Humans. Am I Right?

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Humans.

We humans do some really strange things. Am I right?

Some of our most bizarre behavior is in the spirit of tradition. Often, no one knows why we do it. Take the Christmas tree, for example. Jesus was born in the desert, so to celebrate, we kill a tree from the genus with the defining characteristic of standing up to harsh winter weather. After adorning it with colorful lights and other eye-catching decor, we ignore it for three or four weeks while it rots in the corner, then huck it to the curb with the Hefty bags filled with remnants of our annual gluttony.

We don’t even use my favorite tree draping anymore, tinsel. I guess that’s so the county can shred our trees into mulch, then sell them back to us. Speaking of unnecessary traditions. What’s up with mulch? Is shredded dead tree prettier than nutrient-rich dirt? Is mulch a not-so-subtle threat to the trees in our yards? And some people buy painted mulch. Has it become important that our dead tree guts match the shingles? At least the mulch creates a clean line separating the garden from the grass–grass that we use thousands of gallons of a precious resource to keep alive so that we can chop it down to size weekly with our walk-behind carbon puffers. This is not a rant about climate change, it is about human dumbening. I mean, we humans do some pretty ridiculous things in the name of traditions.

Humans. Am I right?

I don’t have the balls to share my opinion about makeup. Or better said, I do have balls so I don’t think my opinion about makeup is widely anticipated. So I’ll stick to my gender. How about the necktie? We don’t even wipe the spaghetti sauce from our chins with them. In fact, fancy ties are made from the least laundry-friendly textile on earth. We proudly show off 18 useless inches of silk dangling between our shoulders while we sheepishly hide the inches dangling between our hips.

I’m no more a nudist than I am an environmentalist. But come on. This species is weird.

Humans. Am I right?

It is graduation season in America. You might be able to guess how a guy like me enjoyed hearing 700 names read on Friday night. In keeping with tradition, I screamed my fool head off when I heard my son’s name. I also screamed when I heard one of his best friend’s names. For the other 150 minutes, I fidgeted restlessly as I tuned out 698 names of people I don’t know.

I write this as sheepishly as I wear underwear. I know that some of the graduates were the first in their families to go to college. I know that military reservists and single mothers graduated. I know I am a selfish curmudgeon. But graduation gowns and stupid hats with dangling inches and the same song played at background volume for two-and-a-half hours? Come on.

Humans. Am I right?

I saw a friend at the ceremony. He isn’t a close friend. More of an acquaintance. But I hadn’t seen him since I heard he got sober, so I eagerly waved him down as he was walking by our section. When he sprawled over two rows of seats pressing body parts into the faces of unsuspecting bystanders so he could give me a sweaty hug, then shouted his son’s name and gave a double-barrel middle-finger salute, I had a sneaking suspicion that his sobriety might not have stuck.

He told us that his wife had already left and that he hoped his son would let him crash on his couch for the night. He fluctuated back and forth between telling me he can’t hang with 20 somethings anymore, and that he planned to stay up all night drinking. He spent a good chunk of the 150 minutes asking me my son’s major, and what he’s doing after graduation. Shocker. His talker worked better than his listeners.

Alcohol makes less sense than the Christmas tree. We intentionally drink a toxin that makes us sound stupid at a ceremony of celebration for higher education.

Humans. Am I right?

Graduation season also brought me together with three families I don’t see much anymore. They were celebrating high school graduations. All three families looked great–calm and stable and smiling and on-track–if such a thing really exists.

One of the three families had experienced the tragic death of a baby–the sister of the graduate we were celebrating. Another family was proudly celebrating the graduation of their youngest child who experienced seizures when she was young–seizures that had a significant impact on her cognitive function. The third family suffered through the death-by-suicide of the mother when the kids were elementary-school aged. Tragedy. True pain and trauma. And yet, all three families had overcome, bonded together, and were moving forward. Healthy. Smiling. Exuding empathy and love for the unknown struggles of those around them.

Humans. Am I right?

Alcoholism Recovery Author, Laura McKowen, titled her first book, We Are The Luckiest. She’s right, you know. No one gets through this life unscathed. By comparison, alcoholism feels like a lucky short straw to draw. As Charles Swindoll said, “Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it.” Chuck is right, too.

Alcoholism. It destroys families. A disease itself, alcohol addiction causes or exacerbates countless other biological and neurological ailments with deadly consequences. It impacts tens of millions of families in our country alone, and the annual global negative economic impact is in the trillions of dollars.

And yet, it is a disease with a cure. Those of us who put the shovel down before we dig our grave, cause permanent organ damage, or kill others, we can make a full comeback. We are the luckiest.

The three families I spent some graduation time with this weekend, they have gone through some shit, too. But the baby isn’t coming back. The mother isn’t coming back. The daughter’s brain function isn’t coming back.

I am the luckiest. I got to experience boredom listening to 698 names I didn’t know and don’t care about.

What a blessing. What a human blessing.

Sometimes I lament what I’ve been through. Often, I feel shame for the struggles I’ve created for my family. I love to write, but why do I have to write about this? Why does this have to be my thing?

Perspective is a bitch. Perspective reminds me that my thing isn’t really all that bad of a thing. I celebrated a graduation this past weekend with my mostly happy, completely intact, quietly brilliant family. We suffered through my alcoholism, but considering the alternatives, we don’t have a thing about which to complain.

But human complaining is a tradition as sacred as the Christmas tree. Sarcasm is like oxygen to me, so a life without complaint feels as useful as 18 silky inches dangling between my shoulders. I can’t stop complaining. But I promise to try, at least for a while, to complain while keenly aware of how ridiculous my complaints sound to people with real problems. Aware, but unfazed by my lack of respect for perspective. For me, and many, many other annoying people, complaining is a life-long tradition.

Humans. Am I right?

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