existential, adj.

Teller got home from work about 5:00 on Friday. He put down his stuff by the front door, sighed heavily, plopped onto a chair in the bedroom…

…and immediately starting weeping.

His body was achy all over and he was bone-tired. Although it had been a mostly-manageable week, given that it was spring break and campus was very quiet, fatigue and depression seemed to permeate every cell of his being.

Teller had taken two vacation days during the week, though, and for a little while there, he felt almost human. On Wednesday, he spent some time in the morning at his favorite Starbucks reading a dissertation proposal in preparation for an upcoming conference-call committee meeting. While immersed in this academic pursuit, he felt as relaxed as he had for a long time, perhaps several months. Alas, the feeling disappeared when he packed up and moved on to other activities. Even when he went to a movie during that same afternoon, he realized his free-floating anxiety was back and that he was not breathing well, his gut all tightened-up.

On Thursday, his anxiety took a break again for a couple of hours while engaged in a FaceTime conversation with one of his favorite people in the world: the Ph.D. student from Portlandia whose committee meeting was imminent. But, then, it was back to the feeling of off-centeredness, tense body, and problematic bladder.

Friday morning, Teller went back to work, wondering how can this possibly be my life?

Injury, Recovery, Fitness, Health & Change

The Fourth of July this year promised to be a good-weather day for the entire Bay Area, so I took advantage of this prediction and hopped on the 11:40 ferry into the city to spend a few hours doing my walkabout-photography thing. It was a very nice day to do this, as it turned out, so I was feeling pretty pleased with myself (for both the photos and the exercise) as I boarded the 4:30 back to Larkspur. However, despite the incredible, sunny, 70-degree downtown weather, the water in the bay was very choppy, and it was offering up a lot of sea spray as I sat in the back of the boat during the first few minutes of the trip. I decided I didn’t want to endure this for the entire ride and got up to change seats. Just as I stood, the boat took a particularly big jump in the water, and I was tossed onto my backside: my right shoulder hitting one of the solid plastic benches that are permanently affixed to the deck.

As I clumsily pulled myself up, I was in agony. I thought that I’d probably pulled a muscle (or something); I could barely move my arm. I sat there in over-the-top pain for the remainder of the trip, not knowing much except that I’d be making a stop at the emergency room right away. At the ferry landing, I filed an incident report with the ship’s captain, then drove myself, one-armed, to the hospital. Upon examination, and x-ray, the ER staff determined that I had broken my scapula (shoulder blade). Yikes!

I drove home with my arm immobilized in a sling. I endured some pretty incredible, constant pain for the first couple weeks or so. I hibernated for awhile, and stayed away from work, but eventually I started moving again. Within ten days of the incident, I had seen an orthopedist, had a CT and MRI to gather more information (and determined that my shoulder didn’t need surgery), and had kept my first appointment with a physical therapist.

It took about thirteen weeks, a quarter of a year, to get mostly back to “normal.” To facilitate the healing process, I was a model physical-therapy patient, doing my routines at least 2 or 3 times every day. My recovery was “uneventful”, as the orthopedist said, and I feel fine now.

Well, mostly.

The side effect that I didn’t anticipate seems to have been due to my greatly reduced level of physical activity during the recovery period. (At least this is my current working hypothesis.) I have been feeling more and more anxious for several weeks now, including dealing with some pain in my chest (a long-standing anxiety symptom for me). I think the longer I was inactive due to my injury, the less able I was to cope with my myriad, underlying anxiety issues. Of course, the worry haunted me for a quite awhile that this pain wasn’t merely anxiety, but indicative of a heart problem. Hence, I went to see a cardiologist and took a stress EKG test (the one involving a treadmill), along with a stress heart echo (sonogram). According to these procedures, my cardiac function is fine. Whew!

I just joined a local fitness center, and I have my first appointment with a personal trainer this week. I need to get more active, and it seems this would be good way, what with winter coming on and all. (My walking routine typically suffers in bad weather.) Exercise has always been the best way for me to cope with my anxiety and depression woes.

It really is time for a change. Wish me luck.

Soundtrack Suggestion

If you knew that you would be alone,
Knowing right, being wrong,
Would you change?
Would you change?

If you knew that you would find a truth
That brings up pain that can't be soothed
Would you change?
Would you change?

(“Change” - Tracy Chapman)

Social Media & Whatever Happened to the Class of '65

It was a little over two years ago when I first signed up for Facebook and then wrote about my initial experiences and impressions here. At that time, I admitted I had little idea what was I was doing or what it meant to be so affiliated. However, I also reported that, quite rapidly, as a result of Facebook and Twitter, I felt “less alone” in the world.

