Wellington's Ooze

Behavior:  A manner of behaving; actions; conduct; manners.


Behavior is hard to change.  Good behavior, bad behavior, and everything in between.  When I've been behaving the same way for ever and ever I seem to be on auto-pilot as far as my actions are concerned.


And it's the behaviors that I don't like - the vast majority of my behaviors - that cause me more problem than the good behaviors, which may be one of the stupidest points that I've ever tried to make.  It assumes that I'm behaving well and that I'm then trying to change that behavior.  In the rare instances that my actions are sound and healthy believe you me that I try to go with it, although I can take something that's good for me and run it into the ground.  Take for instance waking up on Take A Hike day and finding that I have a broken leg, Wellington's Ooze, and there's a hurricane-blizzard a-blowing outside but I still Take A Hike.


There's a great Simpson's episode where Homer has an inclination to say something stupid and he's negotiating with his brain.  He asks for help so that he doesn't say something stupid.  The next words out of his mouth are the stupid ones that he was trying so hard not to say.


I can definitely identify.  I can convince myself that some topic or concept is off limits yet I'm drawn to it over and over.  I don't even know it's happening most of the time.  Stuff comes out, it FLIES out of my mouth.  It's as if I have no control over what I'm saying.  This is why I'm better off not talking than saying anything at all.


Sponsor:  "Seaweed, if someone thinks that you're stupid, open your mouth and remove all doubt."

Pause When Agitated or Doubtful

Agitated:  Shaken; perturbed; excited.
Doubtful:  Strong uncertainty as to the probability, value, honesty, validity, etc. of something.


"Pause when agitated or doubtful."  I'm not sure that I have ever even heard the "doubtful" half of this familiar and incredibly powerful phrase that I have read dozens of times.  The agitated part I get - when I'm upset, especially when I'm angry-upset, then I know to keep my mouth shut, and I'm able to accomplish that superhuman feat at least some of the time.  I pause, not because this is natural for me, but because I'm aware that I usually make an ass out of myself when I speak or take an action when I'm upset.


But the doubtful part.  I should know better.  Good advice has been dropped on my head many times.


"What do you think I should do?" I ask my sponsor.
"What do you think you should do?" he replies, cleverly.
"I don't know," I say.
"Then don't do anything," he tells me.


It's good advice.  I'm always plunging recklessly into and through any problems or doubts that come my way.  It's easier for me to take a stupid step quickly than to wait until something seems right to me.


It's uncomfortable waiting.

Propel

Self-Propulsion:  To push, drive, or impel oneself onward, forward, or ahead.


As god is my witness I have no idea how people make it through their lives without the support and strength of some kind of spiritual program.  I have no idea.  I work my butt off trying to grow my spirituality and trying to be of service to my fellow man, in the midst of a large, supportive group of men and women who are trying to do the same thing, and I'm STILL an asshole half the time.  I don't know how people can navigate life without this kind of support structure.  I realize that most folks are better equipped to deal with the vicissitudes of life than a garden variety drunk but still . . . no idea.


And I marvel at the differences between The Program and organized religion.  My mama is one of the best people I know, a woman with a strong spiritual faith that she finds at church.  But her support structure doesn't have the same tentacles that mine does.  I'm immersed in a group of people who are on the same spiritual path, however haltingly we move down that path.  I spend way more time trying to grow spiritually than she does, and she spends a lot of time on it.  I guess it's the proximity to death that is so motivating to the drunk.  I certainly don't want to sound like I'm blowing my own horn.  I do this stuff not out of choice, at least not at the start, but rather because I was killing myself.  Pain and suffering and jails and death are very powerful motivators.


I like the phrase "self-propulsion."  It sure describes me and I sure see it in a lot of people I run into.  Folks who are plowing ahead into their day, thinking about themselves and what they can take out of life.  It's pretty natural.  Seeing what I can pack into the stream of life instead of what I can take out of life is most unnatural.  But how great are the benefits to this unnatural way of living.

