The Confession

      I have a confession to make.  It seems to upset quite a few people.  I’m always in my car when I do this thing.  I am normally alone because I have to be.  When people are with me and I do this they look at me like I beat puppies.  They roll their eyes and in some cases yell at me.

     “What the hell are you doing?”  “What are you thinking?”  “Not with me in the car?”  “I have places to be.  We don’t have time for this shit!”

     I’m not trying to do anything nasty.  I’m not doing it to be a clown or a pain.  I have to admit, I love doing the posted speed limit.  

     This hasn’t always been the case.  Most of my cars have seen speeds north of 120 miles per hour.  There have been acts of raging stupidity on two lane dirt roads with no visibility.  There has been hydroplaning in summer and sliding across ice in the winter.  I have been lucky enough to have walked away from every accident I’ve been in where I was the driver.  

     I don’t know what prompted doing the speed limit.  It could be that there was a significant gas savings.  Adaptive cruise control may have helped.

     For those who don’t know, this is where the car uses its sensors to gauge the space between the car in front of it and itself.  It then uses those sensors to keep a set distance between the two vehicles.

     This means if the car in front of me slows down, the car I’m driving slows down.  I found this out by renting a car when mine was in the shop.  At first I hated it but by the end of the weekend I loved it.

     When I got my car back I embraced the local cruise control life.  I wasn’t slamming on my breaks when I came around a corner and a police car was parked with its radar focused making its quota.  I wasn’t racing other cars just to meet up with them at the next stop light.

     In the past I used cruise on the highway.  I had a 50 mile drive on a relatively straight run for about 8 years.  Would typically leave the house at 5:45 in the morning.  There weren’t many cars on the road until the last 5 miles.  When you have to squeeze every last gallon out of the tank, every little bit helps.

     Turn the interior lights to their lowest setting.  Keep the heat and AC off until you absolutely need them.  Keep the windows rolled up.  Turn off the radio.  Pin the cruise somewhere between 55 and 60.  This can add an extra 5 to 10 miles in a pinch.

     The adaptive cruise control in the rental just let me set it and forget it.    I could just put my mind on autopilot.  My main car doesn’t have adaptive cruise.  It’s 14 years old.  I’m happy the Bluetooth connects to my phone most days.  It’s just regular cruise control so I still have to pay attention to make sure my hood doesn’t end up in the trunk of the car just ahead of me.  

     BUT that’s the thing about doing the posted speed limit.  There aren’t a lot of cars just ahead of me.  They are WAY ahead of me.

     The cars behind me, though, that’s a different story.  I have seen people get unreasonably upset when they are behind a car that is driving the speed limit.  This is especially true when they can’t pass.  I have had lights flashed at me.  People have beeped their horns like they were an ambulance headed to the hospital with a life and death emergency.

     I didn’t set the speed limit.  I didn’t write the rules.  The rules were written for me and have always been imposed on me.  I think that’s why I’ve hated them so much.  It’s amazing how people react when you embrace the rules they’ve set and then expect them to follow the rules they’ve set for you.

     When people finally do get a chance to pass I have been flipped all manners of the middle finger and called every derogatory name you can imagine.  I am not a complete asshole.  If I realize people need to pass and it’s safe enough to do it, I pull off to the side and let them pass.  I know what it’s like to really have to get somewhere faster even if you don’t want to be where you’ve got to go.

     The angriest people seem to think the rules are for OTHER people to follow.  If you check the history of the most ardent rule follower you will typically find the most historically egregious rule breaker.  Hell, I’ve been north of 120 miles/hour many times. When you check to see who wrote the rule, you will find a person who themselves could never follow it.

     I mean they set the limit.  They wrote the rules.  But the rules were written for other people, people like me.  The rules were written to be imposed on other people, people like me.  I love doing the posted speed limit especially when the people who wrote the limit for me are forced to follow that same limit themselves.

The Saab, The Suit & The Shake

      In June 2016 I took my car to my mechanic.  I felt a bit of a shake in the wheel.  I was in the Monday suit because it was Monday and I was on the way to work.  He came out with a look of concern.

