Dancing With Myself

I have a pretty good life. Good job, live in a nice place, I have my health. When I take an inventory of how I am, what I have and how I interact with people, and the world in general, it comes out on the positive side. Most know me as a somewhat intelligent, friendly person. On the minus side, I can be overconfident to the point of being arrogant. I have a strong personality that turns off some people.

So where am I going with this?

Here. I am 54 years old and single. Not even in a relationship.

And I don’t know how I am supposed to feel about that. I know how I do feel about that, and that is, ninety-five percent of the time I am okay with it. The other five percent of the time is when I ponder the next ten to fifteen years of my life, when age will catch up to me, my looks will deteriorate (not that they’re all that at the present), and I might move into senior citizenship without a partner. I think about that scenario for a bit then fire up match.com and check out personals. After a few minutes of that I move back to the ninety-five percent mindset and go grab my golf clubs.

I like being single. Which may be simply a different way of saying I suck at relationships. Both are, undoubtedly, true statements. My track record speaks for itself – twice divorced, many ex-girlfriends some of whom have severed all contact with me. And it bears noting at this point that I have never laid a hand on a woman – I have never abused, either physically or emotionally, a mate. I’m just a difficult person to be with…I guess.

And as I get older that will just become more difficult, as I do what I want to do when I want to do it. Kind of goes with the territory of being alone. So when someone enters my life and suggests something I don’t want to do, I bristle. I simply am not used to sharing my life.

So this begs the question – what’s the problem, Jer? Are you saying you want to be in a relationship?

And here is the answer. I don’t fucking know. Societal-speaking, I am somewhat of an aberration – a mid-50’s guy alone. But I do not want to live my life based on what society expects of me. Shit, for that matter, I don’t live my life based on what anyone expects of me. I did that for too long, and it made me feel uneasy, uncomfortable with myself.

One of things I have realized about, well, life in general, is that it is unscripted. It’s weird. You cannot say ‘Okay, this is how it is going to be,’ and then it turns out that way. Further, past performance is no indication of future events. If you flip a coin fifty times and it comes up heads all fifty times, the odds of the fifty-first flip is still 50/50 of coming up heads. The point being, I try not to worry about what will come, and further, cannot control it. So why worry. I could meet the love of my life this afternoon.

It is those types of thoughts that get me back into my ninety-five percent comfort zone.

Then I grab my golf clubs.

So now, you’re probably thinking, ‘Gosh thanks for wasting five minutes of my life reading all that. Your point, Jer?’

Eh, nothing. Consider this one of the thoughts that hangs up in my brain…much like those cheese doodles in the snack machine.

And like those cheese doodles hanging there, it will remain until action is taken to move them. Or to let them hang. I guess that’s what I am dealing with, with this whole ‘lack of relationship’ issue I have.

But in the end, it’s only an issue if I wish it to be. Which gets back to my perception. And you know what? If I am okay ninety-five percent of the time, that’s a pretty damn good percentage. But I am also open to whatever life may toss at me in the future – I don’t ever want to get into a situation where I feel ‘compelled’ to get into a relationship so someone can call 911 if I keel over in my recliner. If I get into a relationship, it has to be organic.

Much like how I am now.

So, that’s all. Welcome to life inside my brain.

Metamorphosis In Four Minutes

So I am back to musing about rock and roll again.

What brought this about? Well, per usual, an inspirative spark. In this case it was my drive home from work Friday afternoon when I was wrung out from eight hours of meetings and dysfunction. My brain was done; there was no more for it to give, and my only thoughts were how to negotiate nine miles of I-4 and what I was going to buy at the grocery store…and even those thoughts were hard to cull.

So I plugged my mp3 player into my car’s stereo and hit shuffle. Here was the first thing that came up –

Fuck yeah.

Where two miles earlier I was trying to not fall asleep behind the wheel, I was transformed into a head-banging, energy-overloaded pool of Angst DNA. Instead of gently trying to maneuver my car through the morass of Orlando traffic, I became an urban warrior in an up-plated Humvee, daring people to take me on.

Don’t tell my insurance company.