Dudes and Chicks

Trudge:  a walk or tramp, especially a wearying, tedious one.


I was fooling around on the Internet yesterday - usual stuff: porn; outrageous political sites featuring lies and misrepresentations; researching medical sites promising to greatly increase the size of my endowment and . . . well, that's the only medical site I was researching - when an add popped up that had a guy on it that I thought looked like me.


"Hey," I yelled at SuperK.  "Come check this out.  This guy looks like me."


SuperK trudged in wearily.  She's a pretty good sport - she always comes in pretty quickly when I have something stupid that she just has to see.  


"You always show me pictures of guys who are way better looking than you are," she said.

She's right.  I took no offense as none was intended.


"That's a girl," she pointed out, walking away.


D'oh!

Some Bad Dudes

I spoke on the phone yesterday to my friend Willie.  He had told a small lie.  He wasn't feeling very good about it, which is as it should be.  Our tolerance for pain - limitless when we're drinking - just keeps going down as we try to live a spiritual life.  And I love the thought process I see in so many drunks: he had told a small lie -- it really was pretty harmless and inconsequential -- and he was sure he was going to be caught which would lead to this and then to that and then he would die on the streets, homeless, destitute, miserable, unloved.  I am familiar with this kind of thinking.  It is strangely near and dear to my heart.


I try to be supportive to my friends who are in pain.


"You're going to hell," I said.  "You know that."
"Really?  Hell?" he replied.
"Well, maybe not hell," I conceded.  "But wherever you end up there are going to be some pretty bad dudes there." 


Lying is one of those actions without nuance.  You are telling the truth or you are not.  I realize that some lies are more reprehensible than others.  "You're the best lover I ever had" or "No, that dress doesn't make you look fat" are lies that most of us would sympathize with.  We're not out to make anyone feel worse than they already do.  The acid test for me is to gauge how my behavior makes me feel.  If I feel bad then I have to do something about it.  If I don't think that I'm behaving well I don't need to have someone else confirm this.  It stands on its own merits.


My advice to people who are upset - the serious advice - is to pause for a minute.  Things that are unclear right now frequently clear up when I don't act rashly.  But the really important thing for me to remember is embossed on our anniversary coins: "To thine own self be true."  If it's eating me up I have to deal with it.


The thing about Willie's lie was that it wasn't meant to harm anyone.  There was absolutely no malice in it toward anyone.  It was one of those lies that you tell because you're afraid that you're going to lose something that you already have or that you're not going to get something that you want.  It was self-interest distilled down to its purest essence.  We laughed about the fact that, no matter how hard we try to be honest, sometimes something comes out and we can't stop it.  It breaks free.  


"Why the %$!! did I say that?" I'll think.  I have no idea most of the time.  Some thought will have reconnoitered the defenses, waited until the darkest moment of the darkest night, and made a run for it.


Some pretty bad dudes.

Holy Cow!

Gratitude is not something that I enjoy doing, particularly.  It is an alien concept.  It makes me uncomfortable.


The corollary is that I spend too much time in my head.  i convince myself that my thinking is real and if that isn't enough bullshit to choke Godzilla, I convince myself that my feelings are real.  Holy cow.  This is why I talk to other alcoholics.  Not so much because they give me clear answers to my problems but rather that it frees me up when they say: "Yeah!  I think that way, too."


It's a relief.,

Super Fun Lady

Passive:  Offering no opposition or resistance; submissive; yielding; patient.
Aggressive:  An unprovoked attack or invasion.


SuperK and I went swimming this morning and then out to coffee.  It's July 22 so we decided to sit outside at the coffee shop, an eminently reasonable thing to do during the dog days of summer.  It's also in the 50s, cloudy, and the wind is blowing briskly.  We shivered for half an hour or so, then threw in the towel and left for home.  As we approached our building we saw the So What Do You Do For Fun! couple standing near the front entrance.  Initially, I was relieved that it wasn't Entitled Parking Lady but quickly remembered that, while this couple is less directly offensive, they're more subtly irritating.  Kind of like a tooth ache.  It isn't killing you but you know it's there.


