There are times in a man’s life when he starts feeling his oats. Well – in my case - my bran. One can only withstand so much tyranny and bullying. Each of us reaches that point where we yearn to stand on our own and face the world unaided. It is that calling that sets our sex apart. In my case it was living under the heavy hand of the fashion nazi. Did I say "the heavy hand of the fashion nazi?" Pardon, I meant to say "under the loving guidance of my beloved wife." Previously, I have expounded on the guidance that she exerts on my daily wardrobe.
I feel I am misunderstood when I say I have no fashion sense. It is not that my sense is poor. It just doesn’t exist. I have always gone by three simple rules.
1) Is it comfortable
2) Does it cover the naughty parts
3) Is it clean
Colours, textures and such are just not important. But because I was feeling my bran I decided to focus my intellect and learn to fend for myself. It would be a very gracious gesture on my part to consider other peoples sensibilities even if those sentiments are trite.
My dearest went coastal in that she travelled to Vancouver to see the offspring. This serendipitous event offered an excellent opportunity to take the helm of my own clothing fate. By the time she returns I will be a master.
The first morning consisted of unsure steps. Several self imposed changes were finally rewarded with a satisfied look in the dresser mirror. Full of pride I journeyed to work to coyly exhibit my new skills.
“Where did your wife go?” I was asked as I entered the administration area.
“Whaaaa…?” I cleverly replied.
“Doesn’t look like she dressed you this morning” came the piercing reply.
Hmmmm. This was going to be harder than I expected. I will persevere!
The next morning was a glorious warm day. I sorted through the shorts drawer to make my choice. Ahhh…. This was the pair! They were khaki with loads of pockets. My wife’s in-my-head voice cautioned me that they were a little passé due to the length of the leg. Granted they were a full six inches above the knee. They were still a full 6 inches longer then Magnum P.I.’s shorts. I have never heard my wife complain about Tom Selleck’s shorts so was her past prohibition that strong?
Then I had the brain storm. I could beat two bushes with the same bird. I donned a t-shirt and then wiggled the shorts half way down my butt. The short leg was now in the vicinity of the knee and I had the low rider look that must be too cool as I have seen several young lads sporting the same effect.
Approaching work I was very confident that my new inspiration would be well received. I went about my work but made a deliberate point to find something that needed attention in the administration area to test my haberdasheristic wizardry upon the 5 or 6 women that occupied this space.
It was a little awkward carrying the ladder with the geisha-walk that my genius had imposed on me. However, I got the ladder in place and gingerly scaled the ladder to adjust a cable in the ceiling. My downfall was not bringing a longer ladder as I was forced to stretch a little farther than anticipated. My t-shirt rode up my frame exposing what had been previously hidden. I now realized that I had broken all three of my own rules, the third only because the screaming caught me by surprise.
I have already had a couple sessions of sensitivity training and the female staff are rotating through some other form of counselling. I spent the last work day of the week in exile at home too terrified to leave the house. I will be ok though as my beloved will be home in a couple of days and hopefully things will return to normal.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
The Monk in me
My wife and I are not rabid fans. But anytime serendipity blesses us with a moment with nothing pressing ....we love to curl up together on our couch and watch an episode of Monk. (In the interest of full disclosure, together means on opposite ends of our U-shaped sectional, my spouse in her Lazyboy recliner and I in my Lazierboy recliner.)
Monk is an award winning TV serial that follows the adventures of a very troubled private detective. The main character, Adrian Monk, is fraught with a myriad of neuroses which includes compulsive disorder, claustrophobia, spermatophobia, acrophobia, gymnophobia. I shall not expound any further as a complete recounting would be exhausting. Despite these mental roadblocks Monk uses his extraordinary brilliance to solve case after case all in a very humorous manner.
Now, you may think it is politically incorrect to derive mirth from someone else’s affliction. However, all the disorders that are so exaggerated in Adrian Monk exist in a smaller degree in all of us. When we laugh, we are laughing at ourselves. When I find myself exhibiting a more subdued trait so outlandish in the Monk character, I simply state, “It’s the Monk in me.”
As an example, I have been walking every noon hour to where I lunch. Last summer, this trek would take about 20 minutes to complete. Now I can do the walk in almost 15 minutes. I know. I know. You think I am getting in better shape. Hopefully, I am. The real reason that I have improved my walking time is because my Mother passed away in September. Huh? It turns out that I no longer have to maintain a slowing cadence to avoid the cracks in the sidewalks as I march along the city streets. My Mother’s back is no longer a concern and I can now make my promenade at top speed. It’s the Monk in me.
A crooked picture, a phone number lacking symmetry, mashed potatoes invading the space of the roast beef all generate a mild annoyance in many of us. In Mr. Monk, these same irritations elicit an obsession to correct. This leads to bizarre behaviour and the side tracking of any other current activity. I no longer rue my inability to write, print or draw with any precision. Not to do so would have doomed me to 30 years of elementary school. Mr. Monk on the other hand has not got past this hurdle and he is plagued by his lack of perfection.
Hmmm. I guess we are all able to function in life by accepting less than perfection in ourselves and in the world around us. We settle for less and we lower the bar all in the name of survival.
Blessed are we that can attain the proverbial wisdom to differentiate between that which we can change and that which we cannot. I wasn’t going to post this little missive as I felt it didn’t meet some self-delusional standard. However, I overcame the Monk in me.
