I’m Ringing in the Brain

Does anybody know what freak of evolutionary biology is responsible for those annoying mental soundtracks that latch on like a unwelcome Occupy protester?

“Baa Baa Blacksheep have you any wool…”

There. I bet that got your music box going. That should be good for a few hours of “in-house” entertainment.

If only my problem was a steady loop of the White Room guitar solo or the opening riff from Spirit of Radio – I might be somewhat content.

Lately I’ve been renting head space to a buzzing noise that sounds eerily like that high-pitched hiss you’d get when cranking up an old Dolby-less cassette tape.

It’s worse than that – My brain goes up to “11.”

Childhood stories of Beethoven’s progressive deafness come to mind, and I am replaying my memories to see if I can recall licking the peeling paint off my crib or playing with colorful toys made in China (this would be before Nixon’s visit, so not likely).

It doesn’t seem to have affected my hearing in general. I still perk up whenever my name is called and tune out my kids whining like any respectable member of the male species.

But quietly concentrating for extended periods of time, like more than two seconds, is becoming a real challenge.

Writing this blog has taken almost a whole day – the noise rushes in and pushes ideas out. For real.

Imagine having an itch inside your skull that you can’t scratch.

This is utter madness.

I keep expecting the ringing to suddenly stop, to be followed by: “This was a test, of the emergency broadcasting system…” – but it never does.

My doctor isn’t really concerned about it; or if he is, he isn’t saying anything.

Even the great guru, Andy Weil has little comfort to offer other than several thousand units of Ginko – really just a wild stab in the dark.

Can I get an ear transplant?

A brain transplant?

I remember reading about a stutterer whose cure was to completely stop talking for months and relearn anew. I can’t exactly train myself to stop hearing.

Maybe those folks at Johnson and Johnson were on to something when they cautioned not to ram Q-tips (and Bic pens) all the way deep into my ear canal…

The Good Word for Today is: We all have noise in our lives that drowns out our ability to see, feel and appreciate. Find out what yours is and learn how to shut it off, or at least tone it down.

LJ

The View from Six Foot Two

Life is unfair.

You’d better get used to that.

I didn’t ask to be born with the genetic potential to rocket past six feet in height; but I’m not complaining about it either.

Yes, its true. All those tall, dark and handsome cliches. Don’t take my word for it though, there are plenty of studies out there confirming the eminence bestowed on the vertically unchallenged.

Better pay

Faster promotion track

Most beautiful women

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

http://www.businessinsider.com/why-your-image-is-everything-12-2011#beautiful-people-make-5-more-than-their-homely-counterparts-8

The amazing thing about tall people though, is that despite all that “the bigger they are, the harder they fall” Jack and the Beanstalk stuff – most of them do not let their inborn gift go to their head.

Which is not to say that tall people don’t have a certain natural swagger or confidence – we certainly do.

But by and large (argh, horrible time for a pun), you will meet more “big pussycats” and “big teddybears” than you will “big rattlesnakes.”

I cannot say the same when it comes to small people. By small, I mean any man who does not break the five-foot-seven barrier.

Every miserable moment in my life has been at the hands of men whose head would make a suitable resting place for my hoer doerve plate.

I speak, of course, about the Napoleon effect.

Put a tall guy in a room and every short-statured fellow seems to swell in arrogance and defiance – as if, indeed, they have something they need to prove.

Without Goliath there would be no David.

In my experience all those cliches about men who get into brawls only to make up over a beer ten minutes later, only hold true when the men in question are of equal size.

Just as we don’t literally see eye to eye, we don’t figuratively either.

I’ve never plucked up the courage to ask if smaller guys have the same deep friendships we tall fellows do. I suspect that when the pressure to outperform is off, they lower their hackles and give each other space to breathe. Unless they feel like toys trapped in a big wide-world – I really don’t know.

What I am convinced of, and I believe history bears this out, is that big men consistently err in assuming those smaller than they operate by the sames rules of play as they do. We underestimate the forthright statements made by this folk as the ravings of helpless madmen. We pat them on the head, don a bemused smile at their silliness and don’t see the danger until it is far too late.

All that wonderful height advantage amounts to nothing. In the end it makes us more shortsighted about the intentions of our adversaries.

The Good Word for Today is (boy, this was a negative piece): You can’t judge another till you’ve walked a mile in his shoes

…..or several steps on your knees.

LJ

Dire Straights

They say at the moment of death you perceive a brilliant tunnel of light beckoning you to doff your earthly shell and ascend into the beyond.

