The picture is of me in 1985 at graduation. My Uncle Buck was so proud of me. As reticent as he generally was, he somehow managed to tell me that he was glad to be there to see me finish high school, something neither of my parents did. Mom got her GED when she was much, much older. She worked for Brinkley schools and somehow motivated herself to do it.
I have a FitBit now, another thing in a long series of things I thought I wouldn’t find interesting. I was wrong! The biometrics and mindfulness parts of what it provides are astonishing. This is something I obviously should have had back when I had to try to learn how to sleep again. The app doesn’t appreciate the fact that 6 hours is a great benchmark for me for sleep, or that I need an 18-hour notification window. I am fascinated by sitting in silence and breathing, watching my heart rate fall twenty-five beats per minute.
In the last couple of days, Ancestry provided me with yet another reminder of how tenuous life is. A friend of my dead wife Deanne had searched for her to reconnect. They were friends for several years back in the nineties. They lost touch. The friend, as so often happens, sought to reconnect with Deanne now that she’s older and appreciates the value of friends, especially ones who went through things together. She was heartbroken to discover that Deanne had died in 2007. I shared my 10,000 pictures of Deanne’s life with her through my OneDrive account. I’m sure there will be a lot of memories floating in her heart when she dives in. It’s one of the reasons I’ve kept my Ancestry account active. I’ve become the curator and biographer for so many friends and loved ones. I take the time to share the meaningful pictures there and document their lives. It is the least I can do to leave such memories for others to enjoy for as long as the internet survives. And the pictures? What sweet treasures, ones we often fail to appreciate and give them air to breathe and be seen.
Tomorrow marks two weeks since I started taking Lexapro. After three days on half doses, I increased it. It’s definitely starting to work. The old cliché, “It’s making me me again” definitely applies. It is both a blessing and a curse that it revives my ability to just tell people what’s on my mind. It’s both awkward and exhilarating to state my truth. A year ago, I never would have believed I’d be at less than 150 lbs, on the other side of a jolt to remind me that pretty much everything distills down to being a human being among other beings. We can dress it up and distract ourselves with subterfuge; at the end of the day, we’re left with the idea that finding meaning in ourselves and other people is the only way to live. I’m 19,956 days old. You’d think wisdom would come easily to me.
This is why it’s important to collect your thoughts and do a hit-and-run when you express yourself. More words only cloud the point of your sharing and put up more defenses.
I will start with a bit of humor for a friend, who will appreciate the inside joke: “My boss told me to start every presentation with a joke. The first slide was my paycheck.”
I went to the Dollar Tree to buy my demanding cat Güino specific cat treats. I ended up helping two Latina ladies with their questions. My bright orange shirt and hospital name tag evidently identified me as an employee. Because I was playing the part of an exemplary employee, I told them to go to Hobby Lobby too, as they were searching for decoration ideas that weren’t going to take all their cash. I used an index card to draw them a diagram of where to find what I was recommending. They were very happy. I’m definitely in the running for employee of the month. And people tell me speaking Spanish isn’t useful. 🙂 Hobby Lobby should write me a check too, as I am certain that once the two ladies go into the store, they are going to get a lot more ideas than they entered with.
At checkout, I saw that the woman in front of me had to leave a few items on the register rail because she didn’t have enough money. I bought them and handed her the bag of her items when I went outside. The look on her face was priceless. “It’s just $5, ma’am. You’d do the same for me if you could.” Covid be damned because she hugged me unexpectedly. “Is it too early to say ‘Merry Xmas?’ I asked her. “No, this gesture is a good start.”
I went over to Garland to use the ATM. A man was standing near the out lot of the parking lot, his driver’s door open. “Can you help me push this a few feet?” he asked as I pulled up and got out to help him. I told him that I couldn’t because I’d had surgery a couple of months ago. About that time, another man stopped and he helped push it several feet into a parking spot. “I can give you a ride to wherever you want to go, as long as you’re not wanting to go to Nebraska. I hate that place.” He laughed. I moved my bags from the front and he got into my car. As we pulled out onto Garland, his cellphone rang. His wife had listened to his voicemail and was on the way to pick him up. “No worries, I said. I can take you home or drop you back at your truck.” He thought about it as I turned right at the light to double back around. “It’s my brother’s truck but yeah, I’ll wait for my wife.” I dropped him back at the parking lot.