Monk is an award winning TV serial that follows the adventures of a very troubled private detective. The main character, Adrian Monk, is fraught with a myriad of neuroses which includes compulsive disorder, claustrophobia, spermatophobia, acrophobia, gymnophobia. I shall not expound any further as a complete recounting would be exhausting. Despite these mental roadblocks Monk uses his extraordinary brilliance to solve case after case all in a very humorous manner.
Now, you may think it is politically incorrect to derive mirth from someone else’s affliction. However, all the disorders that are so exaggerated in Adrian Monk exist in a smaller degree in all of us. When we laugh, we are laughing at ourselves. When I find myself exhibiting a more subdued trait so outlandish in the Monk character, I simply state, “It’s the Monk in me.”
As an example, I have been walking every noon hour to where I lunch. Last summer, this trek would take about 20 minutes to complete. Now I can do the walk in almost 15 minutes. I know. I know. You think I am getting in better shape. Hopefully, I am. The real reason that I have improved my walking time is because my Mother passed away in September. Huh? It turns out that I no longer have to maintain a slowing cadence to avoid the cracks in the sidewalks as I march along the city streets. My Mother’s back is no longer a concern and I can now make my promenade at top speed. It’s the Monk in me.
A crooked picture, a phone number lacking symmetry, mashed potatoes invading the space of the roast beef all generate a mild annoyance in many of us. In Mr. Monk, these same irritations elicit an obsession to correct. This leads to bizarre behaviour and the side tracking of any other current activity. I no longer rue my inability to write, print or draw with any precision. Not to do so would have doomed me to 30 years of elementary school. Mr. Monk on the other hand has not got past this hurdle and he is plagued by his lack of perfection.
Hmmm. I guess we are all able to function in life by accepting less than perfection in ourselves and in the world around us. We settle for less and we lower the bar all in the name of survival.
Blessed are we that can attain the proverbial wisdom to differentiate between that which we can change and that which we cannot. I wasn’t going to post this little missive as I felt it didn’t meet some self-delusional standard. However, I overcame the Monk in me.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Sense and Sensitivity
In making an assessment of the insensitivities of a man in dealing with the fairer sex, it is possible to interpret that measure in two different ways. Firstly, and I deem this to be rare (if not impossible), is that the man is totally cognizant of social moors and behaves boorish anyway. In defending my sex, I postulate the second case to be more prevalent. It is a case where the man’s awareness of the situation is non-existent and the nuances of social graces are beyond his grasp. The former exhibits a flawed character and is far more serious than the latter. As men we wish this trait to be viewed as comically charming and most importantly, forgivable. Happily, from a woman’s perspective, the latter trait can be mollified and controlled by a good husband-whisperer.
My life partner and I car-pooled to work and I kept the car. When I entered my office I noted that the red message light on my phone was flashing feverously. I dialed the access code and was informed that I had three messages waiting. So many calls at the start of a shift sent my college computer tech reflexes aquiver. I immediately assumed that trouble was brewing and I readied myself for action. However, the first message was from my beloved. Her panicked voice immediately brought forth my defensive instincts. “Call me” she pleaded.
What has caused her such alarm!! Dread and anger welled up inside of me. Before I could respond the second message started to play. “Where are you, your cell phone isn’t on, please call me!!” her voice commanded. The desperateness in her voice spewed another gallon of ‘fight or flight’ hormones into my bloodstream. The third message wailed “Why won’t you call me!! Did I leave my purse in the car? Can you check? Can you hide it in the trunk if it is there?”
“Oh brother” I muttered to myself. “Is that all? Take some valium!” I went out to the vehicle, located the purse and ensconced it out of view. I went back to my office and e-mailed her that her purse was out of sight, in a locked car, sitting in a parking lot with full video surveillance.
A half hour later I received a call on my now powered up cell phone. “Where have you been?” the shrillness of her voice now dumped ‘Good Grief’ hormones into my body causing me smirk wryly and lift my eyes to the ceiling.
I will protect the reader from vicarious hormone dumps that the sound of a woman in peril can bring by describing only one side of the conversation. “Yes dear…… I e-mailed you…….. It is very safe ………I know ….. Don’t worry…….Calm down …… Don’t freak out……. I will bring it to you at lunch”
“Ah” I think “Men are soooo much more in control”
I arrived at Wendy’s for our luncheon. As I left the car I threw the purse strap over my shoulder and ambled towards the entrance. The female half of an older couple leaving the restaurant simultaneously gave her husband an elbow shot to the ribs and a head nod towards me. She then started bobbing her arm up and down with an obvious limp wrist action. Although, I like to think that I am secure in my manhood I removed the strap from my shoulder and now clutched the purse in as rough and as masculine a manner as I can manage.
I am first to have arrived and got in line to order our meal. The lineup was slow and I nervously derailed strange looks by quipping that I am a purse snatcher and laughing. This just made me feel more awkward so I lowered my head to avoid eye contact and stared at the purse which I am cradling in front of me with both hands. It is at this point that the fog of male insensitivity began to clear from my head. I saw her cell phone poking up from its little nook. Her keys to her office peer from another. I know her electronic daytimer is also nestled inside amongst a plethora of personal care items. Her wallet with all her credit cards, all her discount cards! “Oh my gosh” I exclaimed as it all comes into focus. “Her entire life is in this bag!” I am immediately reminded that these small vessels carry almost the entire contents of a pharmacy and a hardware store as well. Many a man has been in awe as a woman’s desperate search for some item has necessitated the emptying of a purse. So much from so little! The volume of objects drawn forth defies physics. There is magic afoot. Then the stellar realization struck my testosterone impaired brain. The welfare of western civilization relies on the purses of the nations. I hold the small handbag tighter.
