulled out a bag of sea salt PopChips, and ravenously and enthusiastically began eating them. (As if there’s any other way to eat these!) I noticed something in my peripheral vision to the right. I turned my head and found myself stopped in traffic alongside one of the toughest-looking Latinos I’ve ever seen, as if Danny Trejo woke me up by sticking a shotgun in my mustache. I probably froze for a second. The Latino turned his head to his right. A second later, the woman in the passenger seat leaned forward and craned her neck to see around her huge boyfriend/husband/kidnapper. And laughed. The Latino driver then laughed and pointed at my car. He then gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up and grinned ear to ear. I laughed, gave him the thumbs-up in return, and kept eating my PopChips. I briefly considered challenging him to a race but opted to leave him with his dignity.
This is a personal post, so scroll past if you’re not interested in learning new and terrible things about me. I’m always one for transparency, even when it’s complicated. Especially when it’s difficult. I’ve not been silent out of apprehension or shame. I always feel free to tell my own story – because I own it. Being compassionate, I also realize that other people don’t want a rock dropped on their heads simply because their story overlaps with mine. I’ve waited to say anything specific out of deference to the other people involved. It’s my story now, though.
I’m getting divorced. Because people need to assign blame or frame such things in their heads, you can place the responsibility for the divorce directly on me. Of course, there’s more to the story – but it would be wrong for me to evade the finger pointed at me. Adding explanatory caveats would be equivalent to ruining an apology by offering excuses. Those who know me well know the story. When my marriage faltered, I turned my attention to another woman. While I did not consummate the relationship, I fell in love with her. That’s entirely on me. Not that anyone is entitled to know the details. But I’m not so stupid as to think that people don’t know. It’s human nature, and whispers travel faster and more loudly than headlines.
For the lurkers who are tempted to write something snarky, go ahead, but please take a moment to be creative in your attempt. I don’t mind contempt or passive-aggressive tomfoolery so long as it’s both authentic and distinctive. I can get run-of-the-mill snideness from several sources. Chance are your two cents won’t affect me. I’ve already paid the price for my choices; a few words can’t possibly inflame anything medieval lurking in my heart.
In so many ways, I failed and succeeded simultaneously over the last year. I hurt people who shouldn’t have been. I realize that my intentions are meaningless and irrelevant when compared to the consequences of my choices. I’ll try to take the successes and amplify them. Whether I’ll learn anything from my adventures and misadventures is always the critical question.
My wife is keeping the house. Evidently, homes and property should remain in the hands of responsible people. I’m not sure where I will end up. I much prefer having a roommate, but so far, that has been a bust. You wouldn’t know it, but I’m not nearly as crazy in person as you might think. (Admittedly, though, there is a disproportionate likelihood of tomfoolery.) If I move from Springdale, I’ll miss it terribly. I’ve grown to know it very well, especially during the pandemic. Barring something surprising, I will probably get an apartment in Fayetteville that’s too expensive for me, primarily because of work – and probably without a roommate or someone I know. I’d rather not live alone, even if doing so might be beneficial to me somehow. I’ve somehow managed to stay in the same job for 16 years without one of my co-workers murdering me. To be clear, I’m pretty sure there have been discussions, but luckily, no assassin has been hired, at least not that I know of.
As tough as things have been, I’m glad I had counseling. I was lucky. I put the pin back in before I made my life worse, as well as learning how to sleep again. Counseling didn’t fix all of my problems, of course, but it might have saved me.
My story isn’t particularly original and certainly not so during the pandemic.
There’s no need to react or comment if you don’t want to or don’t quite know ‘how’ to do so. This isn’t something you see on social media very frequently. It’s certainly something that happens all the time, though. By posting this, I’m removing the taboo of openly talking about it.
As my eyesight slowly required reading glasses, I sewed less. Threading a needle is equivalent to playing Operation after drinking 42 cups of coffee while undergoing a prostate exam. A friend wanted me to sew him a custom ripshirt which will necessitate at least 100 threadings. Yes, although it seems unlikely, both of those facts are true: I do have a friend, and he requested that I hand-sew him a custom ripshirt. It seems as unlikely as Bigfoot at the McDonald’s drive-thru, and not just because Squatch prefers Wendy’s for burgers and Sonic for food poisoning. What’s the old cliché? “Truth is stranger than fiction, and typing is better than diction.” Yes, I think that’s it.