This is the power of music, and specifically rock and rock. Sure, all genres of music have that power and I am not trying to dis them, but rock is my drug. Case in point – my dear friend is going through a break-up, and her way of dealing with it was an evening of Mike’s Hard Lemonade, Blake Shelton and Lady Antebellum. If she was sad before, she was damn near suicidal afterwards. So in this instance her choice of country music (I’m sure the alcohol had nothing to do with it, heh) enhanced the mood she was already in.

And hey, if that’s how she wants to roll, roll with your bad self. But speaking only for myself, if I am sad the last thing I want is something that enhances the sadness. And if I am happy, I want something that makes me continue to feel happy.

Now, I can hear your fingers typing – “Ministry, Jer? Really? That makes you happy?”

Yes. Yes it does.

Why? Because it – and rock music in general – demands you to be happy. Sure, there are exceptions to this; one that comes to mind is Mumford and Sons, as they tend to get me thinking too introspectively about opportunities lost and of better times. My son played M&S as we were driving the Niagara Falls last month, on the same day we decided to call in Hospice for my mom, and halfway through the second song I demanded my son to change it to Green Day. I was not having a real good day, and Little Lion Man kept reminding me about the traumatic decision my siblings and me had to make earlier that day.

I mentioned Green Day. Virtually all their songs make me happy. The only one that doesn’t is Wake Me Up When September Ends, which is as melancholy as Billy Joe Armstrong gets. My son told me he wanted that played at his funeral; well that pretty much killed that song for me. I can’t hear it now without thinking of the awful possibility that I may have to one day bury my son.

Sorry dude, that’s not going to be my job, it will be your job to bury me.

So back to being happy (Please!). If it’s Green Day, give me Holiday (“The representative from California has the floor” – awesome interlude).

“I beg to dream and differ from the hollow lies!”

Fuck yeah. Again.

Last point. I get this sometimes – “Doesn’t angry music, like N.W.O. or Holiday, make you angry, Jer?”

Nope. It makes me move. It instills an anthemic to-the-core beat deep in my bones that manifests itself in purposeful striding and increased blood pressure. It makes me feel alive.

So take that, Lady Antebellum. And take a little Helmet with ya -

Fuck. Yeah.

Things I Used To Do

I was just sitting here musing about this fun trip I have been a part of for over 53 years now. You know, life.

And specifically, the wildly varied things I have done to keep from starving. Now, I went to college. Got two degrees, including an MBA. Just that alone would make some people conclude that my path has been a smooth upward climb to some cushy gig on Mahogany Row.

Uh, no.

Starts and stops. Interruptions for various personal reasons. Realizations that what I was trained to do I really didn’t want to do.

A not-complete list of my varied vocations includes the following:

·         Working in the produce department at a grocery store

·         Valet parking cars in Palm Beach

·         Raking traps at a golf course

·         Hosting a radio talk show on fantasy football

·         Pressure-cleaning roofs of houses

·         Texas Hold-‘Em poker dealer

·         Audio-visual technician

·         Running a sporting goods store

·         Professional golfer

·         Professional golf hustler

·         Transportation consultant

·         Computer trainee

·         Ran a transportation project that provided free trips Cuban refugees in Miami

·         Selling college alumni directories over the phone

·         Running a miniature golf course

·         Investment broker trainee

·         Insurance salesman trainee

…and those are the legal ones. All I can say to that is, a man has to pay the bills.

Now for the kicker. I do none of those things now. My career is in the mega-glamorous field of public transportation management. I design bus routes. I know…control yourselves. But it is a nice career, one I have been at for over 25 years now. And it is weird to think more of my career is behind me than in front of me. If things go according to plan (which they never do), I should retire in 12 years. Wow.

But my point in this little exercise is to show how unpredictable life can be. And since most of my story’s been written, I am thinking about my 18-year old, very talented son. He is an artist. Next year he will be accepting a scholarship somewhere and will be off to college in preparation for his career. Now, he seems extremely focused and appears to have a clear idea on what he wants to do. And I think that is wonderful.

I also think it is unrealistic.

Why? Because that’s life. You never know what’s around the corner.

And, really, ain’t that great?