Time has marched on, and I believe I have a much better handle on the whole social-media scene now than I did then. Over the last couple years, I’ve tweeted and Facebooked (yes, I used that as a verb) much more than anything else I’ve done online, including posting essays here. My level of online activity really hasn’t diminished at all … it just changed direction. The biggest reason, I suppose, is that Facebook and Twitter are much more interactive: there is simply more two-way communication with other people than there ever was with this blog. A lot of the time, this site has been like a very long (and sometimes boring) lecture; Twitter and Facebook have the capacity to be more conversation-like.

Not everyone is with me here, though … as I am repeatedly reminded. There are tons of people my age who remain as uninterested in online social networking as I once was, and totally stay away from such activity. In fact, I may be the oldest person among my (as of today) 657 followers on Twitter and my 107 friends on Facebook. Earlier this year, I learned that just 7% of all Facebook users are in the 55-65 age bracket (see graph).

So, it would appear that my level of online activity just might put me in the top few percent, or even fraction of one percent, of my contemporaries in terms of social-media savvy.

Apparently, I’m not alone in recognizing my relative uniqueness.

Last weekend was the 45-year reunion of my high school class (in Rice Lake, Wisconsin). I did not attend the gathering because of its rather inconvenient timing (this was the first time we’ve ever held a reunion other than in the summer months). However, I still happened to play a part in the events of last Saturday evening. During the MC’d program after dinner, it was proposed that a class website be set up as we all do the five-year countdown toward our 50th (gasp!) reunion in 2015. One former classmate suggested that the best person for the job would be ME, and, by acclamation, I was elected to make such magic happen.

Hence, being so honored (?), I wrote a few emails, tried to figure out what the heck the expectations were, and just generally spent some time figuring out what we (that is, I) might do.

My decision, supported by those I’ve consulted with, was to construct a group for us all on Facebook, using their just-released (four days ago) “new groups” feature. It is now up and running. (I don’t waste time: give me an assignment, and I do it!) Two days ago I sent out an email to everyone (who submitted an email address to our reunion organizers) announcing the availability of the new group (with some simple instructions about joining Facebook). Right now, we have thirteen members. (I think we have about 200 surviving classmates at this time.)

So, now there’s a small core of us waiting to see how many former classmates will join us in this social network. (I think it would be nice, perhaps amazing, if this experiment actually works!) 

Soundtrack Suggestion

When I think back on all the crap I’ve learned in high school
It’s a wonder I can think at all…

(“Kodachrome” – Simon & Garfunkel)

Update on October 11, 2010:

I should acknowledge…

Of course, the title of this entry is somewhat a rip-off of the title of the 1976 book What Really Happened to the Class of ’65? by Michael Medved and David Wallechinsky.

Henry, Mariette, and Me

I woke up yesterday, Saturday, in a state of utter exhaustion, feeling rejected and somewhat depressed. I emailed a friend who I had plans to see and said that I was on the brink of getting a migraine and was going to opt out of getting together.

Still, it turned out to be a very interesting day…which happens to be the reason I just love life: you get up in the morning and never have any idea, really, of what’s going to happen.

I had started the week out on Monday by interviewing for a job in Portland…a position that had great appeal for me. I was supposed to find out on Friday if I had made it to the finalist stage. I didn’t hear a thing, so I suspected I was due for a rejection letter or phone call sometime soon. Having lived in a state of limbo and sleeplessness for the week, as the weekend arrived, I was very tired. And, now, I was trying to cope with my rejection issues.

Somehow, I thought, I’ll be able to recover and move on…though it may take awhile.

But the day, yesterday, as I have suggested, was not all negative.

Henry Aaron hitting home run No. 715 on April 8, 1974.

When NPR Weekend Edition was on, I listened to Scott Simon interview Howard Bryant (of ESPN.com, and Weekend Edition sports commentator) about his latest book The Last Hero: A Life of Henry Aaron. Having grown up in Wisconsin in the 50s and 60s listening to, and a fan of, Milwaukee Braves baseball (and Hank Aaron in particular), I was excited to learn of this new book. I knew I had to have it, and have it now.

Therefore, I was moved to show up at the nearest Borders store in the afternoon at around 1:30. As I walked into the store, I noticed a couple of posters announcing that actress Mariette Hartley was scheduled to appear at 2:00 p.m. for a “conversation and signing” of her book Breaking the Silence. (The newly-self-published, recycled version of her 1990 best-seller.)

Hmmmmm, I thought. Mariette Hartley. I wonder what she looks like these days.

Well, moving on, I proceeded to find the Aaron biography, and carried it around while I browsed the fiction section; I also selected an Anita Shreve novel to take home, and then proceeded to navigate the long line at the checkout counter.