"Don't say anything about the weather," I mumbled to SuperK as we walked up to the building.  People in The New City are a little touchy about the weather.  I guess when you have to listen to anyone who isn't a native bitch constantly about the weather it gets a little tiring.  Personally, I think bitching about the weather is our nation's constitution.  It's an Unalienable Right.  


Super Fun Lady informed us that they were going to a Tai Chi picnic.  I know . . . I don't what that is, either.  She looked like she should probably go to the Don't Eat Any Potato Salad picnic but I'm trying to be non-snarky here.  You can see that it isn't working very well.  This is why, despite my nearly 25 years of sobriety, I have to go to meeting nearly every day.  It keeps me just slightly out of the Asshole Zone.


Keeping the tone light, SuperK, the more normal of the Seaweed twins, said: "Well, don't get carried away and hurt each other."  It was a joke.  It was a pretty inoffensive joke.


Super Fun Lady LOVES it when she can tell you how much more she knows about something than you do.  It doesn't make any difference to her that this is often not the case - she simply assumes that it is, despite reams of evidence to the contrary, and begins to Inform Us.  She  took some time to preach to my wife about what Tai Chi is and what Tai Chi isn't, validating the theory that there is nothing more appreciated in the world than unsolicited advice coming at you in a condescending manner.  As if we thought that this woman was going to put on a leotard and throw someone over her shoulder.


When she was done lecturing us she asked about our plans for the day.  She mentioned an outdoor jazz festival that was going on.  I was trying to get inside so I could take a hot shower and put on my long underwear.  I sure as shit was not going to go back outside and spend the day in a park, freezing my ass off.


So I mentioned the weather.


"Oh, I see," she said.  "It has to be sunny and warm."  This was way snarkier than the Tai Chi 
lecture.  It was brilliantly passive aggressive.  I know because I have a Masters in passive aggressive.  Pretend that you're not pissed at someone when in fact you're REALLY pissed at them, then make them try to figure out why you're angry, neither confirming or denying anything.  Stretch this state out as long as possible.


We got back inside.  


"Good job with the weather comment, " SuperK commented.


I laughed.


"Why did you even stop at the front door?" I said.  "You should have keep moving, at a brisk pace."


"So now this is my fault?" she asked.


"Of course it's your fault," I said.  "That's how it works around here.  You should know that by now."


"Unfortunately," she replied.  "You make it difficult for those of us who try to get along with other people in the real world, those of us who have a conscience."


She's got me there.

We Think So

We read the section today from The Book that suggests that most of our troubles are of our own making.  The text says: "we think."  Yeah, we think that most of our troubles are of our own making, all right.  I'm on board with this opinion.  I've absorbed this lesson into my life.  I ignore it most of the time but I see the beauty in the concept.  I have found the enemy and he is me.  When someone asks me how I'm doing I invariably reply: "Trying to stay out of my own way."  Look out, here I come! 


I used to believe - and often behave today as if I still do - that most of my troubles were of your own making, and I'm definitely referencing a large, shadowy, vaguely menacing "you."  I want to be sure that I include as many people, organizations, and institutions in that Hall of Blame as possible.  I don't want to take responsibility for anything, unless it's good, of course.


I wonder how Evil Entitled Parking Lady is doing today.  I have half a mind to break into the parking garage and park in her roomy pre-assigned spot.  Maybe that would distract her from oncoming traffic.


Now, now.