My brush with death does feature a blinding light, but it was of the cool, blue-halogen variety and very much of this planet.

No, I did not see Elvis or Jesus in case you were wondering.

On December 27th I will pause to reflect on the personal miracle I experienced one year ago that same night.

My wife and I were part of a heroic busload of friends on our way to Flushing Meadows to celebrate the wedding of two very special young people.

While some consider any jaunt into New York an act of stout heroism, this one in particular is worth noting for falling out the day immediately after one of the worst snow storms to hit the Tri-State area.  Remember Snowmaggedon?

We were The Thurston Howell’s trapped on the hapless Minnow heading into uncharted waters on a vehicle so hopelessly ill-prepared. It still boggles my mind how the bus company did not see the wisdom in packing a few SNOW SHOVELS for this excursion! But I am getting ahead of the story.

Despite a dumping of well over two feet of snow, I-95 was smooth sailing and we began to release some of the worry and tension that had been building the night before when it looked like the whole trip was doomed. We might even get there ahead of schedule!

Somewhere along a long overpass on the BQE we encountered a large snowfield that, remarkably, had been overlooked by the Transit Authority. About fifteen feet to our right a single lane had been cleared down to the pavement, but ahead of us for as long as we could see it was slippery, snow covered and littered with stalled out buses and cars.  Separating us from our freedom was a three-foot high embankment of snow the plows had piled up in the process of creating this single lane.

That was the moment we learned just how badly our bus company had blown it. No shovels, no rock salt; the driver didn’t even have any half-decent movies!

A group of us sprung into action and improvised a way to clear a path through the snow berm. You know those large orange and white traffic barriers that look like sturdy plastic barrels? Well, the truth is they are flimsy, cheap and make lousy shovels. I hope no one who works for the Port Authority reads this post – that was us who destroyed a pallet worth of those junkers as we buried them deep in the snow only to have them crack under the bulk of their load each time we extracted them.

True to their charming reputation, not a single New Yahwker stopped to offer us a hand or lend as so much a toothpick to help us clear our way.

Two hours later, exhausted, triumphant and thoroughly sweated up in my good suit, I headed back to the bus.

And then came a gust of wind. Gust? No, more like a blast.

The next thing I knew I was blown across a huge patch of ice, gliding at a speed that would make Apollo Ono jealous.

My trajectory is taking me away from the bus and straight into the oncoming line of really mad and impatient (did I mention before how nice they were?) drivers who gun their engines, excited to take advantage of our hard work.

And then I………..fall?

“What the?”

Is the bridge collapsing like the I-35 outside Minneapolis?

“This is unbelievable,” I think to myself.

My heart does not race, I feel at peace. I know the whole bridge must be moving in tandem with me and, any moment now, I will be dead as will my wife and friends on the bus (and those obnoxious drivers – maybe that is why I am relieved?).

And then I feel immense pain on my inner thigh and my tumble through space comes to an abrupt end.

The pain is so intense I suspect I might have blacked out for a moment.

I next remember turning my head to the left just as a car whizzes by, narrowly missing my now, seemingly disembodied torso that is parked in the middle of a major New York highway.

My right leg  fell through an expansion gap in the bridge before slamming into the metal joints.

No, my legs are not that skinny – that gap was massively large!

A split second later I am on my feet and limping away from the traffic back to the bus.

Seriously, I have no idea how I was not run over or how I was able to extricate myself so quickly.

I shudder when I think about how close I must have been to fracturing my femur. Stuck as we were in the middle of this G-d forsaken highway with no possible access to emergency vehicles I would have bled out a painful death with my wife and friends helplessly watching me fade.

Over the next twenty-four hours I developed a baseball sized lump at the impact point that made it excruciating to walk.

Sorry, no pictures!

(We made it to the wedding four-hours late and I danced with the groom as best as I could – he was so obliviously la-la landed I doubt he noticed I was favoring my left leg)

The Good Word for Today (and Everyday) is: Happy to be alive. Now EVERYTHING is possible!

LJ

Reach Out With Your Feelings

Carrie Fisher might not have been the Skywalker spawn to bring balance to the Force, but she is having a profound effect on the delicate balance I have been aiming for with this blog journal.

Having been infected with the Star Wars germ back when my hormones were waking up, I blame my old “geek” infatuation with everything Leia for remaining mildly interested in hearing what my old “flame” has been up to since vanquishing the evil empire.