It was just turning 2:00 when I exited the store. As I was passing by the big front windows, I spied Mariette Hartley sitting at a table facing a part of the room where about 20 or so chairs were set up…and totally empty. No one wants to see Mariette Hartley?, I thought. Incredible.

I took my purchases to the car and then went back into the store. There were now two women sitting in the front row, chatting a bit with Hartley, but that was the sum total of the audience. Hesitantly, I approached and took a seat in the second row.

Hartley looked at me and smiled as I sat. It was a couple of minutes after 2:00, and she asked a store employee how to proceed, and was informed that “it’s your show.”

“Well, let me just start out by reading a little bit and then we can go from there,” she said to the three of us.

So, read she did: perhaps a couple of pages. She then talked a little bit more about her grandfather, her parents (her father’s suicide and her mother’s alcoholism), and her own mental illness (bipolar disorder). First one, then the other, of the two women in the front row asked some questions. She ultimately turned to me and asked, “what’s your name?”

“Jim,” I said. “And I do have a question. You mentioned a minute ago that your mother ‘swore you to secrecy.’ I guess you were talking about your father’s suicide? How long did you keep that information locked inside?”

With a deep intake of breath she hesitated, and then said, “oh, my..I think you’re going to make me cry.”

And, really, it didn’t seem like she was acting.

We continued talking a little bit longer, during which time more of her story emerged. I then said, “you know, I’m pretty amazed at how this day is turning out. I came into the store this afternoon because I was in search of the new Henry Aaron biography, which I heard about on NPR this morning, and I end up talking to Mariette Hartley about the intimate details of her life. How great is this? It looks like I’ll be taking home a biography and an autobiography this afternoon.”

She was very pleased that I was going to buy the book, and then signed it for me.

On the dedication page which says,

To my beloved family –
past present, and future

she wrote,

To dear Jim!
Bless you and your beloved family –
Lovingly
Mariette Hartley

Then she stood up and gave me a big (and genuine) hug…something, on this day, I really needed…and appreciated.

(Oh, by the way, at age 69, she still looks totally great.)

Today, again, I’m smiling.

Living Authentically

I don’t talk much about my dating life here. But I do have one. This mostly-unmentioned part of my existence involves an embarrassingly large number of approximately-one-hour, one-time meetings with women I’ve met online.

Lamentably, I still have hopes of finding “the one.”

When I do talk about “dating” (oooooh, how I hate that word), I often comment on the high percentage of women who engage in some sort of deception. Mostly, their dishonesty takes the form of lying about age and/or posting photographs, on their online profiles, that are very dated. But there are other topics that are exaggerated or misleading, as well. For example, I’ve met women who claim to do this or that for a living, but it turns out they don’t do this or that at all.

I was recently provided with yet another example of this kind of behavior.

Last week, I received am email from a woman who said:

Hi,

We seem to share many common interests -- reading, writing, photography, personal/spiritual growth, qualities we think are important in a relationship partner...and more. I'm curious to know more about you. 
If you resonate, please drop me a line.

Best wishes.

[no signature]

The vital statistics she listed about herself, height, body-type, age, etc., seemed consistent with her photograph. She was attractive and had produced a very appealing profile narrative. Her listed age was five years younger than me.

I wrote back and we agreed to meet for a short hike (weather permitting) on (Super) Sunday (before the game). During the week, when we were making these plans, I offered her my cell-phone number. On Friday, she finally emailed me her number when I reminded her that I didn’t have it…just in case we had to change plans if the weather wasn’t cooperating.

She also indicated she didn’t have a cell phone. And that she didn’t check emails during the weekend. [Totally not my lifestyle, but what the heck (I thought to myself).] She also didn’t furnish a last name, but I Googled her phone number and was rather surprised at what I found. So, Friday night I wrote back:

Hey Gaylene (not her real name),

I know you said you wouldn't be at the computer this weekend, but thought I run something by you just in case...

There seems to be weird information out there on the internet. Your phone number yields a Gaylene Luvall, but also leads to other Gaylene’s with last names of Anderson, Drake, Damasch, Swelton, and Wexler. And an age ten years older than your profile.

Good ol' Google must be confused??

-jim

As it turns out, Google was not confused.

Google hardly ever is.

When we met (yes, I showed up…I was curious), and asked her about these issues, she expressed surprise that so much information was “out there.” She never did tell me exactly what her age was or how she got all those “aliases” (which is what the web page I found called them). She said that she really hadn’t been married THAT many times. And proffered the argument that age is a state of mind. I countered that chronological age is a precisely a matter of biology and arithmetic.

Gaylene (again, all these names are made up…I don’t have the intent to “out” her) is a therapist and life coach (presumably). She said that in her practice she helps people “live authentically” and she, herself, places a high value on honesty.

All I can is: wow. Be careful out there.