I mean look. I think it’s wonderful that there are people who know at a very early age what they want to do with their lives, and further, have the means to achieve it. And for my son’s sake I hope he is one of those fortunate souls. I hope he takes that awesome talent of his and is able to transform it into a rewarding, enriching career that he loves every minute of. Nothing would make me prouder as a father.

But also, I will feel a little sad for him.

Why?

Because he will never get to experience the joy of pressure-cleaning a roof.

Ooh My Head

That’s the title of a Ritchie Valens song from the late 1950s, later stolen by Led Zeppelin to create Boogie With Stu. Look it up. Wait, I’ll do it for you –

But I’m not going to discuss music or specifically Zep’s unsavory habit of ripping off other band’s music and calling it their own.

Instead, I am talking about MY head. Last Wednesday I shot my lowest round of golf in five years. A very satisfying 71 at Casselberry Golf Club, with My Man Mike. Satisfying in the sense of shooting a low number, but also unsatisfying in that my damn head got in the way of it being a much lower score. Allow me to recap, and you will see why –

I hit a nice drive on the first hole and proceeded to make a solid par. On two, I half-skulled a gap wedge to 6 feet and made birdie. Number three was a solid two-putt par. We jumped ahead to #6 to bypass a slow foursome and I hit a sand wedge to 3 feet and made the putt for another birdie. On 7 I made a real good sand save for par. On 8, a tough par-3, I hit a 5 iron to 15 feet, two putt par. On 9 I hit a 6 iron to 5 feet and made the putt for birdie.

Enter the first chink in the mental armor – I said to Mike “Holy shit I’m three under.” Mike’s response is what he always says to me – “Don’t think about it. Keep swinging.”

On 10 I made a lucky par. Eleven is arguably the toughest hole on the course, and I made a bogey. I parred 12 and 13. Standing on the 14^th tee I’m 2 under and I know it.

And that’s exactly the wrong place for your head to be – knowing what you’re shooting. The impulse is to try to protect/defend instead of, as Mike said, to keep swinging.

I pulled my drive on 14, but was okay. I tried to hit a hard 9 iron into the wind to a front pin with a bunker in front. Bad strategy. There was 40 feet of green behind that pin, but I hit the club that brought the bunker into play. Splat – into the bunker. Left with a very simple, clean uphill lie in the bunker and about a 50-foot shot, my last thought was “Don’t blade it over the green.”

Well I didn’t. I hit it 3 feet and left it in the bunker.

Now I’m pissed. Stepping up to the next shot I did exactly what I told myself not to do on the previous shot. I bladed it over the green, damn near decapitating Mike in the process. I pitched on and made a 10-footer for double bogey.

Even par.

On to 15. The toughest hole on the course – a 220-yard par 3. On the drive from 14 to 15 I am kicking myself – ‘Nice job Nimrod. You just doubled an easy hole and now you gotta play the toughest hole on the course’. I tried to jump on my 3-hybrid and hit a skank pull-hook that rattled in the huge magnolia tree and came to rest inside a drain culvert. After taking a drop, I hit on the green and two putts later, I registered back-to-back double bogeys.

Two over. When fifteen minutes earlier I was two under.

Ooh my head.

Sometimes I really hate this fucking game.

But it’s not the game! It’s how I play the game that’s the issue. I made three good pars on 16, 17 and 18, and I said to Mike, we gotta go back and play 4 & 5 because I want to post this score, and we had skipped them earlier.

So back to #4 we go, a solid 380-yard par 4 with water in front. The play is to hit the drive as far as you can to set up a short iron over that water. Knowing that, I heel a piece of crap drive about 210 yards off the tee. Now instead of a 9 iron approach I have 170 yards to a back pin into the wind with a pond in front, and I am trying like hell to get two over into the clubhouse.

It was at this point sanity re-entered the cesspool of my brain. I took out a 7-wood, my 180-yard club, and made my best swing of the day, placing the ball about 25 feet from the hole. Two putts later and I can finally breathe a sigh of relief because the fifth hole is just a 120-yard par 3 with no real hazards.

On the fifth tee I said to Mike “I need an ace to break 70.” He just laughed. Because he knows me. I hit it 12 feet from the hole and before I hit the putt I said “If I make this it’s 4 under on the front nine.” I didn’t, but a tap-in par gave me the 71.