     “Where did you drive this from?”  I had just come from a weekend at my Mom’s place, 55 miles up north.
     “The family spot,” I said matter of factly.  “You know. I stay up north every once in a while.  Help Mom out with errands and groceries.”
     “Didn’t you feel the wobble?”  Their eyes widened.  His apprentice had joined him.
     There was a spot on route 8 south where you could just open up.  There was no place for the police to hide.  On a good day, like that day, I would drop from fifth to third gear and the Saab would roar to life.  She would jump from 70 to 100 miles per hour in a matter of seconds.  That morning there had been a bit of a shake.
     “Yes, I felt a little wobble,” I said, neglecting to mention the 100 mile an hour morning.  “That’s why I’m here.  Is it another bald spot on the tire?  Are we at threads already?”
     It had been 4 years and 92,000 miles.  The majority of the service had been oil changes.  This was the replacement, the in between car.  The engine had blown on the first Saab due to overwork and general neglect.  I felt obligated to get it fixed because my lack of maintenance was the reason the engine blew in the first place.
     Three weeks after the repairs were done, it was destroyed by a tree on a back road in northwestern Connecticut. 
     The car between Saabs was a Nissan Altima.  That car ran for 4 years and 104,000 hard highway miles.  This was when I first experienced the shake due to tire wear.  The Altima did what it was supposed to do until it didn’t and eventually couldn’t.  This car, this inexpensive little Saab, was supposed to be a holdover until I could afford the car I wanted.  4 years and 92,000 miles later, I still wasn’t there.
     “You’ve got to come see this,” the mechanic said, shaking his head.
     New tires for the Saab were $600.  If I could get away with replacing the two bald tires today for $300, I’d be back in a month to get the other two when I had some more space open on the credit card.
     I walked onto the shop floor.  The tires didn’t really look all that bad.
     “See this?” He walked over to the front driver’s side tire and gave it a good shake.  It was solid.  No movement.
     “Yep.”  I said.
     He walked over to the passenger’s side front tire.
     “You see this?”  He barely touched it.  The whole wheel wobbled.
     “Oh shit,” I whispered through my teeth.
     “If you hit a pot hole just right, this wheel will fly off.  2 of your brake pads are at 3%, 1 is at 10% and one is at 5%.”
     “How is that possible?”
     “Because your back right brake is frozen open.”
     “I,” I started
     “You’re e-brake is disconnected.”
     I felt my shoulders drop.
     “What are we looking at?”
     “Give me a few minutes to write this up.”
     My shoulders were at my knees.
     I went back and sat in the lobby.  I immediately began looking for cars online.  As much as I loved this car, it had only cost me $2800.  It was supposed to be the holdover car.  It had taken me back and forth to work for a solid 4 years and had taken 92,000 miles of craziness.  As much as I loved the car, there had to be limits.  I couldn’t justify, let alone afford, more than $600.
     “We can have you up and running for $1800.”
     I heard the laughter before I realized it was me.  “Can I get it home?”
     His eyes widened.  “The tire could fly off.”
     “Not up north,” I clarified.  “The local spot.”
     “I mean you can but, I really wouldn’t recommend it.”
     “I … I,” I stammered over my words.  I was in the suit.  What I was about to say didn’t make sense.  “I just don’t have it.  I don’t have $1800 to spend on a $2800 car that will need another $1500 in 6 months.”
     He looked at me with the eyes of a man who just lost a sale but he also seemed genuinely worried.
     “Yes, you can get it home, but DON’T take the highway and, for god’s sake, don’t go over 35.”
       I just wanted to make sure I could get home.  I didn’t have to head back north for a little while.  I had a local place to park the car and lay my head.  Once I got there and took a few deep breaths, I could take time to make time to make a delicate decision without an immediate sense of urgency upon me.
     The suit and Saab may have been solid but they hid the fact that if I hit even the smallest bump in the road, the wheels would fall off.

The Q-Tips

     “It looks like she got a ride home from one of her friends,” I said as I sat back down.

     “I just can’t … wow,” Karen said, looking deep into the middle distance.

     The waitstaff was wandering from table to table making sure everyone was ok.  Two or three of the bussing staff were cleaning up the area closest to the dance floor.

     “I thought they were just playing around until she slapped him.”  Karen put her right hand over her mouth and blinked like she was trying to bring herself back from deep space.

     “I didn’t see it.  I heard it,” I said, “ but I knew it was bad because I heard it over the music.”

     Karen had finally convinced me to stop by a new local spot she found.  It was between my house and my Mom’s place so I had no excuse.  There was a band playing she had heard about from one of her colleagues.  She was there for support.  The colleague was interested in the bass player and didn’t want to seem like a groupie.  Karen wanted me to stop by so if her friend got wrapped up with the bass player she wouldn’t be the single woman in the bar.

     I felt like the only person in the bar still wearing a mask.  It was me and one other woman but her mask fell just beneath her nose.

     The band was used to catering to an older crowd.  The songs were late 60’s through mid 70’s pop tunes with one or two popular songs from the early aughts and the mid-teens.  You could tell they were used to the older crowd because you could still talk to people next to you and hear yourself think while they played.  The music didn’t pin you to the wall or push you out the door but you could feel it and like it.