Entitled Parking Lady

Here's what improvement looks like in the Seaweed arena, courtesy of Entitled Parking Lady.  My initial reaction, born out of much practice when I was still drinking and nurtured by a rage-o-holic family, would have been to react sarcastically, angrily.  It was not that long ago that I would chosen this as an appropriate response.  I began to see some improvement when I migrated from raw anger to more of a snarky, passive-aggressive approach to people who were annoying the hell out of me.  Folks knew I was angry even though I wasn't blasting away with both barrels.  It was more of a knife assault at that point - better than gun play but still not impressive.  Nothing to write home about, in other words. At this point in my life I am reduced to shooting flaming daggers out of my eyes while keeping my mouth shut.  I'm getting there.  I still need to keep going but I'm moving in the right direction, as slowly as I possibly can.


As I mentioned previously I stewed about my encounter with Entitled Parking Lady - and lest you raise an eyebrow about her nickname let me tell you that it's a marked improvement over her original nickname, which I won't go into her to protect the children and vestal virgins who might be reading - I stewed about this incident far too long and far too deeply.  I called my New City sponsor reluctantly, and far too late  - a man who, by the way, has less sobriety than me, a fact that probably galls me more than I care to admit - and he did some hearty laughing in my face, which is the appropriate response.  It helped a lot just talking about it.  He didn't tell me anything that I hadn't already told myself, but that isn't the point.  I have to remember that it's the reaching out for human contact that does the trick, dashing on the rocks the isolating power of my disease.


He did point out that things must be going pretty well if this was the only thing that I have to get   all worked up about. 

So Far . . .

I heard this at a meeting this morning: "I spent the last two years helping care for my ailing mother and I stayed sober most of that time."  D'oh!  I don't think that guy gets what we're trying to do, either.


This is a new meeting for me.  It's a large meeting - about 50 people at 6:30 in the morning, if you can believe that - and I don't really know anyone there.  My preference in meetings is to have about 20 attendees: large enough to simply listen if I don't want to talk but small enough so that I have the opportunity to get something off my chest if I want to.


So far, I'm not a big fan of this big meeting.  So far, I'm not the center of attention there.  People aren't flooding around to make sure that I feel welcome.  They're not calling on me.  They're not including me in everything that they do.  So my solution is to go find the new person.  Go find the visitor from out of town.  Seek out the person standing alone.


Did I mention that the chairwoman read out of Step 7, the Humility Step, to establish a topic?  I'm under full humility attack this week.  I really starting to get sick of humility.


The lessons are obviously not sinking in.

Parking Spaces and Such

The guy who chaired the meeting today read from the 7th Step, the humility Step.  For a minute, I thought he was going to read the exact same passage that I read two days previously.  Clearly, there's a message about humility that my higher power is trying to send me; I thought that it was going to be an alarmingly specific message.  I enjoyed the meeting, then went swimming and had a cup of coffee outside with my wife.  It was a nice morning.


On the way home we stopped for some groceries.  I pulled into a legal parking spot outside my 10 story building - a spot I have used many times for its convenience and proximity - and we began to unload bags of fruit and our swimming gear.  A woman who lives upstairs had just finished parking her car in the underground parking garage that the more affluent residents of our building have access to.  She considerately took a minute to join us street side and inform us that, if we left our car in the clearly marked and legal spot that it was currently occupying, she has trouble exiting the garage.  The car obstructs her line of sight, apparently.


I pondered a few responses.  "How about I park my car up your ass?" came to mind, as did "Maybe when you finish your self-absorbed lecture about something that's none of your fucking business you could give me a hand with these fucking groceries?"  SuperK is the buffer in our family between Seaweed and The Public.  I was grateful she was there, because "restraint of tongue and pen" and "when agitated, we pause" were concepts that were definitely not coming to mind.  They were in there somewhere but I didn't have access to them.


Humility schmuh-mility.


I did move my car.  It was the right thing to do, even though I had to park two blocks away from my building.  I will use this particular egregious parking space again, however.  Someone parked there almost immediately as I live in a very congested, highly concentrated neighborhood.  Parking is at a premium and it's quite competitive.  Setting down my bags of groceries and moving my car would only alleviate this annoying person's discomfort temporarily.