Golf is essentially played between the ears. Yes, there is a lot of mechanics involved in executing a proper swing, but ultimately it is about using your brain to a point, then shutting it off – you have to use it to calculate yardage, wind direction, the lie, where you want to hit it and so on. Then you have to shut it off when it’s time to hit the ball. Trust what you got…and just swing.

And for Christ’s sake, do not think about what your score is.

My head hurts.

What’s Your Zen?

The world is crazy. Daily grinds can, well, grind you down. We all need an escape, an oasis where we can shut out the madness and calm our minds. Something that is positive, calming, rejuvenating.

So jumping out of airplanes doesn’t count.

I’m not talking about what we do for a rush or for excitement, but rather, what we do to just get away without burning vacation days or spending a couple thou on a cruise. So you can’t say ‘I hop a plane to Bali.’ No you don’t. Hopefully you have a regular activity that’s easy to access. I have one.

I hit chip shots.

I know. I live life on the edge. What can I say.

But that’s my point. This doesn’t have to be some kind of elaborate or costly thing. It just has to be your personal little getaway place. Well, mine is Saturday and Sunday mornings for about an hour or so at Casselberry Golf Club’s practice green where I put on my earphones, throw the iTunes on shuffle, dump my bag of shag balls, and zone in. Two bags of shots, 100 balls each. First bag is usually nice high flop pitches and the second are low running shots.

The world stops. And that’s the key to this activity. I think of nothing other than soft hands through impact, back of right hand to target, and keep the blade square. There are no thoughts of what bills to pay or how I want to throttle the Finance Director at work. Just club on ball, trying to make those shots land softly and roll out to the little flag on the green.

And I sing whatever is playing in my ears. This morning, the playlist featured the following:

So Watcha Want, Beastie Boys

What I Really Want, Alanis Morrisette

Weapon Of Choice, Fatboy Slim

Stormy Monday, Allman Brothers

End Of The World Party, Medeski, Martin & Wood

All I Wanna Do, Sheryl Crowe

Everything Is Broken, Bob Dylan

Backwater, Meat Puppets

Caress Me Down, Sublime

And yes, at times I get looks from other players as I sing ‘Mucho gusto me llamo Bradley-ah…I’m hornier than Ron Jeremy-ah…’

Like I care. It’s my own little impenetrable bubble.

I believe this is the key to sanity. Like that line about ‘dance like nobody’s watching’…? That’s how I practice. It is just me out there.

I now do yoga, which ranks second on the list of zen activities, but I am still learning how to do that, so I’m not at the ‘just let it flow’ level, as I am still trying not to vomit during downward dog. But I’ll get there.

So for now it’s me and my balls.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

The Genesis of Dweebness

How does one become a geek? Is one born that way? Or is it more of a learned habit, of finding activities that one enjoys only to realize that they are judged as being the domain of societal misfits?

The answer, is, yes.

See, coolness is learned. But I believe we are all born geeks. I mean, how does a newborn know what cool is? They obviously don’t. What – did 3-month-old Fonzie shun his teddy bear diaper for a black leather one? No. The Fonz was in the same clueless pool of unknowing formula-suckers as the rest of us.

But somewhere along the way, the cool kids got something. Not a memo, but they just somehow became attuned to what others perceived as cool, and emulated it. God bless these perceptive people, as I was too busy wrapping my toy soldiers with paper from my mom’s adding machine as she cranked out numbers as an accountant. While The Fonz was out practicing how to impart a nuclear wedgie to the local sap geek, I was hiding from him – under my mom’s kitchen table, giving my plastic army men an armor coating of paper. Fonz was coolness in training. I was oblivious of what the world thought of, well, anything.

So we learn one thing that geeks have in common. Loneliness. Or more accurately, contentment in being alone. That was me. I was not a social kid. The majority of fun I had as a kid was in activities concocted in my mind, and executed without the assist of anyone. As a result, I was creative and kind of smart. And alone.

Cool kids are neither creative nor kind of smart. Or alone.

