Guilt by asocialization

I have a guilt complex. I’m not talking about the “we stole their land” guilt complex, nor the “any meager success I have eked out in this harsh world has been on the back of the downtrodden” guilt complex, that is so popular with liberals these days. No, my guilt complex is a towering edifice erecting by my own insecurities and over self awareness. In fact to be accurate, I should call my affliction, a pseudo-guilt complex.
For example:
I may wile away some time window shopping. As I am preparing to leave the store, the fact that I have not purchased anything, makes it clearly obvious that I am a shoplifter. As I reach the street, I am prepared at any moment to be accosted by store security and whisked away for interrogation. I know that they will not find anything; but I well imagine that I reek of guilt and the frustration of not finding anything during a preliminary frisking will goad them into a full body cavity search. The folding umbrella that they saw me inspecting has to be hidden somewhere!
I can be with friends when someone has detected some valuable either missing or vandalized. My reaction is to flush red. I stutter. My eyes dart around often giving off the tell tale signs of the damned looking for a way out. It doesn’t matter that I have an air tight – no – a helium tight alibi, the certainty that I was involved is advertised across my forehead. I marvel at the continued associations I have with these friends when I exhibit such alarmingly suspicious behaviour.
At work, I had been upgrading several computers in a room that contained five of the beasts. The machines were being used by the public, but serendipity had graced me and I was able to complete my work on four. The fifth had been monopolized by a woman working on some sort of project. From my chair across the room I asked her how much longer she would need the machine. She did not answer. I got up and stood beside her. I bent down and a little more forcefully, asked the same question. She did not answer again. She must be deaf I reasoned. I asked a little louder. Although, she would not answer, each time she would stop typing, and give a big sigh as she dropped her head and shoulders. I fled the room as my guilt lashed mercilessly at my haunches. I’m a perverted freaking creeper. I enlisted the aide of a female co-worker and she was able to determine that the woman “will not talk to that man”. I panicked. Surely my wanton depravity was being openly displayed. I sought council with the college psychologist. Although the story of my innocence elicited a kind and tender smile and soothing words of reassurance, that dark black welling up inside me thought I noticed her etch a small red flag beside my name in her binder. The incidence plagued me for days and was only slightly alleviated when I saw the women pushing a heaping Safeway cart around town.
This involuntary vicarious sin is a burden for me. The prospects of me passing through the pearly gates when my stay on earth is measured seem dim. I can only pray that there is a pseudo-hell that is more accommodating than the real one.

A Digression

Dear cuz,

I want to write about something dear and near to my heart – my lungs. Being able to finally talk about my lungs is like a breath of fresh air. I’m not referring to the air that has never been breathed before because I’m not sure it exists. I am talking about clean, clear mountain-like air. I’m talking about the type of air you get cycling in the Alps. I guess that sounds like Tour-de-France air, doesn’t it. I guess where in the bicycle pack you are determines how fresh the air really is. I think that type of cycle racing would leave me very claustrophobic. To avoid such a calamity I would want to either be way in the lead or far behind. I think being far behind would be easier. I think I have always chosen the easy way because it isn’t as hard. But in my defense, I am a parent and parenting is one of the hardest things in the world. Well, I suppose that diamonds are harder. I bought a ring for my wife with diamonds in it and it was hard to pay for. I don’t mean it was hard when I actually bought it because I just used a plastic card. However, at some time the chickens come home to roost and you have to cough up. Hmmmm. How come you never hear the phrase “roosters come home to roost”? I think chickens should chick if they do anything. Unfortunately, I don’t know what chicking is and neither does my spell checker. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s been used somewhere in the world at some time. I don’t mean, like Mountain Standard Time or anything like that. I’m thinking more in the past, way back before I was born but I don’t remember then. I do remember this afternoon. Not that it was special. I just haven’t forgotten it yet. I bet I will in a couple of days. I think back to last July 20th or any other July 20th and I can’t remember what I did on that day. Wait a minute; I think in 1969 I was watching the first lunar landing. Ah hah. I just proved myself wrong. Does that mean I win or lose? I think I will call it a tie. That reminds me, I don’t get ties anymore for birthdays or Christmas. That is good. I never liked them. I get to dress far more informally than I used to. Wouldn’t it be great to have a job you could wear pajamas to, and nobody would think it was odd? I guess that rules out police work. Whoa – and firemen to. I think most pajamas have cotton and could be inflammable. I’ve learned where there is flams there is smok. Anyway, smoke is bad for the lungs but I digress……