I am well buried in the lineup when the love of my life arrives. Although she was smiling and she was trying to look as composed as possible, she crashed through the lineup of people brush like a mother bear getting to her cub. There was a slight tug-o-war before I relent and released my hold. The haunted strain that betrayed her fright evaporated from her eyes and an aura of calm encircled her visage.
“Can you order a BLT salad for me, dear? She asks sweetly, “I will find a table for us.” Things are back to normal and we are safe.
My life partner and I car-pooled to work and I kept the car. When I entered my office I noted that the red message light on my phone was flashing feverously. I dialed the access code and was informed that I had three messages waiting. So many calls at the start of a shift sent my college computer tech reflexes aquiver. I immediately assumed that trouble was brewing and I readied myself for action. However, the first message was from my beloved. Her panicked voice immediately brought forth my defensive instincts. “Call me” she pleaded.
What has caused her such alarm!! Dread and anger welled up inside of me. Before I could respond the second message started to play. “Where are you, your cell phone isn’t on, please call me!!” her voice commanded. The desperateness in her voice spewed another gallon of ‘fight or flight’ hormones into my bloodstream. The third message wailed “Why won’t you call me!! Did I leave my purse in the car? Can you check? Can you hide it in the trunk if it is there?”
“Oh brother” I muttered to myself. “Is that all? Take some valium!” I went out to the vehicle, located the purse and ensconced it out of view. I went back to my office and e-mailed her that her purse was out of sight, in a locked car, sitting in a parking lot with full video surveillance.
A half hour later I received a call on my now powered up cell phone. “Where have you been?” the shrillness of her voice now dumped ‘Good Grief’ hormones into my body causing me smirk wryly and lift my eyes to the ceiling.
I will protect the reader from vicarious hormone dumps that the sound of a woman in peril can bring by describing only one side of the conversation. “Yes dear…… I e-mailed you…….. It is very safe ………I know ….. Don’t worry…….Calm down …… Don’t freak out……. I will bring it to you at lunch”
“Ah” I think “Men are soooo much more in control”
I arrived at Wendy’s for our luncheon. As I left the car I threw the purse strap over my shoulder and ambled towards the entrance. The female half of an older couple leaving the restaurant simultaneously gave her husband an elbow shot to the ribs and a head nod towards me. She then started bobbing her arm up and down with an obvious limp wrist action. Although, I like to think that I am secure in my manhood I removed the strap from my shoulder and now clutched the purse in as rough and as masculine a manner as I can manage.
I am first to have arrived and got in line to order our meal. The lineup was slow and I nervously derailed strange looks by quipping that I am a purse snatcher and laughing. This just made me feel more awkward so I lowered my head to avoid eye contact and stared at the purse which I am cradling in front of me with both hands. It is at this point that the fog of male insensitivity began to clear from my head. I saw her cell phone poking up from its little nook. Her keys to her office peer from another. I know her electronic daytimer is also nestled inside amongst a plethora of personal care items. Her wallet with all her credit cards, all her discount cards! “Oh my gosh” I exclaimed as it all comes into focus. “Her entire life is in this bag!” I am immediately reminded that these small vessels carry almost the entire contents of a pharmacy and a hardware store as well. Many a man has been in awe as a woman’s desperate search for some item has necessitated the emptying of a purse. So much from so little! The volume of objects drawn forth defies physics. There is magic afoot. Then the stellar realization struck my testosterone impaired brain. The welfare of western civilization relies on the purses of the nations. I hold the small handbag tighter.
I am well buried in the lineup when the love of my life arrives. Although she was smiling and she was trying to look as composed as possible, she crashed through the lineup of people brush like a mother bear getting to her cub. There was a slight tug-o-war before I relent and released my hold. The haunted strain that betrayed her fright evaporated from her eyes and an aura of calm encircled her visage.
“Can you order a BLT salad for me, dear? She asks sweetly, “I will find a table for us.” Things are back to normal and we are safe.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Wrecked Him? Darn near killed him!
Modesty or more so, good judgment should have prevented me from relating the following tale. However, should my bold retelling of this incident encourage another man to pursue a new road to better health, it shall have been worth the humiliation.
Some have hinted in the past that I am prone to hypochondria. Obvious symptoms of some horrible disease would impel me to see the doctor and then most often I would be chastised for my paranoia and sent packing. Happily, I have been improving. Sadly, not because these panicked trips to the doctor are less frequent, but that as I age my self-diagnoses are more often correct.
Also, as I age the conversations around the water cooler and in the coffee clutches seem to have taken on two distinct themes. The first theme is desperately morose. “Yes, it was just a ‘routine examination’. He went into surgery right away and once they opened him up they just sewed him back up. People need to get checked.” The second theme is brightened with hope. “Yes, if he hadn’t had that ‘routine examination’, they would never have caught it in time. Boy, is he ever lucky.” These legendary events danced in my head for a few weeks before I summoned up the courage to go see the doctor for the ‘routine examination’.
These ‘routine examinations’ are euphemisms for a violation of the inner sanctums of ones being. In my case, I had gone out of my way for 18 years to avoid such a confrontation. In fact my former doctor of all those years seemed as reluctant as I and we never did initiate such unpleasantries. Somewhere, in my hazy past was a dim recollection of an encounter with a substitute doctor but psychic defenses had buried the recollections so deep I couldn’t tell if they were real or just phantom memories.