My first re-entry into Fisher’s world came a few years back when her voice floated out of my car radio. I instantly recognized her distinctive proud and strident voice, but instead of shouting down a Wookie or talking the finer points of blaster technology, my queen of confidence was talking about….manic depressive swings? Bipolar disease? Drug addiction?

She had embraced the Dark Side!

While personally devastating, this downfall was apparently helping to resurrect her career.

A Broadway show, several books, the talk show circuit – I guess I was not alone in wondering if Leia’s sudden disappearance was the result of an unfortunate Hyperspace accident.

I’ve since picked up one of her books, the latest one titled “Shockaholic.” It’s essentially a witty ramble about many things centered around the theme of her experience with electroconvulsive therapy.

Well, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that someone who once wore cinnamon buns on her head actually has a razor sharp wit between the ears.  Its a shame really that this talent was not put to better use within the Star Wars franchise; she could have written dialogue with punch and purpose, not merely filler matter till the next great lightsaber duel.

By now you are clearly wondering what any of this has to do with my blog.

Since my very first post over two year ago, I’ve received a lot of valuable feedback from my readers.  While there have been some who express a reaction similar to mine of Fisher’s (Wow! I didn’t know you had the brains to write like this!) most note my frank openness, either questioning the wisdom or applauding my boldness.

Which is a tightwire I tread upon every time I commit a thought for publication.

It is human nature to respect and be intrigued by  the mystery that is another. Reveal too much and instead of wondering what novel idea might be floating around in that head of yours, people are more likely to wonder what incredibly outrageous statement will tumble out of your mouth next.

On the other hand, if you never take any risks and publicly state a position you give people very little with which to judge your character and know your depth.

Too much mystery is not a good thing either.

Practically, I don’t trust the motives of blogs whose owners hide behind clever nome de plumes.

And the stream of anonymous letter-to-the-editor contributors in the publications I read has me wondering just how free our society really is.

Of all the things this blog has served me, it has been an invaluable opportunity for me to practice boldness.

Not crazy, Carrie Fisher “I’ve committed all the seven deadly sins” bold, but real enough that my readers know where I am coming from, what I am dealing with and what I have to say about a good many things, without entirely giving away the store.

I for one am far clearer on who I am for having taken this journey.  If, as a result, others are softened and more real – that would be a welcome unintended consequence.

For what it is worth – this is my 100th blog post. If you’ve enjoyed the trip so far, repost and send around the world. To mark the occasion, I’d love to see if I can collect “Likes” from 100 different people or 100 different cities (why not both?).

The Good Word for Today is: Thanks for reading, sharing and for being real.

LJ

Stogie Stooge

I might be among the few people my age whose lungs have never tasted a puff of weed.

Just saying that.

Not that I need to be defensive about it or something. Those who know me know I drink on occasion (the right occasions, I think) so I have no reticence about putting harmful substances into my body.

I smoked for a while too, until my folks caught on and threatened to lock the doors when I returned from my studies abroad (I might be edgy, but I know who my friends are).

So how have I remained untainted all these years? If you would have asked me that question a few weeks ago I would have simply offered that I am immune to the effects of peer pressure. Operating as I do in my own little world, I already exist in an alternate universe, why mess with a good thing?

But that theory has all but gone up in smoke (moronic pun intended).

A new client arrived at our center with several boxes of premium cigars in tow. These were not just gifts to display his glorious magnanimity – they were his handiwork (he’s one of the premier makers in the world) and he felt we could not coach him effectively without first earning our Boy Scout badges in “Puffology.”

As the sales/set-up guy, not part of the actual coaching team, I was surprised at first when I received word that I had been invited to join in the high-noon session that would take place on the scenic grounds of our retreat center.

How cool is that? I bet not many people get invited to smoke-up at work!

The Dude abides….

But I had a moral dilemma. Do I say “No thank you” because I’ve really got a packed docket of calls to make? Or perhaps I should accept to show the client how much we really care about understanding him and his needs?

Unlike the battle that rages within whenever the Comcast bill arrives, I resolved this one quickly with an emphatic rejoinder: “Count me in!”

Thirty minutes later I am outdoors under a towering Gingko tree, massaging fire onto the tip of a luxurious hand-rolled torpedo surrounded by smiling coworkers who laugh and sparkle with every clever insight our client offers.

I take my first drag.