Driving down Sycamore, I must have sensed the oncoming yellow car was going to ignore the traffic signal. As I stopped and waited to turn, the car sped through the red light. I honked. The driver proudly waved high with a single finger as he sped away. I could tell that man would live a long, short life. 🙂
When I got home, I opened the fresh bag of cat treats and proudly laid several on the kitchen floor. My cat Güino sniffed them and then walked away. I’m pretty sure he was saying “Kiss my butt” in cat language in the way only a cat can. To prove I am at least smarter than him, I scooped them and put them back into the bag. After he was doing losing his mind with a Looney Loops doo-dad, I put them back down and he ate them like he hadn’t seen food in sixty-two days. The picture shows two of the Looney Loops at his feet.
Afterward, I made 14 servings of protein drinks. After doing it the hard way for a couple of weeks, I bought a cheap blender. Then, I realized I could make a lot more by using a gallon jug and shaking it like a pair of dice at a Las Vegas craps table. It’s good exercise, too, especially when the lid comes off and sprays thick protein drink all over the kitchen. Yes, I did that. I still love eating the powder dry, too. It gives me teeth that thick pie dough look that people find so attractive.
I still have my bedroom in my living room. No couch. Just my red rocking chair. Two big-screen televisions, one of which I sometimes use to stream my window camera view to. The other, to mostly ignore as I play the news. Four cat beds, one cat. One bed, one human. I spend more time vacuuming and sweeping the floor than I do watching tv, thanks to my beloved litter-scatterer.
I’m considering becoming the first-ever minimalist hoarder., but as Steven Wright says, “You can’t have everything–where would you put it?”
Anyway, I hope your day is full of wonder and also a jar of loose, vengeful spiders.
Over the last months, I made an ornate wooden box and painted it, adding some touches to it. I had plans to do something special with it for myself. Originally, I thought to add a light mounted on a spinning motor to cast shadows in the dark. Instead, today I walked over to one of the apartments and handed it to a husband and wife with a small child. I told them I’d made it and wanted their son to have it. The husband said, “Man, thank you! His birthday is coming up.” I told them I’d add his name to it but I wasn’t sure how to spell it, as not everyone has an elegant and simple name like X.
We were all happy and smiling. Me, for surprising someone with something I’d put a lot of love into. They, for being so surprised and touched that I wanted to give their son a gift out of the blue.
I’ve surprised them anonymously and otherwise since I’ve lived here. I admit that I failed and prejudged them based on one of the family members. They are good people. I hate that I did that.
It was a lemon moment. For once, I didn’t take a picture of the surprise box before I let it go. I will remember it for a long time, because it was one of the things I worked on a little bit at a time for quite a while, imagining all sorts of uses for it.
I think it found the perfect home, in the perfect moment.
I needed a win this afternoon.
P.S. I took the picture in front of an art display. I had a hell of an anxiety issue not long after, yesterday. Life overwhelmed me for a bit.
I realized that I don’t own blue jeans anymore. I bought more when I fell to a 36″ waist. Of course, I didn’t wear them even once. I left the last batch of clothing on the dumpster. Someone took it, as I knew they would. Now I’m at 30″ and can’t find my favorite kind of travel pants. Sam’s Club got me hooked on them for work and leisure; now I can’t find them. The kind I love looks like slacks but feels very light and flexible. It’s a first-world problem to be unable to find 30″ pants. I float around in my pants now. As my surgery wound subsided, I found myself cinching my belt tighter and tighter to keep my pants up. Not everyone wants to see me in my Marvel character underwear.
Note: I didn’t plan on getting to a 30″ waist. I did know for certain I wouldn’t be fat forever.
