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Accumulation

Alcoholism, Recovery By Matt Salis, MPS 10 Comments

Accumulation

Audio version now available.

 

I listened to a podcast interview of Anne Applebaum, a journalist and historian who has been, for the past 35 years, studying and writing about how budding aristocracies grab power and, eventually, destroy economies. I learned a lot and found the interview both fascinating and terrifying. But I missed some of what she said because I was distracted. I was distracted pondering the fact that I don’t have 35 years.

 

I study and write about intimacy and addiction. In 35 years I’ll be in my late 80s, and no one wants to read about sex from a person approaching the century mark, although Betty White cracked sex jokes all the way to the end. But I’ll be an old man, not an old woman, so where she sounded spunky and vibrant, I’ll just sound creepy and perverted.

 

The clarity of permanent sobriety is mostly a good thing. But the clarity brings with it a growing sense of lost potential. Like what if I started my half-century quest for knowledge in my 30s instead of my mid 40s?

Momentum

Alcoholism, Recovery By Matt Salis, MPS 8 Comments

Momentum

Audio version now available.

 

If I parallel park my manual transmission Jeep on a hill, I turn the wheel so that one of the front tires is digging into the curb. I was taught this maneuver as a teenager so that if the parking brake fails, and it pops out of first gear, the curb will keep the vehicle from rolling down the hill.

 

If I don’t turn the wheel, and in the unlikely event that both the parking brake and transmission fail and the Jeep starts rolling, five miles per hour is plenty of speed to send the vehicle careening over the same curb, doing thousands of dollars of damage and potentially injuring or killing someone.

 

My Jeep weighs two tons. Stationary, the curb is strong enough to hold it. With just a little momentum, however, the curb is no match.

 

I often find myself in an “inspiration” loop in a social media algorithm. I have recently heard Tom Brady, Jerry Seinfeld, Kobe Bryant, Warren Buffett and Roger Federer independently deliver the exact same message about momentum. Success is not derived from talent. It is derived from commitment, persistence, dedication and hard work. These legends in their fields aren’t better than their competition. They are just better at maintaining momentum.

Numbers

Underlying Issues Series By Matt Salis, MPS 6 Comments

Numbers

Audio version now available.

 

I went for a walk in socks and sandals.

 

I remember when I used to see old men in socks and sandals, and think how sad that was. How sad that they were oblivious to the unfashionableness of their choice of footwear.

 

It was an epiphany for me to realize that old men do know how unfashionable socks are with sandals. They just don’t give a shit what people think about them. Wow, I thought. They aren’t oblivious, they’re ambivalent. And ambivalence is a powerful indicator of self-actualization.

For the Love of Bubbles and Bacon

Curiosity, God By Matt Salis, MPS 8 Comments

For the Love of Bubbles and Bacon

I grew up in the Greek Orthodox tradition where the priests circulated through the pews puffing clouds of incense smoke at the parishioners. In some denominations, religious leaders sprinkle holy water indiscriminately on the attendees. On Easter Sunday, our minister walked slowly down the center aisle floating bubbles from her bubble wand over the heads of the people sitting near the middle of our packed church. Bubbles are not quite as intense or meaning-laden as smoke or water. I liked it. It felt springy and fun.

 

While blowing bubbles, she asked us to shout out things we like. “Easter!” yelled a kid from the back, surely still thinking about the bounty the bunny left him. “Family.” “Flowers.” “Music.” The people played along and gave her the kinds of answers she was looking for.

 

I was standing in the back corner of the church after moving some additional chairs into useful positions (as the husband of the children’s minister, I am voluntold into duty on big Sundays). Standing next to me was a young girl, maybe a third or fourth grader. I recognized her, but I couldn’t remember her name. I leaned down and asked her if she usually watches church from the back corner, alone and away from her family. She nodded her head in a way that convinced me that she was both OK, and also not receptive to further inquiry. When Reverend Sandi asked the congregation to shout out things they liked, the little girl said quietly, “Bacon.” Bacon indeed. Who doesn’t like bacon? Bacon is probably the single leading cause of vegetarian relapse. It was a shame she didn’t say it louder as I am sure her interjection would have brought many nods of approval. “Oh yes, bacon. Did I say family? I meant bacon.” Alas, I was the only one who learned of her passion for smoked pork belly. Easter is the holiday of passion, so I found it quite appropriate.

Selling Out

Alcoholism, Family, Recovery By Matt Salis, MPS 10 Comments

Selling Out

When Sheri saw the “For Sale” sign in our front yard as we pulled into the driveway on Saturday afternoon, it choked her up. We’ve been working so hard to get ready for this, but preparation doesn’t dismiss the emotions when they come. I took a video of our house – this inanimate object, this material possession – when it was painted and staged and as clean as it has ever been, and I was surprised to have to fight back tears as I narrated the ways we used each room over the past twenty years.

Hug, Act II

Underlying Issues Series By Matt Salis, MPS No Comments

Hugs, Act II

I like hugs. I am not very good at the bro dap half hug, half handshake thing. I always mess up the hand part. But I nail the hug. I have long since shed any stigmatized reluctance to hug other dudes. If I like you and I trust you, you will know it, because I will hug you. Big smile, verbal greeting at a volume too loud, arms open, comin’ in hot.

March without the Madness

Alcoholism, Recovery By Matt Salis, MPS No Comments

March without the Madness

I’m not quite the lunatic I used to be. And nothing used to bring out the crazy like the aptly named March Madness basketball tournament.

 

In four years at Indiana University, I never missed a home game, and knew exactly where to stand above the tunnel to touch Bobby Knight’s shoulder as the team came back out after halftime. Creepy much? Knight received technical fouls for throwing things on the court twice. I don’t know where the chair is, but the program he threw against Boston University on December 13, 1991 is framed in my basement. So when I attended a bachelor party weekend in Las Vegas half-a-dozen years later, confident that I knew more about college basketball than the odds makers, my lunacy kept me placing double-or-nothing bets, just trying to get back to even, until the only thing left on which to wager was a West Coast NBA game. I took the under and felt vindicated until I realized that the sufficiently low score was tied, and the game was going into overtime. Meanwhile, my fiance, Sheri, was perplexed as her debit card was declined when she tried to rent a movie at Blockbuster. I proceeded to get so drunk that I was kicked out of a dance club that night. Twice (I’m not sure how I got back in for round two of drunken belligerence). I woke up the next morning in the hotel room I shared with eight guys, lying in a puddle of my own puke. (Should that be lay or lie? Given the vulgarity of the rest of the sentence, I am not sure it matters.) Later that day, I told Sheri about the $1,200 I lost amidst a crowd at the O’Hare Airport. I thought it less likely that she’d kill me in front of all those people.

Evolution Series: You’re Right, I Am the One Who Changed

Alcoholism, Evolution Series By Kelly 3 Comments

You're Right, I Am the One Who Changed

It’s true. I have changed, and I do remember how much fun it was.

 

I remember college, flooding the doorway of Bullfeathers with friends, my fake ID and phony confidence persuading the bouncer that my blue eyes really are brown, just for tonight.

 

We’d dance, laugh, maybe kiss a boy and then head home – well, those of us not going back with a boy. There’d be late-night pizza and late-morning snoozing before loading up the backpack to hit the stacks and study ourselves silly.

 

I remember the nights with you in Paul’s Club, the tree in that bar, the antique velvet couches and moody lighting. We’d share a pitcher seated criminally close, constantly in conversation with locked eyes and wandering hands that eventually led us back to my apartment. The drinks only added an element of magic, a surreal film over the evening. I loved those nights and those mornings.