     It was like they had set up a dj a bingo night.  There were a lot of older folks getting up and dancing.  When I was younger, I worked at a movie theater.  There were certain showings that were mostly the older crowd.  It was all silver, grey, and white hair.  It looked like a sea of Q-tips from the back of the theater.  The dance floor looked like a sea of Q-tips moving to the groove.

     The couple in question was in their mid 40s or early 50s.  They had been handsy and flirty most of the evening.  The drinks had been flowing like water.  The incident came out of nowhere and was over in seconds.  By the time I turned around after hearing the slap, he had already flipped two tables near the dance floor.

     There were a few tense seconds where it seemed like this 6-foot-tall man was going to attack this 5-foot-tall woman and the few people around him.  The band stopped playing and stepped back from the edge of the stage.

     He balled his fists so tight it seemed like his fingers were trying to push through his palms and wrap around themselves.  You could see the gravity of the situation set in his face.  The dance floor split as he stormed out.  You could hear his vehicle tear out of the parking lot.

     The older women in the crowd tried to make sure the younger woman was ok but she was already on her phone.  She ignored all of them and kept to herself.  In about 10 minutes her friend arrived to take her home. 

     Everyone tried to pretend like nothing happened but you could feel it in the air.  The band started playing. Karen’s colleague decided to stay and take time to make time with the bass player.  I walked Karen to her car.  Her gaze was still deep in the solar system.

     “Are you ok?” 

     “I just … I thought of Tony … “.  There was a sinking feeling in my chest.  I’d known both Tony and Karen for years.  I had been there for both of them during the divorce.  I was the one who hadn’t taken sides or played politics between the two of them.  I was friends with Tony and Amber, his current younger girlfriend.  I had also seen Karen through her various attempts to date since everything was finalized.

     There were things neither of them had told me.  I was hoping not to hear the worst.

     “Did things get that bad between you and Tony?” I asked quietly.

     “No.  It was the opposite.  There was nothing.  It was like he crawled into a void of emptiness and silence.”  She leaned against her car and let the darkness of the night wash over her.

     The light of the police car broke the darkness.  It did a quick drive through the lot then got back on the road after a quick talk with security.

     “Is it crazy to wish,” she said, “that there was just something more near the end?  I didn’t need flipped tables or public slaps.  I just …” her voice trailed off, “I just wanted him to feel something, anything.”

     She put her head on my left shoulder and exhaled.

     “Don’t get me wrong I’m not advocating domestic … “

     “I know.  I know.”  I said putting my hands up in understanding.

     “You’re gonna to be all right,” I said, now looking straight at her as she leaned against the driver’s side door of her car.

     “You’re damn right I will,” she said with solid confidence.  Her thousand-yard stare was coming into focus.  Her eyes met mine with a smile.  Her hug was deep, strong, and resilient.

     She beeped her horn as she turned to head home.  I used my remote to help me find my way to my car.  Karen’s hug felt like her soul had pinned itself to mine.  I wasn’t pushed out the door.  I could feel it and I liked it. 

190

 Me:  So my doctor and I have been talking and she has a few suggestions.

My Body:  I know I was there.

Me:  Yes but I don’t think you were listening.

My Body:  I don’t really have a choice in the matter.

Me:  You’re being literal.

My Body:  Why are we actually having this conversation?

Me:  I think I’m going to implement some of the changes she was talking about.

My Body:  Do tell.

Me:  She suggests we go from about 190 to somewhere between 160 and 175.

My Body: 160

Me:  Excuse me.

My Body:  She said 160.  You countered with 175.  See you’re already giving me reasons not to trust you.

Me:  What I’m saying is that I’m going to give it a try.

My Body:  Good luck with that. 

Me:  Hey, maybe we could…

My Body:  Nope.

Me:  But…

My Body:  Nope.

Me:  20 years ago we did this.  Hell even 10 years ago.

My Body:  At neither of those points in time did the first number in your age begin with a 5.

Me:  I figured we’d give it a try.

My Body:  By we you mean me.

Me:  I mean us.

My Body:  No.  You mean me.  You are an entity that occupies this physical structure.  I am the physical structure that has to try to comply with what ever seemingly simpleminded shit you come up with to try.

Me:  Wow this is a strange conversation.

My Body:  How do you think it sounds to me?

The Relapse Lottery

      Every time I don’t play the lottery I feel like I’ve won.  I know that I am not going to win if I play.  The odds are against me.  I am so non-committal when I play that I just do quick picks.  It would hurt my feelings to put time and effort into personal numbers (birthdays of loved ones, some variation of my name in numbers, the numbers of the streets I’ve lived on, etc.) and still lose.  The money spent on the tickets is normally a loss.  Anything heavily promoted to you is designed to take something from you.  It might be your money, your attention (so they can put more ads in front of you), or your time.  