Sometimes procrastination makes things worse. This is the thought I had when my new doctor entered the room. He stands a full head above me, a giant of a man, and as is custom in greeting me, he envelops my hand in his. His hands, his fingers are huge. I grow a wee faint.
People that know me may notice that I am not wont to use profanity. Expression of the vulgar has been exhausted in misspent adolescent humour. Also I desire to protect people with delicate dispositions that may stray upon these pages. As such, I will rely on the literary devices of metaphor and simile to describe what transpired next.
The time for the ‘routine examination’ came and I was curled up on the examination table half naked. “This may be a little uncomfortable.” he said. “Just relax.”
The procedure called for him to insert one of his fingers into my .. uhhh … armpit (metaphorically speaking).
He deceived me!!! What was supposed to be a finger entering my armpit felt like the handle end of a rowing oar. He somehow managed to weave it through my vertebrae to the base of my skull. Like a pitbull (simile) my armpit clamped down on this intruder desperately trying to crush it. My body was now ramrod stiff and semi convulsing. I made what would be a ch-ch-ch-ch-ch sound had it not been drowned out by the screaming of the physician. Sheer terror at the thought of being maimed and ending any hope of developing surgical skills caused him to jump back. This dragged me off of the examining table. I was momentarily suspended by my armpit, my hands grasping the floor and my legs flailing about in an obscene bicycle action. My armpit still behaving the part of a territorial beast eased up briefly to readjust its death grip. It was at this point the doctor was able to extricate himself with his full medical potential still ahead of him.
Remarkably, he found his composure immediately. As for mine, I thought I got a glimpse of it fleeing the room and most likely the building. “Shall we try that again?” “It is important that you relax.” He said.
(An Aside)
April 19th, 1977 I had found myself in Disneyland embarking on the Matterhorn ride. I loathed such rides but much cajoling from my hosts had overcome my objections. As we pulled away from the safety of the loading platform I started to have a panic attack. There was no way out! However, my brain did an incredible thing, it changed. The only way to adjust was to embrace the ride with a suicidal enthusiasm. At every dip of the car I was trying to dip even steeper. Every violent turn was initiated by me, I was in control. I enjoyed the ride so much I went again. Could I use this lesson again?
“I need to stop resisting.” I thought to myself. “I shall overcome this Matterhorn.” This time my accommodating armpit literally pulled the physician from his stool. “Was that his elbow?” “Oh, my gawd he thinks I’m easy”
“Is that OK?” he queried
(Another Aside)
When I am greeted in the street and I am asked “How are you?” I immediately reply “Great!” even if it has been a horrible day. On the otherhand, I am often scolded for taking too long to answer other questions. This is because I am weighing the gravitas of the words and want to give an honest and complete answer.
“Great” would not have been the appropriate word in my current position, but “Fine” would have sufficed to convey to the doctor that I was not unbearably uncomfortable. Instead my thoughts are constructing a more complete reply to relate the outcome of now being fully cooporative. I muse to myself “Hmmm, actually it’s an interesting feeling in fact it feels quite ni….” My own thoughts are drowned out by the screeching sirens of my gaydar. Awooga! Awooga! Awhooga! Danger!! “Ahh .. Fine” I say.
The ‘routine examination’ ends”. “Here, let me tidy you up a bit he says” gently wiping my armpit. I am but a child.
I dress myself and there is an uncomfortable silence in the room. I want to stay and talk but he ushers me to the door and I realize that he is dumping me for another patient. As I step into the hall I am confronted by a phantom from the past. It is the doctor from nearly two decades previously. I am in the presence of both my probing doctors. “Will they talk?” I self-query blushingly. “Is this how a woman at a dinner party feels when she realizes that she has slept with every man in the room?” I blush even deeper.
As stated earlier, my composure had long fled the building, and I started out in hot pursuit. In my haste I crashed into a nasty hardware faced young woman in the doorway. I was so rattled that I didn’t pause to apologize. I was moving quickly away from the scene of my dread but I still managed to hear her shout “Hey, watch where you’re going, Armpit!!
Some have hinted in the past that I am prone to hypochondria. Obvious symptoms of some horrible disease would impel me to see the doctor and then most often I would be chastised for my paranoia and sent packing. Happily, I have been improving. Sadly, not because these panicked trips to the doctor are less frequent, but that as I age my self-diagnoses are more often correct.
Also, as I age the conversations around the water cooler and in the coffee clutches seem to have taken on two distinct themes. The first theme is desperately morose. “Yes, it was just a ‘routine examination’. He went into surgery right away and once they opened him up they just sewed him back up. People need to get checked.” The second theme is brightened with hope. “Yes, if he hadn’t had that ‘routine examination’, they would never have caught it in time. Boy, is he ever lucky.” These legendary events danced in my head for a few weeks before I summoned up the courage to go see the doctor for the ‘routine examination’.
These ‘routine examinations’ are euphemisms for a violation of the inner sanctums of ones being. In my case, I had gone out of my way for 18 years to avoid such a confrontation. In fact my former doctor of all those years seemed as reluctant as I and we never did initiate such unpleasantries. Somewhere, in my hazy past was a dim recollection of an encounter with a substitute doctor but psychic defenses had buried the recollections so deep I couldn’t tell if they were real or just phantom memories.
Sometimes procrastination makes things worse. This is the thought I had when my new doctor entered the room. He stands a full head above me, a giant of a man, and as is custom in greeting me, he envelops my hand in his. His hands, his fingers are huge. I grow a wee faint.
People that know me may notice that I am not wont to use profanity. Expression of the vulgar has been exhausted in misspent adolescent humour. Also I desire to protect people with delicate dispositions that may stray upon these pages. As such, I will rely on the literary devices of metaphor and simile to describe what transpired next.