But despite some of the problems in my life, I sometimes feel like I’m walking on air when I move. It’s on my gratitude list. I got reminded today that I was headed for something bad weighing 100 lbs more than I do. (That’s 12 1/2 gallons of milk in weight extra I was lugging around.) I still wear my old belt that originally was a 44″ belt, having cut it twice now. It’s a reminder to me every time I put it on. If I had to sum it up, I’d say, “What a dumbass I was!” Unironically, I know that I’ll think the same thing about myself this time next year if the universe grants me the time to revitalize my appreciation for life and its tumult. I’ve declared a truce with my intestines and asked them politely to please stop trying to kill me.
At the risk of sounding egotistical, yesterday was the first time I looked in the mirror and felt like it was truly “me” staring back. I knew that I had conquered my fear of being fat again. I trimmed my beard and as I did so, I laughed at myself. I’m probably the most vulnerable person on the planet; for a moment, my anxiety vaporized and I realized I had surpassed my wildest goal.
Yesterday, someone said, “Turn the light on if you want to see.” It wasn’t meant to be a meta-comment, but it was.
I hate the concept of daylight savings time but I also relish the sensation that it’s later than it’s supposed to be. Maybe sleep will blanket me in its velvet curtain and I’ll dream of what life will look like in a year.
I count my blessings. I don’t have enough fingers. Don’t tell anyone that I find a lot to be grateful for. When I wake up tomorrow, I’ll put my pants on and remember that I am capable of imagining so many things. Baggy pants are the least of my worries. Being the right kind of human being is a constant battle.
The harsh light of the practical morning makes sharing yourself markedly more difficult. For everything, there is a time. It’s easy to say the words when we’re prone to vulnerability. And strength to say them when there is no apparent reason.
Less than a week before my emergency surgery, I wrote a letter to someone who needed a living eulogy and to hear that he was appreciated. The timing of me writing and giving him the letter seems prophetic to me now. I wonder what my words might have meant had things gone differently with my emergency surgery. The lovely thing is that I overcame my awkwardness by sharing my intimate thoughts with another adult, something we don’t do enough. I don’t have to wonder about the alternate future because I chose to silence the voice in my head that said, “Don’t give him the note.” I hate that my first reaction is sometimes to pull back. Over the last year, the barrier I have to do so continues to disintegrate – and I’m as proud of that as I am of my weight loss.
Yesterday, the person who received the letter proved himself worthy of my praise. He went beyond the scope of work and reached out to help another human being, one who was experiencing a difficult day. It’s the only thing that matters. We’re not going to remember bad decisions and particular moments if someone proves that they will walk that extra mile and outside of all their comfort zones. “Trust your instincts,” I told him. They’ve worked out well for him so far. And if they push him to risk reaching out to help someone else, they are the best possible instincts.
Life will continue to beat us all up in unexpected moments; it’s a certainty. Each of us needs to be the giver and the receiver of compassion and understanding when we can. It will be our turn on both ends of this spectrum when we least expect it.
Yesterday, at work, something else happened that I can’t specify due to privacy. All of us mobilized without a second thought, seeing someone suffering and needing both immediately physical help and presence. It lingered with me. The person I wrote the letter to was also one of those who went above and beyond again to jump into spontaneous action. Life and work would be so much lesser without him; that was one of the points I tried to communicate to him.
As I exited the convenience store this morning after buying multidraw lottery tickets, a young woman with bright xanthous hair (I love that word!) sat in her vehicle. She animatedly shook her phone. She was obviously upset. I crossed in front of her to go to my car. As I unlocked my door, I looked over toward her and saw that she was looking over at me. I smiled and made the universal motion for her to roll her window down. Had she not, I would have understood. Strangers are always a risk. Her passenger window went down. “Do you need anything?” The words popped out of my mouth as they often do. Being awkward didn’t occur to me. “I need a miracle,” she said, her voice uneven. “Do you like your mom?” I asked her. She nodded and said, “Yes, she is pretty cool for a mom.” I smiled again and then said seriously, “Well, call her and talk to her about it. Call her right now. That’s what good moms are for.” The girl with the xanthous hair seemed a bit bewildered. “Okay, I think I will. You’re right. This is ridiculous.” I told her to have a good talk with her mom and waved goodbye. I drove away and saw that she was looking at her phone, probably to make a call. I wondered if she’d tell her mom about the odd man in the vest and suit jacket at the convenience store, telling her to call.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 