Our host/client regales us with fascinating cigar facts, like:  Cigar smokers live, on average, two years longer than most (two smelly years, mind you). And the incredible: While cigarettes contain over three hundred ingredients,  including broken glass and other ignoble fillers, cigars are as Lilly white pure as Mother Nature. “You can’t find a more natural product.”

Whole Foods, are you taking notes?

Armed with these salient facts and encouraged by the smiling faces and promise that the best part is yet to come, I lose myself in my thoughts as one hit becomes two, becomes a dozen.

And then I remembered that in the hustle and bustle of the busy morning, I forgot to eat lunch.

And then I hit the nucleus of the cigar, those magical inner leaves that soak up the most sunlight, produce the most chlorophyll and contain the most intense flavor.

Is headrush a compound word? Eh, what’s the difference?

Its been over twenty years since I last got drunk enough to schedule a gut-spilling session with my porcelain therapist – but you never forget that “Uh-Oh” moment when you know you’ve stepped over the edge.

Deep breaths now. That’s the secret. Hold on to the edge of your desk and BREATHE.

My office is next to the outside exit and I have but a vague recollection of shuffling feet moving past me, overlapped with hushed whispers (or snickers) as my head remained firmly plastered between my knees.

No, I did not hit my quota of calls that day.

The Good Word for the Day is:  Fancy cars, big homes, expensive vacations – Peer pressure lasts a lifetime. You may lick it in one place, but it will pop up somewhere else. Be prepared good scout and you just might earn a merit badge that’s really worth something!

LJ

Squeeze Pray

My wife always marvels how certain stupid jokes and songs seem to magically pass down generation to generation regardless of geographic limitations.

When our nine year old recently opened his mouth and exclaimed: “Liar liar pants on fire, hang them on a telephone wire!” it was clear the zeitgeist was at play. In our cellular age, who associates telephone and wire in the same breath?

Schools are very adept at keeping these rituals alive, such as the yearly acrostic assignment either centered around the first few days of school or some guilt-inspired minor holiday; typically the pathetic “Father’s Day.”

You know the drill. The kids write a word or name vertically and each letter forms the head of a word that either describes them, or as is the case with Father’s Day, spells a goofy platitude about what dad’s are good for.

I am quite certain there are many who share my unease with this particular annual rite of passage. While not a competitive sport per se, declaring yourself to be “Cool” (for C) or “Muscular” (for M) would draw out responses that fell neatly in line with the rules of other playground games. If you were cool, you got a pat on the back and nods of affirmation. But if you overstepped your bounds, you would pay dearly. Invariably some knucklehead would quickly paste a nasty variant that had the sticking power of Velcro and the burning shame of an emotional branding.

With two “L”s in my name, I would like to say that my choices of “Lucky” and”Lion heart” were met with cheers and approval. I won’t reveal all the alternatives I suffered, (why are there so many humiliating words that begin with L?) save for this one: Last.

Last to be picked (Right field anyone?)

Last in any race

Last to catch on to any joke

While I’ve shrugged off those other less savory appellations, this “last” thing lingers like fried fish in a submarine.

Nowhere is my lastness more pronounced than in the synagogue prayer service where a lifetime of repetition has yielded only the slightest uptick in speed and fluency.

I am hopeless. It does not matter how far in advance I arrive or how much extra time I allot to reciting the prayers, invariably, sooner or later, I am playing catch up.

My cadence puts me squarely out of step and out of sync with the entire proceedings. When everyone is singing, I am still trying to concentrate on my private devotionals. When I am ready to sing, that train has left the station.

It is a steady feeling of being out of place, out of time and somewhat out of space.

Back on the playground, there were only so many: “Yeah, I guess we’ll have to take hims” one could tolerate before drifting off to innovate a game that just fit better.  Those feelings are reawakening but this time there are far more rules and less room for personal creativity.  There will be no drum circles and chanting for me; no interpretive dance, and good Lord, no Internet-based “unity services.”

I built my Sukka very early this year – almost three weeks in advance. One evening I came home as the sun was setting and, instead of dutifully rushing down the block to the synagogue, I decided to pray alone inside our ramshackle booth. I marveled at the elongating shadows and magnificent hues of purple and orange that painted my makeshift temple. A far cry from the ever present, ever steady fluorescent blue glow that fills our place of worship and drains it of color, warmth and sometimes, meaning.

The Good Word for Today is: As long as they remain someone else’s WORDS they remain someone else’s WORLD.

LJ

Tallit of Terror

When in doubt as to the origin of a contemporary term, blame Hallmark.