What cool kids are, is popular. That requires social contact. They thrive in social settings. My brother was very cool. So was my sister. Not surprisingly, they had – and still do have – lots of friends. They have PhD’s in popularity. They have always had an innate sense of what to say in a particular situation and it always came out…cool. They got the laughs. So did I, but never intentionally. Cool kids get people to laugh with them. Geeks get laughed at. Which just makes us wrap our plastic toy soldiers with more adding machine tape.

See, those toy soldiers don’t laugh back.

This sounds like a sad tale, and it is not necessarily so. It is just a matter of Darwinian selection. Everyone can’t be cool. If everyone were, then nothing would be cool. Cool is a special, ubiquitous quality that certain people just get. And Lord, there were many times I wished I could get splashed with what my siblings had, like a Holy Water of Coolness. I wanted to be able to saunter up to cute girls like I saw my brother do countless times, drop a couple of syllables, and have them walk off with me like they did with him. When I would try that, I would stand there slack-jawed, my brain erased of any thought, and oftentimes I would just drool or blurt out some kind of inane, insane comment about how nice the weather was…when it was ten below zero out. Consequently, the girl would laugh at me, then turn and walk away…and pass along to her friends that I was mentally retarded.

I didn’t have the gift. The Cool Gods didn’t lay their hands on me. And I never learned it under the kitchen table with all those toy soldiers and all that adding machine tape.

Dweebs are over-achievers. Cool kids are usually under-achievers. This stands to reason, since the cool kids got the respect just by being in that groove they were in – there was no motivation to achieve when the world was already eating out of their hand. This helps to explain, at least in my own case, why I got two college degrees and bristle at any perceived hint of rejection. Us dweebs try to construct a coat of respect, since we can never be just accepted…or so we think. Those formative years of being chased after school, de-pants'd in the playground, and being given held-down wet willies have permanently etched scars in our psyche.

Cool kids don’t have to go to therapy. They are very happy in a world that revels in their appearance. Geeks keep psychiatrists in business. Don’t believe me? How much you wanna bet that Freud was writing in his tablet, as the poor sap was on the couch, “Major four-alarm GEEK’…?

Okay, maybe not.

Because that’s another construct of geeks. The combination of isolation, societal awkwardness and too smart for our own good equates to major neuroses. We don’t see the world as it is, but rather, as the dangers to our fragile psyches that it can be. As I mentioned, we do not feel accepted…even when we really are. If a girlfriend says something like ‘I’m going to run to the store for some milk’ we hear, ‘She’s leaving me for good.’ We are a handful for anyone close to us. We feel misunderstood. We need constant reassurance that we are good enough. The vicious cycle in completed when the girlfriend leaves and we are left alone, clueless as to why she thought suggesting the Marvel Comics convention as a Saturday night activity was a bad idea.

Oh well. This is my lot. We are all – or most of us – constructs of our formative years. For many it takes a lifetime to overcome these experiences, if ever at all. In my case it is a constant cycle of gaffes and inner searches for why I do and act like I do. Why do I over-exert? Why do I try to be right? Why do I think someone will be impressed that I know the last 50 U.S. Open golf champions, when what is actually happening is they just want me to shut up?

Move over, I need a seat on Freud’s couch.

I have some experience in 12-step recovery programs. Want to find out where all the adult geeks are? They are at these meetings. One thing I have learned from my time in these gatherings is, we all share a common trait – we did not feel accepted; we felt like we never fit in.

Bingo.

Note that I didn’t say we didn’t fit in – I said we felt like we didn’t fit in. Chances are pretty good we were fitting in quite nicely, and that we were being accepted just perfectly. But we just could not believe it. You were all lying. I know you think I’m a societal leper. I want to get away from this. I want to get away from you. I want to go crawl into…a bottle of tequila.

Because tequila doesn’t laugh at you either.

And tequila also had the added benefit of…making me cool! Two shots and I was funny. Three and I am charming. Unfortunately, after the fifth I was vomiting. So there was a small window of opportunity for me to feel comfortable with you before I was doing technicolor yawns in the Men’s room. It was a delicate dance, and one that I could never seem to do correctly. But, it was in these recovery meetings that I found kindred spirits. People that felt just like I did. And acted out just like I did. And most importantly, showed me how to overcome these feeling of inadequacy and live a contented, serene life.