The time for the ‘routine examination’ came and I was curled up on the examination table half naked. “This may be a little uncomfortable.” he said. “Just relax.”
The procedure called for him to insert one of his fingers into my .. uhhh … armpit (metaphorically speaking).
He deceived me!!! What was supposed to be a finger entering my armpit felt like the handle end of a rowing oar. He somehow managed to weave it through my vertebrae to the base of my skull. Like a pitbull (simile) my armpit clamped down on this intruder desperately trying to crush it. My body was now ramrod stiff and semi convulsing. I made what would be a ch-ch-ch-ch-ch sound had it not been drowned out by the screaming of the physician. Sheer terror at the thought of being maimed and ending any hope of developing surgical skills caused him to jump back. This dragged me off of the examining table. I was momentarily suspended by my armpit, my hands grasping the floor and my legs flailing about in an obscene bicycle action. My armpit still behaving the part of a territorial beast eased up briefly to readjust its death grip. It was at this point the doctor was able to extricate himself with his full medical potential still ahead of him.
Remarkably, he found his composure immediately. As for mine, I thought I got a glimpse of it fleeing the room and most likely the building. “Shall we try that again?” “It is important that you relax.” He said.
(An Aside)
April 19th, 1977 I had found myself in Disneyland embarking on the Matterhorn ride. I loathed such rides but much cajoling from my hosts had overcome my objections. As we pulled away from the safety of the loading platform I started to have a panic attack. There was no way out! However, my brain did an incredible thing, it changed. The only way to adjust was to embrace the ride with a suicidal enthusiasm. At every dip of the car I was trying to dip even steeper. Every violent turn was initiated by me, I was in control. I enjoyed the ride so much I went again. Could I use this lesson again?
“I need to stop resisting.” I thought to myself. “I shall overcome this Matterhorn.” This time my accommodating armpit literally pulled the physician from his stool. “Was that his elbow?” “Oh, my gawd he thinks I’m easy”
“Is that OK?” he queried
(Another Aside)
When I am greeted in the street and I am asked “How are you?” I immediately reply “Great!” even if it has been a horrible day. On the otherhand, I am often scolded for taking too long to answer other questions. This is because I am weighing the gravitas of the words and want to give an honest and complete answer.
“Great” would not have been the appropriate word in my current position, but “Fine” would have sufficed to convey to the doctor that I was not unbearably uncomfortable. Instead my thoughts are constructing a more complete reply to relate the outcome of now being fully cooporative. I muse to myself “Hmmm, actually it’s an interesting feeling in fact it feels quite ni….” My own thoughts are drowned out by the screeching sirens of my gaydar. Awooga! Awooga! Awhooga! Danger!! “Ahh .. Fine” I say.
The ‘routine examination’ ends”. “Here, let me tidy you up a bit he says” gently wiping my armpit. I am but a child.
I dress myself and there is an uncomfortable silence in the room. I want to stay and talk but he ushers me to the door and I realize that he is dumping me for another patient. As I step into the hall I am confronted by a phantom from the past. It is the doctor from nearly two decades previously. I am in the presence of both my probing doctors. “Will they talk?” I self-query blushingly. “Is this how a woman at a dinner party feels when she realizes that she has slept with every man in the room?” I blush even deeper.
As stated earlier, my composure had long fled the building, and I started out in hot pursuit. In my haste I crashed into a nasty hardware faced young woman in the doorway. I was so rattled that I didn’t pause to apologize. I was moving quickly away from the scene of my dread but I still managed to hear her shout “Hey, watch where you’re going, Armpit!!
Thursday, January 04, 2007
The Ringing!! The Cursed Ringing....
Sometimes it isn’t good to get what you want. I had joked the other day with a couple of the visiting Facilities Management guys whether they were having another mid-winter fire drill. They assured me that they weren’t and that they were on campus to perform other tasks. On a whim I printed off a copy of a previous blog (http://tripester.blogspot.com/2005/11/most-alarming-behaviour-i-have-ever.html) regarding fire drills on campus and gave it to them for a chuckle. One of the premises of the story was the horror of evacuating the building without any proper clothing to protect me from the bitter cold.
Today, one of them returned to our campus. He was having coffee and as I walked by he winked and said “You better keep your coat with you.” I returned to my office and when I left on another errand I had donned my boots, coat, touque, and gloves. As I wandered about the building performing my tasks I did receive a few odd glances. Thankfully no one asked me any questions even though that may be a testament to what they have come to expect from me. Even if they were quietly laughing at me it was I that would have the last laugh. I knew something that they did not. I smirked silently to myself. This is what it feels to be in on the inside - to be in the know. I was a seer - peering into the future and I reveled as I bathed in that wisdom.
Only….
The alarm didn’t go off. Was the fact that I was anticipating the event messing with time - the “old watching a kettle boil thing?” I started to get a little uncomfortable particularly as I was all bundled up and my inner core was reaching 105 degrees. Good grief… He’s messing with me. There isn’t going to be a drill!! The fiend!! The cruel fiend!! Panic started to set in. If I went and disrobed the alarm could go off or if I didn’t I would be bundled up all day with the certainly of organ failure at some point. Ahhhhkkkk!!!! I was better off being ignorant of what was to come. I am in a trap of my own making forged from my own incessant whining!!