The preamble to the story notwithstanding, I find myself using longer and longer threads to avoid threading the needle needlessly. A few minutes ago, I started another thread, one about 18″ long. I knocked my notary stamp off the desk. I’d placed it there to remember to take it with me tomorrow. I leaned over to retrieve it… and though it paints me in a reckless and risky light, the needle in my left hand stuck me in the face, not too far below my left eye. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone who might be curious about the sensations such a stupid act elicits. (Unless you’re into that sort of thing, in which case: it hurts worse than accidentally sitting on a seatless bicycle.)
I angrily looked at the needle as if it were at fault.
After this exaggerated brush with death, I decided to choose another activity until such time as my good senses return. 2027 will probably be safe. I cut the last run of stitching, tied it, and then set the needle on the desk. Or thought I did. I got up, left the room, and returned. It was then I realized I had dropped the needle on the carpet. Somewhere. I couldn’t find it, even with a directed lamp bright enough to rival a middle-aged bald man’s head in the middle of the summer. At that point, I did what any unreasonable person would do: I used my socked foot to rub the surface of the carpet. In 15-16 swipes, my food did manage to “find” the needle. The stabbing pain that I’d experienced on my left cheek repeated itself on the side of my left foot.
I will need to get a gun safe to store my needles.
Meanwhile, for my next act, I’m going to slice vegetables, blindfolded, after drinking a vodka sour.
I see no issues with this plan. Vodka is a tried-and-true numbing agent in the right volume, and a blindfold will ensure I don’t faint at the sight of blood. Since I can sew, I can stitch up my hand as easily as a shirt.
PS I apologize in advance to all the foot fetishists. My feet did appear in Foot Magazine, Dec 2019 issue.
A bit of truth to start, followed by a bit of goofy…
I’m not actively trying to lose weight. 160 lbs. was low enough to suit me and almost certainly not sustainable long-term. I felt that strange sensation that something had changed when I put on my pants and belt again after a day of shorts. Getting on the scale, there it was: 156. I’ve been walking a lot and probably eating less. The eating less part is mostly because I’m not hungry, have been occupied with other things, and when I do eat, I’ve been inclined to eat less quantity and simpler food choices. I ate great lunches at restaurants Sunday and Monday, so I’m not starving myself. (Not to mention I ate at Mr. Taco Loco today for lunch.)
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Someone I love very much gave me a lovely gift over the weekend: a thank you card she forgot to mail 24 years ago, one in response to a wedding gift from me and my deceased wife, Deanne. I told my family member, “Not all tears are sad tears.” It touched me deeply, and I saw no reason to conceal or push away the tears. This is one of those instances where being a packrat led to a moment of remembrance and emotion – and a much-needed one, too.
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Since life often jumps on you all at once, another moment that happened last weekend was that I felt forced to let someone down severely. I’m never proud of doing it. I won’t justify it or explain it. Of course, I have a list of valid reasons. Valid though it was, I know my response runs against the universe’s karma rules.
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Even the speed trap advisory signs at the library are sending me a very clear message. I can’t run as fast as Michael Scott, obviously!. PS Standing next to the sign dressed like I am with a work badge, and holding a cell phone facing the road… a LOT more people suddenly slow down, as if anyone would ever trust me to be a part of anything with so much tomfoolery potential. Also: even the police who are randomly driving by suddenly realize they can’t very well speed past it like that, not with an idiot standing there with a phone. I propose that a bunch of us meet down here and have some fun with this. Anyone who can beat Michael Scott’s speed (12 -31 mph, depending on whether you count the car run or not) will win a free toaster, or a lunch date with me.
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I’m getting contradictory signals about my index cards, the ones I use for all sorts of tomfoolery <○○> and practical note-taking. My cousin gave me two packs over the weekend and today someone gave me a pack, winked, and told me to engage in an endless series of index card creativity and/or pranks. I feel like this might be a test with no right or wrong answer. . Update: a coworker saw this post while I was still at work and gave me TWO more pads of usable note-craziness! In his defense, he is retiring soon, so he can cause as much mayhem as he would like.
In another town, walking fast up a long hill towards a slowly brightening morning sky, I feel a crescendo of that elusive optimism that seems to scurry out of reach of one’s outstretched and hopeful fingers. The secret is to let the surprise of life find you. Who could possibly have enough superhuman patience to let the world unfold like it should? It’s just a sunrise, it’s just a hill, and I’m a person enjoying all of it. I’m not walking toward, and I’m not walking from. If the lesson is to find enjoyment in the moment, here I am, wherever that may be. I hope that you find your way here too. No matter where here is to you.
