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Is having enough about getting more or needing less?
I was at a casual lunch meeting with six people and two eight-slice pizzas. I ate one slice of pepperoni and one slice of margherita. I was still hungry, and the pizza was really delicious, but you could not have force-fed me a third slice.
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It has been going on since the beginning of humanity. Why am I surprised?
I have been undergoing a psychological transformation for the past couple of weeks. I have always heard that the horrors of war are too much for the human brain to process, and that PTSD and the elevated addiction and suicide rates of veterans are the predictable results. The contents of the Epstein files released on January 30th are too horrific, too shocking, for my human brain. I am not an empath. I work in the field of emotional abuse. I have aced grad school classes in sexual assault that required a lot of case-study critical analysis.
And yet, I was not remotely prepared for this.
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I touched her shoulder and her back a lot. My connection to her, and our comfort with each other, was evident to anyone who cared to pay attention to us in the crowded bar. Her husband definitely noticed. We had recently traveled together, she and I, and her husband’s mind was swirling with anger, jealousy, and questions.
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My daughter’s hands get cold. Not like normal cold. Really cold. They turn a splotchy blue and white, which is visually concerning as a parent. It has to be some kind of circulatory thing.
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I turned off facebook notifications because every time I put my phone in my pocket, it would ding about ten seconds later. Without fail, the ding was a facebook notification. Like a dog who sticks his nose in your crotch when you stop petting him, facebook demands attention and isn’t interested in the other things you have going on. We all know that we see ads for things we converse about within our phone’s earshot. We know that the intricacy of the techno-web designed to paralyze us while their venom finds its way to our bloodstream is vast beyond our capacity for conceptualization. But this particular tactic is particularly despicable to me. It is evil incarnate. Are you engaging in direct, face-to-face human interaction? Fuck you! DING! Pet me with your eyeballs.
***
I drank vodka and watched television news like it was my job in the days that followed September 11, 2001. Airplanes crashed into buildings. Nothing resembling that fresh horror had ever happened. Not in my lifetime. Not ever. America was angry, America was shocked, and America mourned the loss of our fellow citizens.
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When the gifts are purchased and wrapped, the dinner is planned, the tree is trimmed, and the cookies are baked, I might grind the gears a little as I down shift out of my hussle-culture existence, but I can get slowed down into holiday mode. Now, in the week between, I’ve got to check my own pulse to make sure I’m alive.
As a drinker, and in early sobriety, I sought an elusive perfection in the holiday season, and always started the new year disappointed. Now I seek peace and contentment, friendship and family. I’ve surrounded myself with people I love this past week. I want to carry this warm feeling with me as I shift back up through the gears into business as usual. Business as usual, but with a lingering feeling of love, and a foundational knowledge that I’m blessed and everything will be OK.
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Jack Christopolis was one of my best friends growing up. When I was invited to dinner at his house, his mom made typical midwestern fair for Jack and his brothers, his dad, and me. From meatloaf and mashed potatoes to roasted chicken with carrots and onions, eating at Jack’s house was a lot like eating at home. With one exception. Jack had a very narrow flavor palate, and refused to eat his own mother’s cooking. She made him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich almost every time I had dinner with Jack’s family. At my house, the options were limited to eating what was lovingly prepared for me, or starving until breakfast when I could eat last night’s dinner cold.
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“I wish my partner would die.”
The gruesome, shameful desire uttered faintly through hopeless lips, the unexpected authenticity of an exhausted heart. She looked up slowly, terrified to see the reactions of the people to whom she had gifted her trust, afraid that her new admission had crossed the line of relatability to something unthinkable.
She saw nodding heads. Lots of nodding heads.
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I finally found a use for AI. If I am trying to find a way to reach a semi-famous person to invite them on our podcast or to initiate an exchange of ideas around their area of expertise, the default AI thing at the top of Google search will sometimes scrape the interwebs and come up with an email back door for me. I don’t ask ChatGTP questions. I don’t use AI platforms to write for me. I don’t trust AI search results and always click on the source material. I don’t think I am a grumpy old man who is in denial of progress and our human destiny, but then again, would I recognize it if I was?
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Boathouse shindigs are my kind of parties. Years ago, we were at a barbeque in someone’s backyard when one of the children of the host fell going up their deck stairs and needed stitches. The hosts both left with their child, and the rest of the party goers pulled together to put away the food and clean up the party. While picking up cups and dishes, I knocked a full glass of red wine left on the fireplace hearth onto their white living room carpet. That experience is why I’ve always appreciated cleanup at the boathouse. It is more of a covered patio. It is elevated with a walk-in basement below, but the party area is a concrete slab with a roof overhead–perfect for spring and autumn nights. And also, perfect for cleanup. A pushbroom, and snow shovel for a dustpan, and maybe some spot mopping, and the renter gets their security deposit back.
At a recent church event hosted at the boathouse, I was hanging around waiting for cleanup to start. My wife, Sheri, works at the church, and as is the case with most nonprofit organizations that depend on volunteer labor, the spouses of the employees were voluntold to help clean up. Just like I witnessed the bizarre behavior of the teens when the boathouse was used for homecoming, I leaned against the boathouse wall and watched a peculiar ritual of young adulthood with which I was painfully familiar. The twenty and thirty somethings were well lubricated, and the alcohol gave me a glimpse of how the reserved professionals and parents behaved when they dropped their shields of decorum. Listen, nothing debaucherous took place at the boathouse, much to my disappointment. If people are going to let loose and compile regrets for the morning, I want to see something worthy of my penchant for storytelling. I was left disappointed in that regard.