More and More I'm Seeing...

“I’ve been laid off over six months now, live with my grand parents, have tattoos and a four year old boy. I’m a great catch for the next guy that comes along.”

This dripping sarcasm was said by H. who I was talking to last week. Actually, for the little, frail looking hipster woman she was, she had a better grasp of reality than most. She was right. When I found out she was living with her grand’s, I thought there was no way was I going to carry her around financially. I wasn’t about to be purchasing “good times,” laundry detergent, gasoline and the occasional winter coat for her kid.

She knew her polish is now worn off and can’t compete in the single arena with those with jobs.

What I’m stumbling across now, or running into more often, are people who are out of work. A lot more.

Unemployed. I’ve been there once. The thing about it is the incredible boredom that comes with having every day of the week off for months. I learned to clean the house, deep clean it, three times a month. I found myself painting, doing yard work and inventing inexpensive projects around the home to keep busy. Anything to have purpose for that week.

Also, you live in some sort of weird limbo even amongst your friends. You may be laid off due to no fault of your own and yet you feel “different” still. Your friends get up, work, have a goal, direction; even if it’s only for that day. While you get up and look out the window and reread the newspaper twice. You float.

Your occupation, without you knowing it really, is a huge part of who you are and at some levels, where you derive some of your pride and self esteem. Go without that work, even a chintzy job, and you’ll feel the loss.

Nowadays, I’m reminded of when I was out of work by all these new ones I keep running into. If I was out of work again, what would I do? Besides pumping out 20 resumes a week? I’d be cleaning the house, doing yard work, painting…

At the Gym Zoo

I joined a gym not too long ago from the helpful push of friend who was wishing to knock off a few pounds herself. My motivation for it is two fold. One, get my weight down to that range where it should be, and, to build up my health. I see too many patients in the field I work who are nearly awarded cripple status. I see the future and the future says to me: “You’re not going to get younger but OLDER.” I have no wish to end up like my Dad who had the World’s Greatest Beer Gut either.

But, I’m not going to chat about health, cardio or vegan diets, I’m going to tell you of the types I see in the gym. I’ll try not to be disparaging and caustically sarcastic.

Planet Fitness is divided into three exercise areas. Cardio, weight lifting and this Olympic style workout area where they do exercises I’ve never seen before. I spend my time in the weight lifting and cardio areas. Others spend their time elsewhere as you will find out.

*****

The Ahnult Schwarzeneggars

The first thing that struck me was the weight lifting area. You have these guys who are muscled out and never leave that section. Now I can’t condemn all of them, but a good many watch themselves in the huge panel wall mirrors when they press weights, and also when they’re not.

I hear they watch themselves in mirrors to improve their “form” as they pump iron, but I swear, I sense a huge amount of vanity there. The fact that when they’re not working out, they’ll go by the mirror and look at themselves strutting tips me off to a bit of self love there.

A friend once commented on them as these Ahnults say to themselves in the mirror, “Do you love me? I love me!”

To be totally honest. I’d like to look like that and be 21 again. But, I never had the body type nor will I be 21 again. Also, you can tell which ones aren’t juicing it up and it is totally natural. Those guys I find aren’t staring at the mirror all the time.

*****

The Moms.

This group is forever 39 years old. They sport a slightly pudginess and are trying to knock off that stomach and ass bulge. You’ll find them on the stairmasters for an hour and a half at times. A lot will read a book balanced on the top of the machine, or have ear buds planted into their heads. They pump their legs away at a dizzying speed and are in their own world then.

It seems most are pretty oblivious to the night club, pick up, meat market nature to this gym. Though I few I swear look like they’ll stray, but most are VERY married. I can imagine these Moms speeding up their work out around 2ish to finish up and pick up the kids from school and getting on with their busy Mom lives.

I understand why these women do this. Growing older isn’t a crime for a guy but it IS for a woman in this American culture. So a little vanity won’t kill them, in fact, it’ll improve their health as well.

*****

The Teenager/Stripper/Fell-On-This-Earth-Cute-and-Thin/Possible Anorexics

These types do not need to workout at all. These young ones come in and ride the bikes, stairmasters and jog on the treadmills, all cardio stuff. They also are the ones who will wear the most skin tight workout clothes you can imagine. I suppose starting early working out is a good thing but to look at them, you’d swear they didn’t have any reason to lose any body fat. There are two types really. One set will work out and sweat puddles on the floor and ignore everyone and the other group might curl 5lb weights ten times and then open their iPhones and text for 20 minutes. The worker ones don’t bother to strut around the gym while the little cheerleader ones with the cute outfits and cell phones will.

