Restless, Restless Seaweed

Squander:  To waste, lavish, splurge; to spend lavishly or profusely. 

The Free-Floating Anxiety Syndrome is alive and well this morning!  I'm so proud to report that - it shows just how far I have progressed in my quest to become a Spiritual Giant. Indeed, more of a Spiritual Giant than I already am, and I am massive as it is.  The fact that I actually have an upcoming experience that may be the reasonable cause of the anxiety is cold comfort to me.  I spent some time looking back through my Anxiety List this morning, reviewing what exactly has made me anxious over the last two years.  It is a whole lot of the same stuff, I'll tell you that.  While there are a few things on there that seem justified it's mostly mundane things that I turn over and over and over in my head, seeming to enjoy the discomfort.  

That being said I do have to remember that anxiety is pretty common in society - it's we alcoholics who have taken it to an art form.  "To the precise extent that we permit these, do we squander the hours that might have been worth while."

There's a line somewhere in our literature that suggests that the amount of time we spend in self-pity, worry, remorse, and self-seeking introspection is the exact amount of time that we've squandered in our quest to be of service to our fellow man.

Restless, restless Seaweed.  I admit to possessing the knowledge that I could evade some of this discomfort by hunkering down and doing the same, safe, comfortable things that I always do.  

Not happening.  Climbing back onto my Conestoga wagon again in a few days, and dragging my poor wife with me.

WTF Am I Doing This For, Anyway?

I took a call from Little Westside Jonny yesterday.  He has decided to leave The Old City for a four month stay in sunny, sunny Arizona - a wise move, I think, for a guy who dislikes cold bones as much as I do.  I got the sense that he was a little keyed up about the trip.  He's going to be working which will take up a lot of his time; moreover, he's already been in touch with the local Fellowship office to pre-schedule some meetings and also found a place where he can exercise, and has some day trips lined up.  

The fact that the planning is exquisite doesn't free us from the anxiety about facing something new. SuperK and I are getting ready to head back to Southeast Asia for an extended stay in about a week.  Right about now is when the nerves overwhelm the planning and I begin to mutter: "Why exactly am I doing this again?"  Just staying put and indulging my familiar, much-beloved routine is, today, my choice of action.  I start to plot to see if I can figure out how to extricate myself from this ridiculous web of my own making?  

Personally, I have to do these things so that I stretch and grow.  It isn't for everyone.  Some of us are more comfortable maintaining that routine, and there's nothing the matter with that.  Some of us need to strike out for the territory ahead.  But it doesn't help my nerves to hear people say: "Why are you going there?  Why are you doing that?"  And it doesn't help that I can't really come up with a good reason for doing a lot of the stuff that I do.

I'm always struck about what people get all jazzed up about.  For the longest time SuperK has worried about losing her luggage while I've worried about getting murdered.  And getting screwed by an unscrupulous taxi driver.  Well, I haven't been murdered yet, to the best of my knowledge, and if someone has bilked a few extra dollars out of me I'm unaware of the particulars. We started to make a pact - I take care of the luggage logistics and she fends off the murderers. 

Right now I'm worried about getting stuck in a middle seat in and having gas on the plane. SuperK rolls her eyes: "We're going to Vietnam, you idiot, and you're worried about gas? And why do you care about where you're going to sit - you sleep the whole trip."  Good points, all.  I'm too afraid of her to point out that we've never lost our luggage, either.

I'm too embarrassed to ask what she's worried about this trip.

See Jane Run - Run, Jane, Run

Before I went home I stopped by to visit with my neighbors.  Dick and Jane are the central pillars in a large immigrant family that is so tight that it leaves SuperK and me speechless. I'm not insisting it's better, just so different from our family dynamics that we barely have a frame of reference.  Jane is one of those relentlessly positive people that never seems to slip into self-pity or adopt an attitude of passive-aggressive pique.  Yet she's pretty tough - she doesn't take crap from anybody but her stance is so positive at it's core that I find myself sharing a lot of crap about my family, something I rarely do outside the confines of The Program or of close friendships of long-standing.

I wanted to thank them for continually knocking me back onto the tracks of somewhat acceptable behavior.  Were I ever to err I would like it to be on the side of kindness, tolerance, and understanding.  I don't want to be aggrieved, as if I were a politician running for President, bemoaning the horrible state of affairs that have left me a multimillionaire.  I want to hitch up my britches and be positive.

Not easy for me.

Friends and Family From AT&T

I'm going to stick to my guns here for a while on my new Friends and Family policy which sounds like a new plan from AT&T.  Not forever, quite likely, but temporarily at least.  I think it's in my best interest and by extension, in the best interest of everyone involved.  So it's hands off.  Engaged, but disinterested and dispassionate. 

Live and Let Live, to coin . . . er . . . steal a phrase.

Diss - Functional

Dysfunctional:  Functioning incorrectly or abnormally; especially, designating of a family or social group with strange or abnormal behavior.

I've had conversations over the years with friends in The Program who have had to deal with dysfunctional family members, and I mean dysfunctional with a Capital D.  My family is minor league dysfunctional.  Not crazy in their craziness - more annoying than anything.  One of my friends had a brother who would drop off the radar from time to time, resurfacing in various states of chaos, finally stealing my buddy's identity and thus severing all ties in perpetuity.  Another friend had an alcoholic brother move in with their father, causing so many problems that they had to boot him from the premises.  He hears rumors about his brother's whereabouts but not much else.