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Part II
Early this morning, I walked the unfamiliar streets, observing the city wake up. Passing the gas station on the corner, I watched a young man turn the neon lights on, unlock the door, and start his day. I walked quite a while in the other direction until I reached the point where I either turned around or decided to take an Uber back to where I started. For no real reason in particular, I chose to return. I stopped at the same gas station, went inside and poured myself a small cup of coffee. I pulled the four $1 bills out of my pocket and laid them on the counter. The attendant rang me up and I told him to keep the change. At the time, I had my glasses hanging in my right pocket. When the attendant picked up the bills, he smiled a wide, happy smile. “Have a good Monday morning!” I told him. He smiled even bigger. “You too, man!” Though his enthusiastic demeanor seemed a bit excessive, I smiled and laughed as I left. About halfway back to where I started I reached into my right pocket to make sure I still had the key to get back inside when I finished my walk. It was at that point I realized that my $20 bill was no longer there. I felt my synapses make the connection in my brain. I had indeed given to clerk four bills: three dollars and one $20 bill. It was an accidental excessive gift for the attendant. But I found myself smiling even bigger, knowing my error probably made him feel like this might be the best Monday ever. I hope it was. I hope it is. And if it is not, look up for a moment and find something to connect you to this wild world.
Not that I struggled with eating since October, but meals are somehow generally more purposeful now. I forgot to eat all day at work. Today, I went to Acambaro on College Avenue. “No, I don’t want to sit down. You’ll tie me to the chair. Again,” I told the helpful worker. A waitress from a previous visit nodded at me, undoubtedly remembering how insistent I was that she bring me an inhuman quantity of pico de gallo. “What can I get you, then?” She asked. “Ten orders of pico de gallo,” I confidently said. “Ten? Are you sure you want ten?” I waited, pretending to consider it. “You’re right, I better get eleven.” I smiled. “Okkkkaaaay,” she said. “Wow, that’s seventeen dollars after tax,” she added. “Did I set a new world record here? If not, I have another forty dollars if necessary. Pico de gallo affects national security, so let’s not do anything negligent here.” I smiled. She smiled, saying, “Are you going to eat all that pico?” I nodded. “But for reference, what other uses for pico de gallo do you have in mind?”
I waited by the register, pretending to read one of those promotional magazines that look like they are produced by overimaginative marketers who also suffer from a lack of a sense of humor. The woman who rang up my purchase placed the big sack of pico de gallo in front of me. “They didn’t put them all in one container,” she said and shrugged. I shrugged dramatically, too, and pirouetted, bowed, and turned to walk out the door. She probably thinks I’m on drugs, which is ridiculous; I don’t do drugs when I’m drunk.
(If I triggered anyone with the joke about being high or drunk, I would apologize. But you’re pretty much asking for it by reading what I write.)
I drove down to Evelyn Hills shopping center and parked facing the VA and College Avenue. I sat in the car, watching traffic and a parade of interesting people coming and going. I ate all ten pico de gallo cups, sprinkling Tajin on each container and dipping PopChips into them. It’s exactly what I wanted. The pico was fresh and delicious. My shirt and lap probably looked like they belonged to a third grader by the time I was done. Tomatoes, cilantro, onion, chip pieces, and Tajin seasoning covered me. When I finished, I hopped out of my tiny car and brushed myself off furiously. A man who seemed to have fallen out of the unhappy tree stood by his black Mustang and shook his head in my direction. Because I didn’t know what he disapproved of, I turned to face my car and started doing jumping jacks. When I turned back around, he was in his car and definitely no longer worried about expressing his opinion of whatever he thought I had been doing.
I entered the store, one I’d never before been inside, and walked around. It was interesting and a little unsettling, the mixture of products and clientele, as if a strange retail reality show were being filmed on a very limited budget. I found a dozen mylar balloons and wandered the aisles with them. Because I’m sure I looked a little goofy holding a dozen balloons, twice I pretended that the balloons were pulling me slightly off the ground. I repeated the trick at the register, much to the amusement of the cashier. “Yeah, you guys should be careful. You could lose a customer with this much helium in the balloons,” I told her. “You do know it’s not Father’s Day, right? she asked me, looking at the balloons. “Not in Venezuela, where I’m not from,” I told her. She failed to notice the extra ‘not’ in my reply. “Oh? That’s interesting,” she replied.