*****

The Staff

The majority of them are helpful. They check you in, clean up rags, keep the bathrooms fairly well and will answer any questions you may have about the machines or workouts. You can also “hire” one of them to specifically design and run you through a routine.

I did notice this however.

If you’re a cute, thin and in no need of losing weight, the male staff instructors will trip over themselves guiding you through your workout. I’ve watched and overheard a few staff talk about the “form” of the pretty girl’s workout then switch to, “So, where do you live again? You live in Seekonk? I have a good friend that lives in Seekonk! We’re so alike!”

If you’re not cute, thin and adorable, the instructors work you through the routine like a dray horse pulling a plow. And there is very little chit chat. No attraction there.

As for instructors guiding us males through a course, it’s drill sergeant time. “Oh, don’t make any effort to get over my obstacle Private Pyle! If God wanted you over this obstacle he’d would’ve miracled your ass over it!”

“That’s it? You’re doing 125lbs? My grandmother does that before her tea every morning!”

*****

And Lastly, The Guys Like Me

There is a set of us guys pushing 40, 50 and 60 in there. The ones I’ve talked to are there for two major reasons. One group had their doctors harangued them to lose weight or get fit, the other group laments their loss of youth and are trying to reclaim some of it back. Most of us belong to either category in some sense or the other. I can understand it. One guy, about 55, said that this was his last real chance to get fit again before getting “fit” would become an impossible chore. “I want to look as good as I can before it’s pointless.” he told me. Another comment I can understand.

I told him I didn’t want to turn into a greasy slug as I aged. He was a bit jealous of me as he said that he wished he started in his 40’s. But actually he was in better shape than me when it came to jogging on a treadmill, which makes me pant like a dog in July. This guy could run to Boston and back and not stop.

We’re all youth abscessed here in the ol’ USA. Then again, what culture from time immemorial wasn’t?

Po Po

There have been instances where friends, coworkers and acquaintances who know me well enough have accused me of being judgmental, opinionated and…picky. It’s true…and I’ll tell you why.

After years and years of being taken by friend and foe alike (now mind you, I’m not totally cynical and jaded yet) I’ve learned to put my radar on “high” when meeting someone new. You can never really know a person from by just looking at them. It can give a hint as to who they are, and that’s it. Most people aren’t going to volunteer that they’re alcoholics, cocaine addicts, gamblers, wife beaters and so on and so forth…will they?

So, my radar is “on” when I run across someone new. Also, my brain has a sort of smoke detector that rings like BLOODY HELL when it comes across someone that’s pure trouble. I had the perfect example last night at the wonderful Irish bar I attend for mass.

I was talking to J. when this unmanageable street whore stumbles into the bar with a black eye (no joke!) and slides up to the bar asking M, pointing at me, if I was a “po po.”

She then spins around, far too close to my personal space and asks if I was a po po.

“What’s a po po?” I ask.

“Oh, don’t give me that…you know damn well what I’m talking about” she says.

“No.I.don’t.” I respond back.

“Hey, you can’t bullshit a bullshitter sweetie, I know people and you‘re a po po” she goes on.

Ok, so I lose it. I don’t ordinarily blow my temper but I hate, just hate it when people insist that you understand something when you plainly don’t.

“NO, I DON”T KNOW WHAT A PO PO IS! YOU HAVE TO USE THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE WHEN YOU TALK TO ME!!” I yell back at her.

She’s startled a bit, leans back. Then she goes on to quote some kid’s rhyme but re written by her that included the word “fuck” in it about 21 times.

“Oh, Ok..fine…fine.” I say and break off eye contact and go back to talking to J.

She finally stumbles off, out the door when I turn to J and M and ask what a po po is.

“A po po is a cop, policeman…she thought you were a cop Ron” J. tells me.

“A po po is a cop? I really wondered about that. Sure, I don’t know every word every generation creates for it’s own slang but “po po,?” it sounds like a two year old talking.

Yeah, my radar and inner smoke detector went off like a nuclear bomb. All I saw was this threat, this wreckage of a person, covered in parasites, diphtheria and plague germs wanting to get it on me. No way EVER!

My judgmental attitude unfortunately gets reinforced by encounters like this…

7,000 Feet Up

I took a friend to Purgatory Chasm up in Massachusetts today because she’s never seen it. I have a few times and it’s a little glacial gouge/rip/sore in the Earth up there. It’s pretty interesting as you have giant boulders and escarpments that rise up to seventy feet above your head. I once rock climbed it over a decade ago without falling and smashing my legs.

It’s an near effortless scramble to climb over the debris that’s in that tiny gorge. 

