Definitely at That Point

Definitely the point of the trip where I'm saying: "Why the $%#!! am I doing this anyway?"  It was pointed out that the late, great Kenner would have said: "This, too, shall pass."  I hated that expression when things were going my way but found it more soothing at times like this, when I'm nervous and jumpy and edgy.  Prone to anxiety, as LWSJ would say.

I can tell that the anxiety is getting free-floating when weird stuff leaps to the forefront.  For instance, both SuperK and I get injured and sick right before a big trip bad backs, head colds, and the like, none of which ever seem to be . . . you know . . . real.  A few days ago I must have bumped the big toe on my right foot - it got sore, a little red and swollen.  Infection!  Bad infection!!  I imagined myself in the jungle in Cambodia watching a witch doctor hack off my gangrenous foot just above the ankle with a saw fashioned from the bones of a water buffalo and I was not going consider the fact that I'm going on a pretty nice tour and staying in pretty nice hotels and I have antibiotics and my fucking toe isn't infected, anyhow.  I never let facts get in the way of what I want to believe.

Another thing that was gnawing at me was the possibility of getting stuck in a middle seat on a 15 hour flight in a plane where the internal space was designed by the Marquis de Sade.  I'm an antsy guy, I'm a tall guy, I hate the lack of control and claustrophobia of being trapped in a small space.  Because I'm cheap I got a great fare where one of the drawbacks was not being able to choose my seat earlier than 48 hours before the flight.  Guess what?  Middle seat.  I was moderately freaked for a while before transitioning into the "It is what it is" phase of my mental preparation.

I can hack it.  I can hack it.

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.