The point is that these guys finally decided that nothing was better than the something they were being offered.  They decided that their best means of contact was no contact at all.  It wasn't always comfortable but it was easier than the frustration inherent in dealing with someone who had run off the rails long before.

I'm slotting myself into this category with my dad right now.  Like these guys I've finally gotten to the point where I'm not mad at dad but I don't want to deal with the crap.  I'd rather not know, you know?  I'm not entirely comfortable with this at the moment but I'm getting there.

Petty Seaweed

Petty:  Narrow-minded; small-minded.

The big take-away for me regarding the last trip to The Old City - in my opinion, because really, who's opinion would it be if not mine? - was along the lines of Live and Let Live. The first time I saw this slogan it appeared to be a stupid slogan that applied to lesser people than me. Now I think it's a pretty good slogan.  It keeps my nose out of your business.  I don't know exactly where my nose is supposed to go but it's definitely not in your business.

I called my dear father - back on the Vodka Train, according to my sister, despite her refusal to buy him any more Vodka, prompting me to share my deeply-held belief that I could be dropped from an airplane, in the middle of the night, on Sunday, in a dry county in a dry state, without my wallet or any identification, and I'd have drugs and alcohol within two hours - a couple of times in the last week.  No answer, even though he never goes anywhere and has caller ID and an answering machine, and no return of the calls.  

"I think I'm done with my father," I told SuperK, without any emotion at all.

She nodded.  "OK," her mouth said.  "It's about fucking time," was implied.

I don't mean I'll never contact him again rather that he really doesn't want to talk to me right now so it's enough with the calls already.  Leave the old guy alone.

Then, I get a text from an Old City friend - one of those guys that I love dearly who never, ever makes the slightest effort to stay in touch.  I've droned on ad infinitum about how irritating this is before finally, finally deciding that it would be better to back off the expectations and slot him into the category of people I love dearly but will lose touch with. The text regrettably, was to let me know of some good news he got regarding a family member and to let me know what kind of new car he bought.  He promised to follow up with a phone call over the weekend.  

"I don't think I'm going to take that call," I told SuperK.

She nodded.  "OK," her mouth said.  "You're really dim sometimes," was implied.

I feel a little petty here.  I'm happy the health scare is over and if I was still in The Old City I would have spent a couple of days riding around with him to the car dealerships.  I LOVE new cars.  However, I lost my mother and I went to Scandinavia for a couple of months and I heard nothing.  So, frankly, in my book, stay engaged or stay silent.  When I thought I might hear from him my feelings were hurt - when I don't expect to hear from him my feelings are nice and robust.  I don't want to take a call where he talks about himself for a half an hour.

I'm really trying here.  I really am.

One of the suggestions that I've learned over the years which still retains an incredible amount of power - it would contain an incredible amount of power if I bothered to heed its wisdom from time to time - is to "Love people for who they are and not who you want them to be."  Intellectually?  Makes a lot of sense.  Emotionally?  A little hard to swallow when all of the idiots who are clogging up the path that I want to take won't get out of my way.

It's not fair to anyone to have that load of expectations heaped upon their furrowed brows.  People are fallible and flawed and they're inevitably going to fail us.  I shouldn't put that pressure on anyone.  I know I'm not doing it right in the eyes of millions.  When I disappoint someone simply by existing I think: "Hey, I'm doing the best I can."  I don't like it when someone is pissed that I'm not falling in line with what they want me to do.  I try to change my behavior if I can make someone else's road a little wider but I'm not going to have much luck changing who I am.

We had a cat that didn't like to be held.  She'd hop up on your lap if she was cold and wanted to warm up but even then she'd do whatever she could to stay just out of reach of your grabby hands - I swear that animal had a tape measure somewhere.  Otherwise, she was fine curled up on the carpet.  Every now and then I'd pick her up and try to forcefully hold her in place.  She stayed put - she wasn't stupid, she knew who was the bigger of the two animals - but it felt like sitting with a coiled spring in my lap.  I knew that the instant I released any pressure that she would be out of there.

That's what it feels like today when I try to make someone into something that they're not.

Delusional Seaweed

Delusion:  A false belief that is resistant to confrontation with actual facts.

I'm a typical guy.  I have a typical totally delusional impression that women view me in a certain light.  I'm delusional but not stupid - I realize that I make my best impression when the lights are turned off, leaving me in complete darkness.  I know that I'm invisible to any human female who's under say 35 if by "35" you mean "45."  Fair enough - I'm old.  I get it.  I was pretty much invisible to these women when I still had black hair and a lot less wrinkles and liver spots and such than I do now.

Still, I'm pretty sure that when I blow into a room I turn some heads.  I'm just sayin'.

One evening at my dad's retirement home - where the average age, the average age of the residents appears to be one hundred and forty-three - I was joined at the banks of elevators by a woman who lives there.  We had some time to talk - the doors on the elevators are programmed to give a little more time to the little less spry.

"So . . . are you a new resident?" she asked at one point.

I did laugh out loud.  I take myself way too seriously but not nearly as seriously as I used to.