*Underlying Issues Series
Merry Christmas!
I don’t say that as a political statement, or because I am ignorant to our melting pot’s religious and cultural diversity. I say it because I love Christmas, and because I am selfish. Since I spend something like 98% of my time thinking about me, and I am typing within ten feet of a Christmas tree, I have Christmas on my mind. So, Merry Christmas!
I might be getting fired.
I’ve never been fired before. Now that the likelihood looms, I actually feel guilty that I have made it 51 years without doing anything important enough to threaten the narrow minded among us.
***
My first job was scooping ice cream one town over from where I lived in high school. I was eventually promoted to ice cream maker, and it was probably the best job I’ve ever had. I ate unlimited ice cream and made my own hours with one guiding responsibility: never let the freezers run out of any of the flavors. I tried to stir the thick, sweet rum syrup for the rum raisin ice cream into cups of fountain Coca-Cola. It tasted like shit, and I had to slurp it more than drink it, but it gave me the naughty little kick teenagers brag about to their classmates. I left that job to work at Sam Goody, a music store selling CDs and tapes. Even though I had to wear a tie and work in the mall, music was way cooler than ice cream for a high schooler. Drudgery quickly replaced coolness as I was tasked with alphabetizing all day, everyday. Put out the new shipments, restock returned CDs and tapes and fix the disorder created by careless shoppers who clearly didn’t know their ABCs. That job sucked, and it made me feel like a criminal when the manager patted me down after every shift, or even when I went to the food court for a Wetzel’s Pretzel.
It seems that gone are the days of trying to hide public consumption and intoxication. Along with my family and some friends, I attended an annual Halloween parade on Saturday evening, and the one thing that no one was trying to disguise was their fearless use of alcohol and other drugs. I used to at least pour my drinks into a travel coffee mug when in public, but any shame, or even just discretion, seems to have worked its way out of the culture.
The culture I inserted myself into Saturday evening, that is. The parade was on Broadway in Denver – a street with a long history of prosperity before it rolled over to show its underbelly. But Broadway is trying to make a resurgence. It is an eclectic blend of liquor stores, bars with live music, tattoo parlors, marijuana dispensaries, thrift stores and restaurants – some of which are just a single notch too upscale, trying to pull the neighborhood to the next social level. At the parade, we were perched between a sex accessories store across the street, and a vape shop behind us that was selling hot dogs cooked on the sidewalk on a portable propane grill. Given our surroundings, it seemed that if the Broadway regulars weren’t drinking with discretion, I was the one out of place, not them.
When Harry Met Sally is an iconic movie with a star-studded cast, and is arguably the best flick from the classic era of late 20th century rom-coms. But it is not best known for the romance, or even the comedy.
It is best known for the orgasm scene.
I know your secret.
At least, I know that it is one of a handful of possibilities that my wife and I have either lived through ourselves, or witnessed dozens (maybe hundreds) of time with others.
I can all but guarantee that your worst fear would never come true. They aren’t going to shame you or reject you or fire you or turn their backs on you.
When it comes to sex, my wife, Sheri, could dump a bucket of ice down my pants, and I’d still be ready to go.
I despise ambiguity and hidden meanings, and there is no room in this message for subtlety. So rather than bury the lead, let’s get right after it.
I experience spontaneous arousal. I can be changing the filter on our furnace while listening to a recording of a gospel choir singing “Amazing Grace,” and if the wind shifts out of the northwest in my basement, I am turned on. I don’t really listen to gospel music (I’m more of a Broadway show tunes kind of guy), and the last time I checked, our basement is almost entirely wind free. But that’s not the point. The point is that I don’t have to be doing something sexy to be ready for sexy time.
I’m afraid of losing what I’ve worked so hard to build. I’m afraid there won’t be enough…enough readers, enough listeners, enough participants, enough interest, enough connection, enough resonation, enough money.
My ability to sleep through the night, and the degree to which I am pleasant to be around during the day, both depend on how I am managing my fears. Just like addiction isn’t a yes or no question, but rather addiction exists on a continuum, my fear is on a spectrum as well. Sometimes my fear is in check, and I feel peaceful and content. Sometimes my fear is temporarily nonexistent, and I am joyful and exuberant. Other times, my fear is woven through my thoughts leading my mind to race with fixation and rumination. Occasionally, my fear is completely out-of-control and I am debilitated and consumed.
I remember when I thought it was enough to not be a racist. But then 2016 happened and Charlottesville and dog whistles and, “…stand back and stand by,” and the cockroaches all emerged from the sewers. That’s when I learned that racism is still quite a bit more of a problem than I naively thought, and it isn’t enough that I, myself, am not a racist. It isn’t enough that all lives matter. I learned to be anti-racist. I learned that while we have made vast, undeniable progress in the past 60 years, we have much further to go than I previously realized. I learned that it is not enough to not be the problem. I needed to be part of the solution.
That introductory paragraph is not meant to stir the political pot in an election year, although, let me be clear: If you are a white supremacist, or if you are concerned about the demographic certainty that white people will soon not be in the majority in the United States, you can fuck right off and unsubscribe from our blog and podcast (I hate ambiguity, don’t you?). Michael Jordan once famously explained that he doesn’t engage in political commentary because both Republicans and Democrats buy sneakers. I have no such business-motivated neutrality. My wife and I don’t get all authentic and vulnerable to help cockroaches.
Perhaps the worst prevailing relationship advice is that women in committed romantic partnerships should feel compelled to have sex with their partners, whether they want to or not. Let me say this in no uncertain terms:
It doesn’t matter if she is giving him sex because she is told it is her duty by the church, their couples counselor, societal messaging, some study in a magazine, endless cinematic rom-coms, some call-in radio psychologist, cultural arranged marriage practices, the family court system, or even her own mom. Consenting to unwanted sex is the absolute enemy of trust building, and it is toxic to the very connection we seek in pursuing sex in the first place.
You might be easily convinced that obligatory sex isn’t fulfilling for the woman who feels obliged. But here’s the counterintuitive part: Obligatory sex is even worse, in the long run, for the person who is asking for it.
One of the worst days of our marriage, for both Sheri and me, was July 14, 2021. Since we are a couple who experienced my active alcoholism for 25 years, you might be surprised to learn I was four-and-a-half years sober on that traumatic day. Even without alcohol, Sheri and I make occasional trips back into the pit of hell with emotional relationship relapses.
Relationship relapses often spin out of control as both partners revert to deflection, manipulation, overreaction and self-protection – all skills learned during active addiction. But before we pull out the old tools of dysfunction, there has to be a spark. An impetus. A new or refreshed wound around which the spiraling decline can revolve.