And I can also tell you this – I never heard anyone in these meetings say ‘I was the popular kid.’

The Year That Was

So 2011 is coming to a close, and the Year of the Mayan Prediction of The End of The World sits waiting.  As is typical for this time of year, we tend to look back and review the year that was on a global level.

But this is my blog, so I am going to get personal.

2011 was an interesting year. I fell in love. I got my golf game back. I got my life back. I learned more deeply what makes me tick. I lost a childhood friend. I gained some new friends. I embarked on a new activity that I had never done before. I went to Memphis. I rekindled a childhood friendship. I went through a roller-coaster of issues at work.

In all, a typical year.

Love Comes Calling - In the Spring I fell in love with a lady that actually fell for me first. Imagine that. Ours was a brief, but torrid, emotion-filled experience that left both of us sated and exhausted. What started as what we viewed as divine fate bringing us together ended three months later with stark realizations of basic differences that, unfortunately, could not be reconciled.

Love Comes Calling Part Deux - In the Summer I met a much younger woman, 25 years younger than me in fact, that, again, seemed interested in me. Hey, as much as I like to think that I could actually be attractive to a woman in her 20’s, rationale says, uh no, dude. Until she reminded me that mutual attraction knows no age limits. We had a wonderful four months together that ended when, again, stark realizations set in. Here was a women blossoming and unfolding, wanting a family, and dating a guy that only has one more year of child support to pay.  I could father her children, but only if was willing to delay my retirement for about ten years. I wasn't.

My Real Love Returns - Before there were any significant others in my life, I fell in love. I was six years old. And the object of my affections was a game. Golf. When 2011 started my golf game was in shambles, as I had played maybe a half dozen times in the previous two years.  You have to know this about me - I am a golfer. It is in my DNA. And when I do not play for extended periods of time I get depressed. Conversely, when I play often I am happy. So, to connect the dots, at the beginning of 2011 I was depressed due to lack of golf. And my goal in 2011 was to be happy, ergo, play more golf.

Hey, I’m a man. We’re simple creatures.

My blog has at least five stories from this past year related to rekindling this passion. I played with former Pittsburgh Steelers. I re-connected with my dear friend from childhood, My Man Mike, and we played weekly. I practiced 2-3 times a week. And by the end of this year I got my handicap back down to a 7. Not as good as I used to be, but still not too shabby.

And I was happy again.

I'm Pretty Effed Up - About halfway though the year I re-connected with 12-step recovery meetings, and through this I discovered some ugly truths about myself. Things that most everyone else knew about me, but I was blind to. Things like arrogance, self-centeredness, selfishness and fear. But I also learned to give myself a break - the only perfect man was hung on a cross, and I'm not into having nails driven into my hands and feet. So I now know the things about me that drive people away, and it is now on me to do something about them. Like they say, the truth will set you free...but first it's gonna really piss you off.

Namaste - I took up yoga. This is a wonderful activity that blends exercise, stretching, breathing and inner peace. I met new friends, and I love my instructor. Literally. I love her. I don’t know if she knows this, and Lee, if you’re reading this story, surprise! I love you.

Goodbye John - An old friend from my childhood died, Johnny Allen. Age 52, of cancer. John was an odd kid, as was I, which made us pretty close - the two geeks on the block. John’s death was a real wake-up call that we could be taken at any moment, for any reason. Rest well, John.

Work Is A Four-Letter Word - My job is very demanding. Unfortunately, often that demanding-ness gets piled atop with unreasonable, unrealistic and sometimes moronic tasks, simply because someone had what they considered a spark of creativity. When the truth is, they were proposing things that didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of succeeding. This happened often this year, and it really reinforced the old adage, God grant me the serenity…you know the rest. I cannot control these people. I only have two choices - accept them, or find another place to work. One or the other will occur in 2012.

So as this year fades to a close and 2012 stands waiting in the wings, I take the lessons of 2011 along with me, which are three simple words - live, love laugh. Especially laugh.

Because I used to be disgusted. Now I try to be amused.

Happy New Year everyone.

Of A Certain Age

(For John. You were a good man. Rest in peace my friend.)

“It’s a shame we have to die my dear, but no one’s getting out of here alive.”