I know that my brain chemistry has endowed me with some built in phobias. Over the years, I have identified claustrophobia (please give me some room), arachnophobia (particularly the likewise titled movie), and triskadekaphobia. (It’s a numbers thing). Anyway, I am always bemused when I discover a new one. All of a sudden, as I was walking down the halls, all I could see were bells - big red fire bells. Anywhere I turned a bell was looking back at me. They were silent but they all seemed to be throbbing. I have bellophobia!! I fled to the washroom but realized I couldn’t stay there forever without causing some other difficulties in these sex-offender-aware days. If only I could get to my office. I peeked down the hall to discover that the bell directly outside my office appeared to be the biggest, nastiest bell of them all. At this point my panic is uncontrollable. If I make refuge in the far reaches of my office, and the alarm sounds I will only suffer a mild infarction. However, should I be stationed directly beneath the mother-of-all-bells when it begins to sound, I am convinced that the coronary will be massive and my death face will exhibit sheer terror. I dash my ligyrophobic butt to my door. Just as in the movies, I drop my keys on the floor, I retrieve them and try again but my hands are shaking. My breathing is rapid and shallow. What is that tightness in my chest? Finally, the door opens and I am sprinting to the back of the room. No alarm has come. Will it ever come? I pace back and forth, back and forth. I try sitting and rocking holding my hands over my ears. "Go to your happy place" I chant. Still no bell. Finally, I gain a little solace by curling up under my desk in a fetal position singing (shouting) Silent Night.
When the alarm finally comes, I am calm but spent. I pour myself into the halls bleating weakly with my other compatriots and I am whisked with the rest of the flock into the cool outdoors. I have been to hell and back and never want to go back!
Knowledge of the future is a curse and should only be a gift for the gods and not mere mortals such as I. Should anyone from Facilities Management ever read these words. NEVER, EVER LET ME KNOW THAT WE ARE HAVING A FIRE DRILL. Please!!!
Today, one of them returned to our campus. He was having coffee and as I walked by he winked and said “You better keep your coat with you.” I returned to my office and when I left on another errand I had donned my boots, coat, touque, and gloves. As I wandered about the building performing my tasks I did receive a few odd glances. Thankfully no one asked me any questions even though that may be a testament to what they have come to expect from me. Even if they were quietly laughing at me it was I that would have the last laugh. I knew something that they did not. I smirked silently to myself. This is what it feels to be in on the inside - to be in the know. I was a seer - peering into the future and I reveled as I bathed in that wisdom.
Only….
The alarm didn’t go off. Was the fact that I was anticipating the event messing with time - the “old watching a kettle boil thing?” I started to get a little uncomfortable particularly as I was all bundled up and my inner core was reaching 105 degrees. Good grief… He’s messing with me. There isn’t going to be a drill!! The fiend!! The cruel fiend!! Panic started to set in. If I went and disrobed the alarm could go off or if I didn’t I would be bundled up all day with the certainly of organ failure at some point. Ahhhhkkkk!!!! I was better off being ignorant of what was to come. I am in a trap of my own making forged from my own incessant whining!!
I know that my brain chemistry has endowed me with some built in phobias. Over the years, I have identified claustrophobia (please give me some room), arachnophobia (particularly the likewise titled movie), and triskadekaphobia. (It’s a numbers thing). Anyway, I am always bemused when I discover a new one. All of a sudden, as I was walking down the halls, all I could see were bells - big red fire bells. Anywhere I turned a bell was looking back at me. They were silent but they all seemed to be throbbing. I have bellophobia!! I fled to the washroom but realized I couldn’t stay there forever without causing some other difficulties in these sex-offender-aware days. If only I could get to my office. I peeked down the hall to discover that the bell directly outside my office appeared to be the biggest, nastiest bell of them all. At this point my panic is uncontrollable. If I make refuge in the far reaches of my office, and the alarm sounds I will only suffer a mild infarction. However, should I be stationed directly beneath the mother-of-all-bells when it begins to sound, I am convinced that the coronary will be massive and my death face will exhibit sheer terror. I dash my ligyrophobic butt to my door. Just as in the movies, I drop my keys on the floor, I retrieve them and try again but my hands are shaking. My breathing is rapid and shallow. What is that tightness in my chest? Finally, the door opens and I am sprinting to the back of the room. No alarm has come. Will it ever come? I pace back and forth, back and forth. I try sitting and rocking holding my hands over my ears. "Go to your happy place" I chant. Still no bell. Finally, I gain a little solace by curling up under my desk in a fetal position singing (shouting) Silent Night.
When the alarm finally comes, I am calm but spent. I pour myself into the halls bleating weakly with my other compatriots and I am whisked with the rest of the flock into the cool outdoors. I have been to hell and back and never want to go back!
Knowledge of the future is a curse and should only be a gift for the gods and not mere mortals such as I. Should anyone from Facilities Management ever read these words. NEVER, EVER LET ME KNOW THAT WE ARE HAVING A FIRE DRILL. Please!!!
Saturday, December 30, 2006
A face by any other name ....
One of demeaning afflictions that I wrestle with is having a lack of ability in recognizing people. Actually, the problem is compounded. I may hesitate to greet a casual acquaintance by name in fear that my biological face recognition system has correlated the facial image to the wrong name file in my brain box database. Should the bolder half of my internal turmoil push aside my more cautious half and I awkwardly blurt out a monikor, invariably, and I am not exaggerating, I am always, consistently, and without fail, wrong.
Could this be a congenital defect? Could it be that some part of my embryonic spinal cord conked out before it divided and led to an underdeveloped neuro-mass?