     It sneaks up on you.  Just when you think you’re ahead of things you blink and the world has somehow passed you by.  In the worst case scenario, it has caught up to you and put you in the situation you were trying to escape, again.

     Maybe you’ve got a little bit comfortable.  You had a feening for that good feeling and forgot about the fuckery that follows.  You tell yourself it’s just a text to say hello.  You tell yourself the whole bottle won’t disappear this time.  You tell yourself the credit card will be paid off as soon as the bill comes in next month.  You tell yourself she really is leaving him.  There are just a few complications that need to be worked through, but it’s really happening … this time.

     You know the slogan is backwards.  “You can’t win if you don’t play” should read, “you’re being played so you can’t win”.

     You can only plant your feet so deep.  You can only drop your shoulders so low.  You can only close your eyes and breathe for so long.  

     Burying the first layer of pain with a second layer of pain does not make the first layer go away or hurt less.  It gives that third and fourth layer fuel and incentive to grow faster and burn hotter.

     It’s so easy to call for a quick ‘pick me up’, grab a nip at the local liquor store, snag a loose cigarette from the smoke shop (because buying a whole pack is almost as expensive as half a tank of gas), or find yourself in a house/apartment/club/car you know you shouldn’t be in thinking about the bed/couch/bathroom/backseat you know you’re going to be in if you don’t leave right now.  But you’re still there.

     This is the lottery.  This is the game.  It’s so easy to say ‘Don’t play’.  It is.  BUT the rush you get is so good right up until the moment you realize you’ve lost.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t some non-committal quick pick.  You were playing with the hearts of loved ones, some variation of your soul, and the promises you’ve made to yourself.  This is deeper than your attention, your money, or your time.

     This is the fuel for that third and fourth layer.  This is the fuckery that follows.  How do you stop?

     You plant your feet deeper.  You drop your shoulders lower.  You close your eyes longer.  You keep breathing.  The deeper you plant your feet, the harder it is to pull them up to run to the house/apartment/club/car/liquor store/smoke shop.  The lower you drop your shoulders the longer it takes to reach out for that ‘pick me up’.  The longer your eyes are closed, the easier it is to envision where you want to be rather than where you are.  The longer you keep breathing and envisioning and dreaming, the more time you have to figure out how to step aside and comfortably let the world pass … for the moment.  

     Take time to enjoy the ride.  Trust me, you’ll get where you need to go.  Just because you didn’t play someone else’s game the way they wanted doesn’t mean you lost.  Sometimes not playing their game is the best way.  Not doing something that makes you feel worse about yourself is the best way to win.

     I’m not saying don’t do hard things.  I’m saying don’t do hard things that have no stakes.  Don’t do things that only hurt you and your loved ones in the end because even if you win that lottery you still lose.

    Feet planted.  Deep breath taken.  Shoulders dropped.  Eyes closed.  Future envisioned.  

The Tirade About Squats

I have been doing assisted squats this week.  It’s best when holding on to a door knob or a counter top. Things feel a bit looser but they are still shitfucks of misery.

This is followed up by stretching and crying of course.

By day 3 it got better but those first few days were pure fuckery.

For example, I still see stars after the first 10 squats.  Have finally gotten up to 25.  Without assistance it is just a test of balance. With assistance it is a respectable depth … of pain that leads to soul searching.

I’m getting to the age where the only thing hard about my body is living in it.

Doing squats gives me the same feeling I get when I've been hit really hard and there's a strong possibility I might pass out.

I spread 50 squats over the course of a day.  It can be 5 sets of 10 or 2 sets of 25 or 3 sets of 15 with one set of 5.  Most are assisted (holding on to something).  None are that deep (like me in my 20s) and they all hurt.

They are supposed to help loosen up the psoas (muscles that hate my ass) but the only body part that feels worked out are the tear ducts.

Honestly, I’m happy to be able to do this exercise to strengthen the core and build endurance to keep going.

And, fuck squats.  The two feelings can coexist.  I don't just say this because I look like a fat duckling that’s about to fall over when I do them.  It’s because they suck.  My cat looks at me like he’s worried then he remembers he has an auto feeder.

Strangely though … I LOVE burpees.  They are possibly listed in the Geneva Convention as things you can’t do to prisoners BUT I can do a set of 5 to 10 every hour on the hour.  Go figure.

Maybe the jumping out of a squat makes the soul think it is ascending to heaven without actually trying to send me there.

As far as squats vs burpees, my burpees make me look like a hand sculpted Egyptian God standing in the golden sunset.  My squats make you wonder if I just shit myself.  Go figure.

Tirade complete.