The hardest “climbing” I’ve ever done was at Mt St Helen’s in 1993/96. No, I’m not making this up as I can point you to a friend who I was staying with way back then in Oregon.

You can pretty much drive up to the foot of Mt St Helens but then you have to park the car, get out and start humping your way up. When I went, the entire area was devoid of any life, any plants. I can report to you that the whole area, to the horizon, looked like the Moon.

I’m not a mountain climber by a longshot. What I have done is called "scrambling."  But I have hiked in some weird/odd/sort-of-inaccessible places in my life. Mt St Helen’s is a hike/climb that’ll beat your ass if you’re not used to being up around 7,000 feet. Oxygen isn’t as plentiful as it is here at sea level. I was panting as I was climbing into the blast crater and every step was a bitch because all that’s supporting you is sand and volcanic dust.

Why do I do it? I want to see bizarre places and things others usually don’t.

*****

Here’s a goofy story. My return to Portland a second time included, with what I thought, would be climb up Mt Hood. Mt Hood is 11,000 feet up. A week prior to flying out there I called the Timberline Lodge that’s situated about half way up the mountain. It’s a ski resort/base camp for the area. If you’ve seen Jack Nicholson’s movie The Shining, the “Overlook Hotel” in the movie, is actually Timberline Lodge.

Anyways, I called the girl at the desk there and asked what the snow pack was in late July. She told me about 18 feet still. She asked if I was going to do a climb and said that I’d have to register with the Lodge first and check in my equipment. I then said, “I won’t be checking in any equipment.” There was a pause on her end of the line when she asked:

“Sir? Are you a technical climber?”

I answered, “What’s a technical climber?”

She then told me I was to be restricted from climbing that mountain no matter what I said.

A technical climber is one of those guys you see carrying tons of rope, petons, grappling hooks, solar powered GPS devices and wearing -50 degree parkas and boots covered in aluminum spikes.

My friend M.K., later on , was a bit incredulous at my naïve belief that I would just waltz up that mountain. “Don’t you know how many real climbers die on that mountain every year?”

Nope, I didn’t. And being the fool I was, I tried going up. Thanks to the staff at Timberline for stopping my silly ass.

Mr Winthrop! Hard To Port! Aye! Aye Sir!

Cathy, I'm lost, I said, though I knew she was sleeping.
I'm empty and I'm aching and I don't know why.
Countin' the cars on the New Jersey turnpike
They've all come to look for America, all come to look for America

 

America

 

Paul Simon.

America. Supposedly at one time it was where you could flee to escape the serfdom of Europe. Or at least, from whatever your background. You had chance to shrug off your old life and “make it here.” There was no guarantee that you would, but the chance was there. Now the only freedom offered is to become rich enough where the day to day realities of surviving don’t bother you. You purchase it today.

If you’re a boomer or at least a child of the 70’s, you’re probably into self actualization. If you aren’t, you are; because it surrounds everyone of this country. Big business has turned a rather singular, personal quest for improvement into a cash cow.

Losing weight, exercising, tweaking your mind, mental issues, marriage/relationship problems, self help books, PBS tv shows with the newest Depak Chopra offering the a DVD that’ll show you how to improve your life. It’s all out there. Everywhere.

I was born this self help era into without even knowing it. I think my realization hit me when I saw a book on my mother’s table called, Your Erroneous Zones by Wayne Dwyer. I read it and barely understood it at twelve. But there it was, a guide on how to “get what you want out of life.” I thought my mom had everything she wanted, what would she be lacking? Well, chalk that up to an immature kid who hadn’t really lived life yet.

There have been, for lack of a better phrase, episodes in my life where I wanted to change course. The impetus for that was an acknowledgment, that came late of course, that what I was doing, who I was with; was headed no where.

One such episode I call the “Horton’s Lot” part of my life. I grew up with an odd mix of middle/blue collar class kids who were proto-criminals. Sprouting punks if you will. Defiant little pricks who acted out just to be free, or more likely, to expend a reservoir of anger that was created by god knows what in their pasts.

Horton’s lot was a parking lot next to a sprawling chemical complex called Teknor Apex that made just about anything out of poly vinyl chloride. We’d all gather there on most nights, more so nearer the weekend to hang out. The weekends it was a party spot where we all could drink and have fun. For some reason, the Pawtucket Police never bothered us. Till one night.

The lot of us just engaged in typical adolescent misdemeanor behavior. Drinking, smoking pot and driving drunk when it wasn’t the crime that it was today. But a select few of us, seemed to be gunning for something more exciting and dangerous.

One night, the police and a few detectives were spying on our group without our awareness. Then, like you see on cop shows, a bunch of police appeared out of nowhere and swarmed through our crowd. They blew past most of us and gunned for John Z. and threw him up against a car and slapped the cuffs on him.