- Dave Grohl, Foo Fighters

I got some sad news today as an old friend from my childhood days died. Johnny Allen, age 52, passed away from cancer. John grew up across the street from me, and we were pretty close as kids – climbing trees, building snow forts, that kind of stuff. Little Johnny Allen. Dead. Reality check for sure.

I know I am getting older. Hell, every person on this side of the ground is. But I am now getting to the point in my life where I go, wow, I’m 53. I really should be acting my age.

Someone tell me what that is, please.

I have heard older people say ‘You’re only as young as you feel’ or ‘Age is just a number.’ True. And I don’t feel – or  act – 53. Heck, some may say I am still like the 10-year old kid climbing trees with Johnny Allen and that in certain areas I need to mature. I get that, but I tend to reject those pieces of advice. Stubborn streak I guess. I want to remain childlike but not be childish. And I know I have a long way to go in both those areas. I still have the ‘wow’ amazement of a child, which I want to keep, but I also have traits that make people shake their heads and say grow the F up. Good with the bad I guess. But I have to wake up to me every day so I will try to keep to my internal gut barometer on what is or isn’t acceptable. Like I like to say – the only perfect man was hung on a cross with nails through his hands and feet.

I’ve had some recent experiences that has reinforced the fact that most of my life is now behind me. Example – I just friended someone on Facebook, a guy I see every week at the place here in Orlando where us Browns fans congregate. He’s just Shaun to me, a fellow bud. Then I noticed he was born in 1976 – the same year I graduated high school. Here’s a guy that I just think of as a fellow suffering Browns fan, and he is, but he could be my son. Wow.

Many times you see these email threads where people reminisce of what it was like when they were younger, to illustrate how much things have changed. Well, here’s my list –

I remember straight-on Kickers in the NFL.

I remember when there was an AFL.

I remember watching Nixon resign on national TV.

Our TV growing up had three stations – CBS, NBC & ABC.  Period.

We listened to music on albums or on 8-track tapes.
I owned 8-track tapes.

It’s hard to believe that those experiences peg me as ‘getting old’. Oh well. On the plus side of the ledger, I am still alive, and do not look my age. And a couple months back I actually had a 27-year-old girlfriend. She was born in 1983 – when I was two years removed from college & trying to pick up, well, 27-year olds. So I got that going for me.

But boy, some days I do feel my age. My annual checkups now consist of the obligatory prostate check & colonoscopies. So I guess, for a man at least, that aging means having a doctor stick things in your ass.

Good luck finding something there. Besides my head. 

But as Johnny showed, we can be snuffed out at any time. To that end, they say to live your life to the fullest. Well sure. But also, just live your life. Because, just like me, you have to wake up with yourself every day.

I hope you like what you see.

Know-It-All

I have been doing quite a bit of introspection lately. This is due to a number of reasons, but chief among them is the desire to live the rest of my life happy, joyous and free. And it has become very apparent that one of the main roadblocks to that is how I interact with others.

People piss me off.

That phrase – right there – is the crux of my issue. I am arrogant. I flaunt superiority at the expense of others. I build myself up at the expense of others. This makes them upset at me which makes me upset at them. And when they express it I redouble my efforts to show them how wrong they are. In other words, my initial premise is ‘I am right and you are wrong’, and when you challenge me on that, it becomes a contest that I must win. And when you try to explain that it is no longer about the argument but rather how I am arguing it (arrogantly), I will try to win that debate. In other words, if you say I am being arrogant, I will argue arrogantly that I’m not being arrogant.

This helps explain why I am 53 and alone.

Who wants to be around that? Gawd, if I were dealing with someone like that I would tell such a person to go fuck themselves. Which, by the way, is quite an arrogant statement.

Where did this all start? Well, like most of our personality traits, as a child. Being the youngest, I felt I had to ‘earn’ airtime in our family. And to do so required (so I thought) outrageous behavior or statements. I thought my older brother was very smart and cool so I emulated that behavior. And finally, knowledge was highly valued in our tribe, so I embarked on obtaining two college degrees. Add all this up, and I became cocooned in my own smugness. Arrogant behavior became my subconscious and automatic response to most everything. I worshipped at the altar of ego, and equated happiness with being right. So I reveled in the win of the argument.