Could the cause be a childhood head trauma? There are a few times that I remember playing at morning recess and regaining awareness in the last class of the day after sustaining a punishing blind side tackle in a friendly game of British Bulldog (at least that is what my classmates tell me). A small amount of internal bleeding could have drowned enough brain cells in just the right area. And please remember that concussions were far more acceptable back then and therefore more plentiful.
Then there were the phalanx of childhood diseases that could have done the job with pathological precision--brain rot pure and simple.
In any case, the burden is the same. I have trouble recognizing people. As outlined, these theories all indicate a physiological explanation. The other part of the conundrum that has left me batting minus 1000 in the “who-is-this game” is pure voodoo. Some greater humbling force is in play.
There is yet another curve comes my way. Women. Their hair style and colour can change at alarming rates. Great clues to ones identity, like clothing is changed with even greater frequency. Pregnancies, plus and minus 30 lbs weight swings, and plus or minus 30 lbs of makeup, render recognition an impossible challenge. How am I to cope?
My dear wife of 20 years cannot sympathize with my handicap. Her ability to recognize people transends space, time and the miriad of obstacles that plague me. She thinks I just don't pay attention. People that have evolved into other beings through calamity cannot fool her. The hordes of children that all look the same to me have individual names to her. Through her, I have discovered that the over employed starlet that frequents the Silver Screens is indeed many different ladies with distinct lives of their own.
I am not so far gone that I can’t recognize John Kennedy, although we never met. However, the average Joe and Joan leave me stumped. I suppose I am not as stressed by my own failings as I am by how offended people get when they think they didn’t make an impression upon me large enough to warrant having their name seared into some lobe of my grey matter.
The one consolation is that as age continues its advance my stated behaviour will become more acceptable and may even reach the level as charming in a quirky way.
Could this be a congenital defect? Could it be that some part of my embryonic spinal cord conked out before it divided and led to an underdeveloped neuro-mass?
Could the cause be a childhood head trauma? There are a few times that I remember playing at morning recess and regaining awareness in the last class of the day after sustaining a punishing blind side tackle in a friendly game of British Bulldog (at least that is what my classmates tell me). A small amount of internal bleeding could have drowned enough brain cells in just the right area. And please remember that concussions were far more acceptable back then and therefore more plentiful.
Then there were the phalanx of childhood diseases that could have done the job with pathological precision--brain rot pure and simple.
In any case, the burden is the same. I have trouble recognizing people. As outlined, these theories all indicate a physiological explanation. The other part of the conundrum that has left me batting minus 1000 in the “who-is-this game” is pure voodoo. Some greater humbling force is in play.
There is yet another curve comes my way. Women. Their hair style and colour can change at alarming rates. Great clues to ones identity, like clothing is changed with even greater frequency. Pregnancies, plus and minus 30 lbs weight swings, and plus or minus 30 lbs of makeup, render recognition an impossible challenge. How am I to cope?
My dear wife of 20 years cannot sympathize with my handicap. Her ability to recognize people transends space, time and the miriad of obstacles that plague me. She thinks I just don't pay attention. People that have evolved into other beings through calamity cannot fool her. The hordes of children that all look the same to me have individual names to her. Through her, I have discovered that the over employed starlet that frequents the Silver Screens is indeed many different ladies with distinct lives of their own.
I am not so far gone that I can’t recognize John Kennedy, although we never met. However, the average Joe and Joan leave me stumped. I suppose I am not as stressed by my own failings as I am by how offended people get when they think they didn’t make an impression upon me large enough to warrant having their name seared into some lobe of my grey matter.
The one consolation is that as age continues its advance my stated behaviour will become more acceptable and may even reach the level as charming in a quirky way.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Am I just a sockeye?
I am struggling right now. I am just 51 years old. I understand a few centuries ago this would have been considered a ripe old age. However, by today’s standard I am a young man. Unfortunately, no one told my body about it. Aches and pains are standard fare for me nowadays. I am at the stage where I cannot listen to any public recital of symptoms for any ailment without immediately noting that I am thusly afflicted. In fact I not only have the symptoms, I also have the great fortune to already revel in the plethora of side effects that accompany an advertised medical treatment. I want to make it perfectly clear. I am not a hypochondriac. My former doctor was convinced that I was, so I was not able to seek regress through him. He once hosted an intern and part of the training was to allow the intern to interview the patient before the doctor returned for the main appointment. When the doctor did return we had already amassed an entire page of ailments and another page of tests to be ordered. I had started at the top of my head and was working down and had only gotten to my waist. What lay beneath my waist was a real mess but it wasn’t to be. The doctor knowingly took the papers away, admonished his young charge, killing all hopes of an impending panacea.
I could go on about how my body has betrayed me, but I know it is I that betrayed my body. Here I will relate the self inflicted crimes to which I now pay penance. As a young man, bravado would necessitate picking up any object on a dare. Proper lifting techniques were for sissies. To empty a freezer before moving it was an insult. Padless tackle football was fun. Now it is payback time claimed by abused joints and tendons.
Even more offensive to my worldly vessel was a lifestyle of sheer gluttony. Tens of thousands of calories were consumed in short order. The closer the natural state of my intake was to pure glucose the more often it crossed my palate. Why savour one of those gooey Cadbury Easter eggs when you could eat nine at one sitting. Anything short of 16 ounces of steak was dismissed as eating like a pansy. These days as I never entertain a helping of seconds was once eclipsed by three trips to the buffet table. I may as well have taken a ballpeen hammer to my pancreas instead of prolonging the abuse. The high metabolism that maintained a reasonable figure of a young man masked the inner damage that was slowly accumulating.