I went to my car with the twelve balloons and did the impossible magic dance of getting them inside and tying them firmly – and in a way that wouldn’t unexpectedly blind me while I drove. Not that it matters. Driving on College Avenue in Fayetteville is like sticking your hand in a horse’s mouth. I hopped into the car and exited the shopping center. Immediately and without cause, the balloons became a little loose, so I hooked a quick right into the first parking lot. I went around to the passenger side, opened the door, and pulled the middle of the excessively long balloon strings away from the parking brake. As I did so, all the balloons pulled up way faster than I expected. Seven of them sailed away. Five remained loyal to me and in the clutch of my left hand. I stood and watched the seven escapee balloons fire into the sky. The people on Highway 71 watched too. I saw more than one point at them. I love releasing balloons – I just prefer a controlled release. I’d forgotten the #1 rule of balloons: they are never as tightly tied as you’d presume. (This is one of the principal rules of handcuffs and restraints too, but if you’re reading what I write, you already know that.)
I left the remaining balloons where they needed to be, talismans of unusual composition, to remind those who find them that the world is meant to be enjoyed.
As many successes as I’ve had in the last year, I’ve also had a few defeats. I’m absolutely not the person to conceal any of that from anyone who knows me. Being proud of my successes in no way conceals or denies the failures. At my age, I’ve peeked behind the curtains of so many lives that I understand better than ever that most of us aren’t following the playbook we imagined. More importantly, the shiny lives that you witness all have a stained glass window in their bathroom. If you’re unfamiliar with the phrase, it describes the way that mundane life intersects violently with the things we hold essential in our hearts – and the problems that living present. If you’re human, you’re going to experience the same problems that other humans share, even if we don’t see them. It’s easy to observe the world and people around us and deceive ourselves into not believing that what binds us shares more in common than what separates us. .
PS: Only in East Springdale can you have a crazy neighbor shooting bb pellets at your house (and arrows) while drinking. At 9 a.m. on a Sunday, which is bonus-level typical East Springdale.
Thanks to the Blue Dress Project, I’ve been doing pushups since the beginning of the month. Not continuously, though. The world record for most pushups in a day is 46,001, while the record for non-stop is over 10,000. Keeping that in mind, don’t admonish me too angrily for doing this at my age. The record holder for most in a year was 45 when he completed over 1.5 million in one year. I’ll let you know if I decide to break his record. You can start holding your breath now.
I do them in increments or sets, whether I’m on the way to the bathroom, waiting by an elevator, walking, or going to the kitchen to get a bag of PopChips. I’ve had a few surprises while doing them in unusual places. While I might not drop and do twenty next to the open casket, for example, I don’t see what’s so weird about doing pushups while listening to someone complain about how much they are being overworked. What amuses me most is the idea of having someone in great shape do them continuously near the vending machine area to determine if their subtle presence decreases junk food sales.
I have to be cautious with my shoulder, of course. Technically speaking, the medical term for what I have is “Old & Busted.” I’ve noted that a couple of surgeons seem to be following me around at work while holding scalpels. It could be my imagination. I’ve been told mine is overactive.
There are days when I reach a surprisingly high number of repetitions.
I’m not promising I’ll do them long-term, but I will do them for six weeks, until they become a new habit that I can keep if I wish to. I made a deal with myself that pushups are an exercise I like, cost nothing, and require only time, of which I have an abundance. It’s stupid NOT to experiment. That’s pretty much my take on a lot of things anymore. Including mushrooms. The la-la land variety, not the kind one finds on pizzas. I’ll report back when I’ve tried mushrooms, assuming I’ll still be able to write English or speak in complete sentences at that point.
I don’t have a goal. Other than continuing to not drop dead, of course. It is a great goal, despite all the mortuary owners secretly hoping that a lot of people might have particularly bad days. It’s nothing personal. The odds are in their favor, though. Keep that in mind as you continue to not make changes you’d like to see in your health and life. No matter what you choose, keep it in mind – and not in a superficial way. Every important thing you put off, challenges included, could forever elude you based on today’s choices. It’s nuts, isn’t it? We trick ourselves into thinking we’re making small decisions or foregoing things of no consequence only to discover that we’ve sacrificed an opportunity that is gone forever.
Many days I just stop counting as I do the pushups. If I need to practice counting, I can count the years of my life remaining. For small numbers, I can count the remaining hair on my head.
A friend at work quotes one of his many ridiculous sports heroes by saying, “It doesn’t matter how many you do. You don’t start counting until it hurts.”
My response to him is this: “You’re only as old as the woman you feel.”