Well you know what? Oftentimes I did “win”. And then I was alone.

To the victor goes the isolation.

As I got older, I started to recognize that people didn’t like a know-it-all, but I was unable to put the brakes on my arrogance, so I developed a counter-balancing personality trait. Charm. My thinking was, yes, I have this negative aspect of my personality, but if I couched it in a pleasant, flattering persona, it would at least be tolerated. Take the good with the bad, right? I thought I could still be loved with this construct. Well, I was loved. Briefly. The ‘Charm Offensive’ worked for a while until girlfriends figured out it was a façade that hid my true essence.

But what really is my ‘true essence’? If arrogance was a learned trait in childhood and adolescence, that’s not my true essence. So what is the real me? Gosh, I just don't know. I do know I want to be liked by everyone, so the foundation for my behavior is unrealistic to begin with. So, basing my behavior on a ridiculous premise is a sure recipe for unhappiness.

I now recognize that arrogance and flattery were things I picked up along the way, so if those were stripped away, what’s left? Here’s where I am with that. I am human. Sometimes I am right, sometimes I am wrong, but more importantly, who really cares? I am just another bozo on the bus, trying to get through life like everyone else. And one thing I have learned is, I can’t do this gig alone. I need help. And that phrase right there – I need help – is, I believe, the key to breaking through the icy shell of arrogance that I have constructed. I don’t have the answers.

So here I am, and here’s what I have deduced so far. Arrogance was a learned behavior just like charm was. I piled crap on top of crap hoping the sweet smell of one would offset the acrid smell of the other. 

So if you were to conclude that I am full of crap, grab a prize.

So who am I, really?

My gawd. Stay tuned. As soon as I figure that out I will let you know.

And I don’t mean that arrogantly.

Let’s Talk About Me

There was a saying in a movie – or maybe it was a comedian, not sure. He said ‘Enough about me. Let’s talk about you. What do you think of me?’

I love that phrase.

I am pretty self-centered. Much of that has to do with being single most of my adult life. Becoming a father helped to temper this, as I truly do what’s best for my son, but he lives with his mom. So when you live alone for thirty-some years., you tend to focus on what you want to do without much concern for others. Because there aren’t any others.

A year or so I wrote a story on this blog titled ‘Being Single’. It was a take on living in a big city alone, and the pangs of guilt I get when I don’t partake in all that Orlando has to offer. But it was also a personal pep talk – it was a veiled wish that I could be in a relationship with someone who I loved and cared about. Well, wouldn’t you know, a few months after writing that, I met someone. We hit it off immediately, loved spending time together, and we fell in love. Nice.

Last week we broke up. Lasted all of three months. Which brings me to another one of my favorite phrases -

A little of me goes a long way.

I don’t know if I am any more or less ‘difficult’ of a person to deal with. I got my shit, so to speak. But everyone does. One the minus side of ledger is stubborn insistence of alone time (a product of all my years beng alone), and a rather large skeleton in my closet that sometimes comes out to play. I won’t elaborate more than that, just to say that it is a factor in dealing with me. That’s about it. On the plus side is I can be very charming, friendly, easy smile, fairly intelligent. I can be your best advocate; a man in your corner, so to speak. If you’re my friend or lover, I am on your side. Always.

But I can also be overbearing, arrogant. always right. Especially that last one – I will insist that my way is the best way to do something to that, as I have found out, erodes relationships. I talk too much. I say things that I wish I could grab out of the air and stuff back into my mouth. I find myself spending a lot of time explaining what I said so as to not be misunderstood. It gets tiring – not just for me but for the people around me.

That’s why I said a little of me goes a long way. Not counting my ex-wife, the longest relationship I have had is six months. And my wife was a marathon of a year and a half. My latest one lasted three months.

Now, I could go through each of my relationships and explain the dynamic, and how this one was not right for me, that one was insecure and so on. But there is an undeniable thread though all of the relationship that didn’t work. Me. I was that common element in all of them And my track record, frankly, sucks. And further, each of my ex’s can give you whatever their reasons were for breaking up. Some of them said it was them, but I don’t buy it. It was me.

It’s always about me.