She DID NOT bring a smile to my face. 

Welcome, Seaweed!

I heard this at a meeting this morning: "I've been sober most of the last 15 years."  D'oh!  I don't think that she really gets what we're trying to do here.


I also spoke to a woman before the meeting started about a work experience that both of us have in common.  I make an effort to reach out when I'm attending a new meeting - it's the best way to get to know people - and at my regular meetings I make an effort to welcome people that I don't know - this is the best way to help people feel included.  That hasn't happened at this meeting.  That's OK in my case, being well established in my recovery, but I don't think it's something that a group should be proud of.  These people don't know if I'm new to the area, new to the meeting, or just new to sobriety.  They should try to find out, in my opinion.


The woman was mildly pleasant but short and not at all welcoming.  She let me know that she wasn't experiencing any of the things that had vexed me.  I didn't pursue the conversation and I won't talk to this woman again, unbidden.  I like the meeting and I'm going to keep going to it.  And I try to be understanding when dealing with people I don't know.  Maybe she was tired or preoccupied with a problem; maybe she misinterpreted my intent or doesn't like men.  Maybe she doesn't like me.


I flashed back to my friend saying: "I try to make everyone I run into smile."


Simple as that.

Humble

Humble:  Having or showing a consciousness of one's defects or shortcomings; not proud; not self-assertive; modest.


We discussed humility in the meeting today.  Step 7 is generally considered to be the location of the Mother Ship of information on humility.  I like that the definition implies that when I'm willing to look at where I may be defective then I'm considered to possess at least some humility.  There's no groveling self-abasement or lack of self-respect in the definition.


"Oh my god," said SuperK.  " Self-awareness of your own defects.


Pride:  An over-high opinion of oneself; exaggerated self-esteem; conceit.


Humility is a difficult concept for me to understand in theory and, from what I heard at the meeting today, I'm not alone.  The best observations I heard today were from other confused people who weren't thinking about how to get humility overly much; rather, they were taking action of some kind.  ANY action seemed to be the idea.


One dude said: "I try to make everyone that I run into smile."


How simple is that?  IO can do that.  I can take that action which a friend says leads him to serenity.  When I first entered The Program I was over-whelmed and discouraged by all of the the difficult concepts I read in The Steps.  How was I ever going to get a handle on them?


"Don't worry about all that," my trusted mentors told me.  "Clean out that coffee pot and I'll see you at the meeting tomorrow morning."


Simple as that.

Ordinary Seaweed

Ordinary:  Customary; usual; regular; normal.


This is one of those words that, when I go to retrieve its definition from my ancient Webster's, I find the page tattooed with the letter B.  I put a B next to any word that I look up.  When I forget the definition time and time again I know that I'm dealing with a concept that isn't sinking in.  There were a lot of Bs around "ordinary."   Apparently I don't think that it's a concept that applies to me or I'm offended when I realized  that it does.


If I go to work and show up on time and stay until the day is over and actually work when I'm there; if I'm courteous to my colleagues and respectful to my superiors; if I do my job to the best of my ability and don't steal office supplies; then I've had a good day, a successful day.  And god forbid I should take things a little further and be extra nice to a client or clean up around my work station, things that I don't have to do to stay out of trouble.  Ordinary behavior.


You know what?  I do this stuff and no one gives me a medal.  I think I should get a great, big old medal for doing what I'm expected to do.

An Unforeseen Complication

Simple is good.  Take simple and work it hard.  Don't make simple so complicated.  That makes absolutely no sense.  That is an unnatural perversion of the concept of simple.