I can feel a difference already. Not in my friend. He’s a musclehead.
If I had a sedentary job, I’d do 500 every day. Pushups, I mean. I’m not Wilt Chamberlain if that joke doesn’t fly over.
It’s true that a couple of people have mocked me for doing pushups. That kind of asshole is going to always find something to complain about. It doesn’t matter how I manage my life or what I do – there will be people who roll their eyes or want me to fail. Luckily, most people are great, and even if they don’t understand what the hell my point is, they play along, if only so that we can reciprocally overlook each other’s craziness.
This brings me back to the idea of incrementalism. You might not be able to do a pushup. But if you start slow and with a hint of enthusiasm, you can reach just about any goal you want to. You can learn a language by learning one word a day, walk a mile by focusing on reaching a little farther as your energy permits, or read a book a month by translating your interest into doing so into a plan that’s broken into bite-size increments. (No pun on the bite-size, by the way.)
Likewise, and just as important, if you’re happy with yourself, your life, or things about yourself, don’t get tricked into adapting because you think you should. You should be happy, and anyone who finds satisfaction in themselves has magical power.
PS: I’m rooting for Blue Dress Project to make the weight. I’ve found a renewed enthusiasm for people doing things that they’ve put off, or for finding success, no matter how large or small. If I can do it, anyone can.
I left the bright sun behind me as I entered Mr. Taco Loco on Emma. A wall of scents and smells assaulted me. Because I can easily go without eating all day, I forget hunger sometimes. I risk admitting that because people have their filters and triggers that make such a statement sound like psychosis. It’s not. It’s just a fact. And it is an extraordinarily good thing for me and my life. I still love food, but I’m not food-centric anymore. Mr. Taco Loco is one of the places that let me healthily eat delicious food. Eating less grants me peace in moments that would have otherwise been consumed by wanting to eat, or worse, being too full.
I walked through the dark table and bar area. Ahead of me were two younger men, both avidly looking at the menu and comparing comments. After a minute, one of them turned and said, “Go ahead.” I hesitated. “Are you having trouble deciding?” They both grinned and nodded. “What do you recommend?” I laughed. “Well…” I started and then mapped out two alternate ways to decide. The cashiers stood and listened to my sales pitch. When I was done, I said, “If you are not eating with cost being your primary factor, pick something with the type of meat you’d most likely be satisfied with.” Though it’s bragging to say so, they were impressed.
I went ahead of them and ordered—five chicken tacos for me, with lots of added pico de gallo. I’m not a barbarian, after all. The gentleman who started last week stood there, confident and smiling after just a week of training. “Are you still here?” I asked him, laughing. The other worker, a younger female, asked me if the order was for here or to go. I angrily pretended to ask, “It’s like that, is it? Am I not allowed to eat here.” It took a few seconds to realize I was joking. The new guy’s smile probably gave it away. I also confused them by not wanting a drink, which is now a common habit of mine when eating. When I returned to the counter to order a bowl of salsa, he told me that his female co-worker pointedly asked him if something was up, given my unexpected comment.
I threw out my tortillas and spread out the chicken and pico de gallo across the platter, adding onions, cilantro, lime juice, and Tajin. Since I brought three bags of PopChips with me, I opened those and used them as scoops. After a few minutes, I returned to get a bowl of salsa. It threw them off that I didn’t want any chips to go with it. I tipped them for the second time, which distracted them from further questions.
I sat a table away from the first-time visitors. They’d decided on my second course of ordering, choosing riskier and fuller selections. They were delighted. Once they had their food, I walked over and held up my large bottle of Tajin. “Since y’all are young, I’m going to save you some trouble. You can have a lot more flavor and eat a lot more variety if you find a seasoning you like.” I explained what Tajin was, then poured a condiment cup of it out. They thanked me as I went back to my table. After a moment, the younger man closest to me turned and said, “Hell, the difference with the Tajin-stuff is amazing!” His eyes lit up. “You can buy it at Walmart, too,” I told him, to ensure he would become addicted. Because I forgot to mention it, I also said, “Taco Tuesday, all the tacos are a dollar. You’ll love it!” I also made a mental note for myself to write Tajin Corporation and ask about commissions.
I ate my platter of minimalist craziness and considered eating the soggy paper left there too. As I left, the new customers said, “Hey, thanks!” again and gave me the thumbs up.
Though it’s hard for this to be true most of the time, it was true today: everyone was happy for even a brief moment.
PS I wore one of my rip shirts to work today. It turned out to be a wise choice.