luv
Twilager

A Childhood Tale

I will confess that the following sad episode would not be construed as a childhood tale by many, as at the time, I had already reached the legal age of nineteen. However, in my defense, I was somewhat of a late bloomer and unabashedly naïve. Also, looking back in time from my forty-something countenance – nineteen seems quite childlike….. OK … OK… I’m fifty. Dammit. I’m fifty. Are you happy!!
My first major foray from the safety nest of my family home took me to the big city and the University of British Columbia. I took up living in residence at Place Vanier and soon fell into the routine of an undisciplined mediocre student.
My zoology class was one of my high lights. It wasn’t that I was enthralled with the anatomy of dogfish or the brilliance of the lecturer. What drew my attention in this class of one hundred and fifty students was the most stunning creature that I had ever laid eyes on. I will call her Patty … because ahh … that was her name. Anyway, I was always aware of her presence when ever she was near. However, unlike a stalker, I didn’t go out of my way to increase the frequency of these visual contacts but I did revel in any chance meeting that the fates threw my way. After a couple of months of this admittedly gutless behaviour, providence shone upon me. Zoology class had been cancelled and partaking in a rare breakfast (Far better to get up and go straight to class), I found myself standing beside Patty in the food line. I chose my words well.
“Nice to have breakfast for once” I chimed directly at her.
“What do you mean?” She replied. She looked directly at me. She was bold, intelligent and goddess-like. There seemed to be an aura beginning to encircle us, the magic was there!! Her tone was very pleasant and I knew in an instant that she too has been waiting for this moment.
“It was nice to be able to sleep in a bit since our Zoology class was cancelled” I giddily replied.
“Oh, are you in my class?” She ventured.
I don’t remember too much after that. I managed to get back to my room and lay down for a while. A question followed by a gorgeous smile had unknowing shot me down from the heavens but I knew in time that I would heal and life would go on.
In fact, just a short time later, Sweeney Todd was playing in the basement of the Commons. I put on my best plaid lumberjack shirt that I was accustomed to wearing at the time and went early to watch the band set up. I observed with interest as the band did sound checks and set up their equipment. Also intriguing were the three very cute girls that had accompanied the band and were standing to my side in a little clutch, chatting to themselves. Being a young man teeming with hormones, any member of the fairer sex commands attention. As you may have guessed from previous testimony, this attention consisted of standing afar and throwing the occasional glance in their direction. Alarmingly, one the girls pitched forward as if she was violently ill her friends preventing a fall by grasping her arms and holding her up. To my relief, I soon detected that she was laughing and that she was not ill at all. Her companions held on to her even tighter as the power of her laughter was drawn directly out of her legs rendering them as those of a rag doll. They began to plead with her to let them know what was so funny. She could not speak but only laughed harder, fighting for breath, tears running down her face.
The Zoology class debacle that had taken place just a few days before had left me vulnerable, and soon a wicked thought entered my mind. She was laughing at me. My casual posture stiffened noticeably as an uncomfortable self awareness crept over me. Meantime, the supporting girls began to pull their friend toward a seat that surrounded the pillars that held up the ceiling. They were becoming somewhat annoyed at her lack of generosity in not divulging the source of her tumultuous glee.
I have mentioned that I was somewhat naïve, however, I was not stupid. I was aware that my self confidence had taken a recent blow and that I was capable of conjuring up all sorts of paranoid thoughts. I gently slipped behind the same pillar to collect my thoughts. After a few minutes I was able to reassure myself that I was being foolish and as I began to relax I went back to watching the band perform their pre-performance rituals.
Because of my proximity to the girls however, I was still able to hear their unanswered pleas.
“What’s so funny? Please tell us?” They chorused.
Finally, she was able to choke out a response. “Did you see that guy? His slippers match his shirt!” And she once more fell into state of uncontrollable laughter.
I may have failed to mention, that I was also in possession of a pair of plaid slippers, which I wore frequently, even on excursions outside of my building.
The first reaction I had was some sort of temporary blindness. My breath was sucked out of my body and I am sure that my lungs got jammed in my throat. Somehow I managed to stagger back to Okanagan house, even though it was necessary to grapple on all fours up the remaining three flights of stairs to my room. I laid there for most of the night. I have never really regained my confidence after that and content myself with a simple life trying desperately to stay under the radar.

The precipice

I want to preface my story with the statement that I had not partook in any mind altering libations, pills, nor smoke and that my self administered trepan had long ago healed. In fact, I should have been in the best state of mental acuity having just completed two weeks of vacation. As I lay in bed, the only discomfort I felt was a little dehydration which was quickly washed away with a flagon of sweet water.
During the night, I was awakened by a nagging bladder that no amount of dream sponsered urination could silence. From this deep sleep, I staggered to my bedroom wall. Now I don't know if I felt I was still in the RV of my previously mentioned vacation, or that a dream had created an entirely different scene, but the door to the bathroom was not where it should have been. As the nagging from my bladder grew louder, I could not reasonably hear my own thoughts and only clawed harder at the wall trying to find my way out of the room in search of the facilities. Finally, I came to a sliding patio door. In the fog of my nocturnal stupor my mind could not quite compristand this new information. I should have woken up at this point save for the now screaming insistance of my waterworks.
I desperately flung the vertical blinds out of the way and found the locking lever. I pulled emphatically at the handle but the door did not budge. Something familiar about this door was entering my mind and I remembered the foot lock. I was able to release the lock with a push of my big toe and pulling at the same time the door slid open. I gazed through tiny slits grudgingly afforded by my sleepy eyelids. There were no stairs and what appeared to be about a four foot drop to the ground. Confusion swept over me but in the following instant I realized where I was, and nonchalantly stumbled to the bathroom and relieved myself. I then crawled back to bed and once more fell asleep.
As I awoke a recollection of the early morning excursion began to play back in my mind. As I realized that it was not a dream a pang of panic swept over me as I realized that I had been desperately trying to get out my patio door during the night. The problem presented by this action is that I have long ago removed a rotting deck from outside this door and as many projects around my home, a replacement has not been created. The outcome of my first space walk would have been a ten foot fall on to the rocks below. I shuddered at the fate that thankfully eluded me and in self defense laughed to dispel the dread.
These types of late night episodes have occured before and specifically forbid me from sleeping with a knife under my pillow or a loaded shotgun propped up near me. But these are other stories....