I became enraptured with my Beloved and matrimony quickly ensued followed within the first year by the birth of my first child. This coincided with the slowing of my metabolism. As I am a sensitive and caring man I gained 10 lbs of sympathy weight with my first offspring and each of the next two lives I helped bring into the world. For the next 15 years my wife accurately made a point that she wasn’t married to 30 lbs of me. This extra mass only slowed me down as well as put greater stresses on various parts.
I became more of a spectator than a participant in athletic endeavors.
The stresses of raising a family ravaged my frame and brain. Work, the failing health of parents, and the terrifying onslaught of teenagerhood, and the continued existence as a couch watermelon, each took their toll. Although I look quite normal for a man of my age, I believe my own personal body image is perceived to be somewhat Gollumeseque.
This image is only reinforcing by my lack of sleep lately. Again, being a sensitive and sympathetic man, I am now bearing the hardship of menopause.
If my Beloved cannot sleep I will not sleep. The TV is given a 30 minute timer to lull her to sleep which usually occurs within 3 minutes. I spend the entire next 27 minutes tossing and turning trying to block out the light and noise. I am too exhausted to jump up and locate the remote which has mysteriously vanished anyway. Should gentle slumber finally come my way, it is interrupted by the whooshing of bedding being hurled off my hot flashing bed partner. This is always accompanied by a loud nocturnal sigh. When the hot flash has disappeared and a chill set in she will take the bedding and wrap her self up in a cocoon. She emerges the next morning like a beautiful butterfly (please allow me the artistic freedom to use “butterfly” as calling “my partner for life” a moth does not portray as positive an image) Meanwhile, whether it is a hot flash or a chill I end up without covers. Most of my energy that should go to repairing my body at the cellular level has been expended in delivering me from hypothermia.
I know that today’s post seems bleak. I sound like a salmon that has spawned and has drifted to a shallow gravel bed with one eye to the sky. Did my wedding vows actually say “unto my death do us part”? Am I just an old air mattress with one too many repairs sitting crumpled in the bottom of a storage tub? Am I an old magazine that has sat by the toilet for enough years that every portion of text has been read a dozen times and is on the verge of incineration?
NO! There is still a spark of life. The winds of change are making that tiny ember glow ever more brightly. There is hope. I have a new boat!!
I could go on about how my body has betrayed me, but I know it is I that betrayed my body. Here I will relate the self inflicted crimes to which I now pay penance. As a young man, bravado would necessitate picking up any object on a dare. Proper lifting techniques were for sissies. To empty a freezer before moving it was an insult. Padless tackle football was fun. Now it is payback time claimed by abused joints and tendons.
Even more offensive to my worldly vessel was a lifestyle of sheer gluttony. Tens of thousands of calories were consumed in short order. The closer the natural state of my intake was to pure glucose the more often it crossed my palate. Why savour one of those gooey Cadbury Easter eggs when you could eat nine at one sitting. Anything short of 16 ounces of steak was dismissed as eating like a pansy. These days as I never entertain a helping of seconds was once eclipsed by three trips to the buffet table. I may as well have taken a ballpeen hammer to my pancreas instead of prolonging the abuse. The high metabolism that maintained a reasonable figure of a young man masked the inner damage that was slowly accumulating.
I became enraptured with my Beloved and matrimony quickly ensued followed within the first year by the birth of my first child. This coincided with the slowing of my metabolism. As I am a sensitive and caring man I gained 10 lbs of sympathy weight with my first offspring and each of the next two lives I helped bring into the world. For the next 15 years my wife accurately made a point that she wasn’t married to 30 lbs of me. This extra mass only slowed me down as well as put greater stresses on various parts.
I became more of a spectator than a participant in athletic endeavors.
The stresses of raising a family ravaged my frame and brain. Work, the failing health of parents, and the terrifying onslaught of teenagerhood, and the continued existence as a couch watermelon, each took their toll. Although I look quite normal for a man of my age, I believe my own personal body image is perceived to be somewhat Gollumeseque.
This image is only reinforcing by my lack of sleep lately. Again, being a sensitive and sympathetic man, I am now bearing the hardship of menopause.
If my Beloved cannot sleep I will not sleep. The TV is given a 30 minute timer to lull her to sleep which usually occurs within 3 minutes. I spend the entire next 27 minutes tossing and turning trying to block out the light and noise. I am too exhausted to jump up and locate the remote which has mysteriously vanished anyway. Should gentle slumber finally come my way, it is interrupted by the whooshing of bedding being hurled off my hot flashing bed partner. This is always accompanied by a loud nocturnal sigh. When the hot flash has disappeared and a chill set in she will take the bedding and wrap her self up in a cocoon. She emerges the next morning like a beautiful butterfly (please allow me the artistic freedom to use “butterfly” as calling “my partner for life” a moth does not portray as positive an image) Meanwhile, whether it is a hot flash or a chill I end up without covers. Most of my energy that should go to repairing my body at the cellular level has been expended in delivering me from hypothermia.
I know that today’s post seems bleak. I sound like a salmon that has spawned and has drifted to a shallow gravel bed with one eye to the sky. Did my wedding vows actually say “unto my death do us part”? Am I just an old air mattress with one too many repairs sitting crumpled in the bottom of a storage tub? Am I an old magazine that has sat by the toilet for enough years that every portion of text has been read a dozen times and is on the verge of incineration?
NO! There is still a spark of life. The winds of change are making that tiny ember glow ever more brightly. There is hope. I have a new boat!!
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