I have taken the time and made the effort to get to know the employees at my new neighborhood coffee shop.  Some of them are more receptive to this than others - wary of a deranged looking hipster doofus - but I think most people like to be addressed by name and with a smile.   I spoke briefly with the manager last week about the upcoming holiday weekend and he mentioned that he was taking his family to a local vacation spot.  Today I asked him how the trip went.  I can tell when I surprise someone with a question like that.  I don't think many people take the time to inquire in the first place and even fewer remember what the response was.  I can feel the ice melt a little in my world, the barriers come down an inch.

Recently I sent an email to the real estate agent who helped us with our apartment.  She's a nice lady and I wish her well.  We sent a few messages back and forth, and she invited us to join her the next time her daughter, a singer, performs locally.  And SuperK and I had dinner with the guy who was our landlord for a year when we first moved to The New City.  I like him and his wife, even though the owner-lessee relationship always starts off a little tense.  No one likes to get taken advantage of, after all.  But we treated his property as if were our own and he allowed us to break our lease a month  early.  In fact, he bought our dinner that night.  We saved him a lot of clean-up and repair money by taking care of his place.  A nice relationship has ensued.


This weekend I made a few phone calls to guys I know in The Program.  These are guys who by all rights should really be making calls to me or to anyone that comes to mind.  Some of them didn't call back.  I expected this but I made the calls anyway.  It helps me to talk to other men in recovery.


Now this kind of behavior is easy for me.  I'm outgoing and as un-self-conscious a guy as you'll ever meet.  I don't mind talking to people I don't know that well and I'm not offended when I'm rebuffed.  Whatever.  But it's my small attempt to stick a little positive juice into the day.  It usually feels inadequate to me because I want everything I do to be dramatic and explosive but I've come to believe that good actions lead to good results.  

Special People

And there's nothing like a big crowd to bring around all the other Special People in the world.  A big crowd at a music festival reminds me of society in general.  There are a lot of people who just want to have fun.  There are also more people than there is elbow room.  Everybody wants to be comfortable and close to the stage, with a clear line of sight.   Most of the people are nice but a few of the people are real jerks.  Mix in alcohol, extend the mix over several hours,  and some of the nice people turn into jerks and some of the jerks get really creative in their jerkiness.  


I try to learn about myself when I'm in a large crowd of people.  I see how insufferable it is when  people try to get themselves into position to receive Special Attention.  It isn't necessarily outrageously Special Attention but it's still Special.  It's like complaining to the cop that you were only parked in the crosswalk for a minute.  I can appreciate that such a parking violation isn't as egregious as parking in the crosswalk all day but it still falls under the banner of Special Behavior.


One of the rules at the festival is that, except for a number of smoking enclaves, the entire festival grounds are designated non-smoking.  I'm an ex-smoker.  I understand that such a rule is irritating and inconvenient.  I get it.  But it's a rule for the general comfort of the entire population.  When I was smoking it wasn't a rule that made life more convenient for me but I went along.  Some people don't go along.  Special People.  I walked through a huge crowd of cigar smoke at one point yesterday, released by an Exceptionally Special Person.  He didn't have to go to the smoking area.


I saw a guy yesterday berating the security personnel who were stationed at the entrance to the festival.  It was near the time that the headliners were scheduled to begin playing and there was a long line of people waiting to clear security and purchase their tickets.  This guy had a jacket in his hands and he was protesting that he should be allowed to go to the head of the line.  "I was already in there!" he was yelling.  "I just went out to get my jacket!"  It must be tough dealing with people like that.  I wouldn't do well at it.  I'd be getting on my walkie-talkie and calling the cops about a man with a "suspicious backpack."  As he sat in the back of the squad car he would have had the time to reflect back on how pleasant it would have been standing in a long line, holding his jacket.


I wanted to lean in and say:"It's OK to park in a handicapped space if you're just going in for a pack of smokes or maybe to buy some pop-tarts for breakfast."


Or the people who lay down a blanket the size of Rhode Island and then wander off for a few hours.  Or the people who bring chairs roughly the height of Mt. Everest.  They can see fine.  They're comfortable.  