After that commotion, I had to ask why they wanted him as I was clueless. Stacey said he had been involved in a armed robbery of a liquor store earlier that week. He was the ripe age of 17. Dumb shit he was. Up until that point, I had thought of John Z as an overactive, wanna-be tough guy looking for a lot of attention.

After that, I reevaluated why I was hanging around that crowd. I immediately stopped going there, to the consternation of everyone. Where is he? Why doesn’t he come down here? Have you seen him? To quote another criminal, Charley Manson, I had X’ed them out of my life.

Since then, I have X’ed others, jobs, attitudes and behaviors out of my life.

You can make course correction after course correction to what you think is better, and most of the time you’re right, at least 60% so. But it never satiates you does it? There is always a push for something “better.” Something else is lacking or there is something else you want.

Now that I think of it, Self Actualization isn’t just a phenomenon of the 70’s, it’s always been here. I’m sure there was some poor hard scrabble farmer a thousand years ago who wished his ears of corn could be fatter and tried something to make them so.

HA! All we did to the “I want MORE out of life” was to codify it from a movement to a quasi religion and finally a business venture.

Will I stop wanting more out of life? Hell no, I’m human.  We're all "looking for America" still.

I Have Many Stories...and I Can't TELL THEM!

I had a great idea to talk about. However, if I did, I’ll be crucified by the few who would know exactly what I’m talking about. The idea was “lushes.”

Hemingway wrote in A Moveable Feast that they used to call Parisian women drunks “poivrottes.” Poivrottes are loose, female rummies . He was referring to the class of people who frequented low life bars like the Cafe des Amateurs just prior to the outbreak of World War II. He specifically said of the bar and crowd that frequented it as “the cesspool of the Rue Mouffetard.” Ernest avoided it like the Plague.

　

And I’m going to stop right here.

*****

In other news, I’m on vacation. It’s probably the first “real” one I’ve had in years. Well, it’s probably the first typical one I’ve had that everyone else in the workaday world gets. What have I done with it so far? The first thing I did was to turn my brain off.

Summer time can afford you the freedom of turning your brain off. Go to the beach for 17 hours with your toes in the sand while sipping a drink and a shift will occur within you. Well, if you’re lucky enough it will. You relax. By the way, it’s not the alcohol that does it either.

Whimsical, carefree and breezy. That’s my idea of a true vacation. It‘s one where you can invoke a certain state of mind.  I was buying a ton of new clothing at the Emerald Square mall today and I was walking and purchasing in an easy lighthearted manner. Even competing with the rest of humanity driving on Route 1 in Attleboro, I was still buoyant. Now compare that with a vacation in Ibiza or the Caymans. A sunny attitude can be had anywhere and it’s probably the only thing that does matter, no matter where you are, doesn’t it?

My sprightliness has returned. I haven’t seen that in a long while. I’m going to make an effort to incorporate that…and a few other changes.

Narcissim and Christ on the Cross (sort of...)

I love taking psychological tests. I love reading about myself. Why not? In today’s age the entire country is about narcissism and it’s high time I jumped on board. Sing it with me, loud and proud…”ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME!”

The pop tests you can find on the internet don’t really measure anything. The better ones have reliability and validity tests done on them to make sure they actually work. Those particular tests actually do measure what’s inside of you.

One personality quirk about me is that I can throw myself into helping other people. Well, I’m not surprised by that since I started my career out of college in the social work world. But as you age, you learn why you are the way you are. And personalities beyond the age of 20 are pretty much set in concrete.

I had a conversation with a co-worker about this. I told her there are two types of people in the world. The nurses and the nursed.

There are those of us, who w/o thinking, help. It’s a knee jerk reaction. We help anyone who’s down. But, the problem with that is…are those who fail to walk upright on their own. Those people, who are quite capable of leading their own lives, give them over to someone else to lead. WE carry them. We nurse them. And like any fool, we learn too late when to drop their sorry asses into the dirt and realize that they’ll never learn to stand on their own. They were in no need of any “nursing” at all. They never wanted to lead their own lives.

We “nurses” need a triage system where we can correctly diagnose the wounded. We can list them as: Truly injured, Slightly injured, Needing a shoulder to cry on, needing someone to talk to. And…Faking it so bad because they just want out of working/being responsible/dishonest/unreliable…ok..you get the picture.

I”ve become better at this…and some I know have as well too.

I probably will never lose this aspect of my personality…and I don’t want to. It’s what makes me who I am to the very core. Though it’s tempered with some practical realties that there are those who will never learn to “grow up.” I will spend my precious efforts on those who need it.