Special.

Port-O-Let

This week is the big blues festival that is held annually here in The New City.  It's a five day affair and it's pretty big.  SuperK and I usually head down in the afternoon and hang out until early evening, at which point we hightail it home.  The crowds get pretty oppressive and the drinking becomes more apparent as the day wears on, although it isn't quite the focal point that it used to be in The Old City.  People are so nice here; I still can't figure out how they're going to screw me somehow.


Yesterday we went to a barbecue before we went blues hopping so we didn't arrive until early evening.  Once we entered the venue the first thing we saw was the long, long line snaking around the beer tent.  It was quite a wait to get a beer.  I have no idea what the beers cost but I bet they weren't going for 75 cents.  I thought: "Yeah, that was me."  Screw the music, which is the whole point of a music festival, as I understand the concept -  I'm going to go stand in line for an hour so that I may enjoy the privilege of buying a five dollar beer. 


I felt for my wallet, enjoying the slight heft of the cash that it contained, secure in the knowledge  that it would be there when I got home.  I enjoyed the feeling brought about by a small release of endorphins.  Until I went by the Port-O-Let area, where the lines made the beer stand queue look manageable.  I wondered which was most frustrating: the delay to buy the beer or the agony endured waiting to recycle it back.  And there's nothing like the lovely Port-O-Let environment - urine soaked, enclosed plastic pod, baking in the sun.  I never grasped the cause and effect of the beer leading, inevitably, to the Port-O-Lets when I was drinking.


Really enjoyed the music.

Frogs and Hot Water

Solitude:  The state of one who is completely alone, cut off from all human contact, and sometimes stresses the loneliness of such a condition.


It strikes me often how alcoholism is a disease characterized by isolation in the extreme.  It slowly, slowly cuts us off from all human contact.  We're around people at the start, most of us, but we keep stepping back, a little at a time, until we can barely see other folks, way off on the distant horizon.  It's really quite awful to be that alone.  It happens so slowly that we don't know it's happening.  It reminds me of the story about the frog sitting in a pan of cold water on the stove - if you slowly, slowly heat up the water the frog doesn't notice it, eventually being boiled to death.


That story is total bullshit, of course.  The frog gets out of the pot.  The frog isn't as stupid as the practicing alcoholic.


One of the best gifts of recovery is that we begin to build real relationships again.  The Book talks about our total inability to form a healthy relationship with another person.  It reminds us that we have to quit fighting everyone and everything.  It suggests that if we don't this fighting can kill us.


Personally, I don't want to be killed.

More Fun

I have to marvel at the ability of the human spirit to put a positive spin on life experiences.  It has to be a defense mechanism of some sort.  Things that I have had to endure don't seem as bad when viewed through the prism of time, even some things that seemed pretty awful when they were happening.  I wonder if this is because they weren't as bad as I thought they were at the time or because my brain is protecting itself by stuffing the most awful bits into some dank little corner of my dank little mind.


I try to remember this when I'm bitching about something that's going on that I don't like.  I try to speculate that it's not nearly as bad as I'm making it out to be or, failing that, I'm going to remember it more fondly.


One of the best vacations I ever took was to Turkey and Syria with a friend in The Program.  About halfway through the trip I ate something that my body rejected with extreme prejudice.  It was in there and it was going to come out.  I had no conscious say in the matter.  Some very old, very ancient, very rudimentary part of my brain took control, completely overriding anything that my higher thought centers had to say.  The infrastructure of Syria is not as developed as it is the West so when I Had To Go To The Bathroom!! as we were returning to our hotel our driver merely pulled over off the busy road, handed me a box of tissues, and pointed to an abandoned cinder block building.


"OK," I thought.


As I squatted there with my back against the brick, pants around my ankles, in full view of the cars streaming past, wondering how I would fare in a rural Syrian clinic, I was not thinking: "Man, I'm having some FUN now."