The familiar  “High Holidays” used to describe the next three weeks of the Jewish Calendar fail to do justice to the ancient Hebrew expression: “Yah meem Nora-eem” which is properly translated as: “Days of Awe, or Dread.”

Which makes good sense -  because nobody goes shopping for “Have a dreadful day!” card to include with their hostess gift.

And dreadful they are for the vast majority of the MOT’s (Members of the Tribe) scattered across the globe.

Hours of mind numbing singing accompanied by lengthy, foot numbing standing, blended with a one-hour mind-numbing sermon – you never spent a more delightful afternoon in your life.

At least that is how I remember it as a teen, and a sentiment I believe continues to echo across the planet among teens and adults alike.

While I can happily say that today my attitude and expectations have developed and matured, I will not deny that there are some memories and associations that have time traveled together with me and occasionally bring me back to my younger self.

The prayer service is a great many things: part meditation, part communal prayer, part sing-a-long festival. It also aims to keep alive specific rituals performed in the Holy Temple which was destroyed by the Romans nearly two thousand years ago.

On certain special occasions (Rosh Hashana being one of them), members of the priestly family ascend before the congregation and bestow a triple-blessing (the original hat trick), a process that involves melodic chants and hand motions.

Tradition teaches that G-d Himself accompanies the priests when they bless the people, and so out of deference, men drape their prayer shawls over the heads to completely block any errant eyes. During this spiritually charged experience, fathers gather their young children under their shawls in a collective embrace. It is a really powerful symbolic moment.

According to my religious-for-life friends, next to the free lollipops, this ranks among their greatest childhood delights.

I guess it’s different when your first taste of tallit comes at fifteen. Cranky about being in synagogue in the first place, embarrassed in front of the pretty girls in the social hall who watch you dutifully fall in line when dad shows up with a beckoning “c’mon” wave to usher you on – it’s like: “Not now dad! You’re crimping my style!”

Add to this an unhealthy dose of sensory integration and that warm embrace becomes anything but.

Those black stripes are not decorative….they’re prison bars trapping me beneath a woolen mesh.

It’s hot and stuffy under there. The prayer shawl drops across my face and reflects back sour breath that can only be  the product of a big brisket dinner followed by sloppy oral hygiene (this was the days before breath strips – The only gum that promised kissable breath happened to not be kosher). I am starting to itch and sweat as the tune drones forever on. How sad that the first prayer to escape my lips that day is: “get me outta here.”

And so it is not a little bit of anxiety that awakens within me every time this scene is recreated in my adult life. Fortunately for me, if you can call it that, my kids have the same sensory issues I deal with so there is little chance or interest in lumping together under a hot blanket for a few close moments of fun-family itching.

But the anxiety is real and those feelings of sensory overload are powerful. If not managed they can threaten to overwhelm what has, for the most part, become a very special and much looked forward to period of time.

The Good Word for Today is: Every healthy relationship requires space and room to breathe. The larger the demands, the greater the need to take care of yourself.

LJ

The Silent Treatment

“Shut up!”

I don’t think there exist two words that deliver more devastating impact.

While profanities produce a jaw dropping effect, “shut up” silences like a slap across the face.

Shut down would probably be more appropriate.

To speak is to be free. The two are so intertwined as to make the expression “freedom of speech” a redundancy.

Self-knowledge is a product of our ability to talk things through; to hear ourselves out and uncover the stories that lie at our core.

To a large degree our confidence is built on successful communication of ideas to others and the judgments we make about how those are received.

But shut ups are all around us.

Shut ups are found in the sinister politeness of PC

Shut ups are found in the unspoken rules that govern family dynamics

Shut ups are found in the workplace where fear of repercussions lock teeth, set jaws and rob power and dignity

To not be heard, to be afraid to share what is in your heart is abuse at its worst.

We often play the “What would you do if you won the lottery?” game with our children.

I know exactly what I would do

I’d raise my hand and tell Pat and Vanna I don’t want to buy just a vowel – I want to buy a whole bunch of words.

And I don’t mean the “take this job and shove it” variety

I mean words from my soul

Painful words

Deep words

Words like: “you hurt me”; “I’m so disappointed with how you treated me” and “you let me down.”

When you work for a fickle Caesar who decides your livelihood with every twist of the thumb, and I have done so more than my fair share, you tolerate a lot more abuse than perhaps is wise, and it exacts a horrible price.

What they think is compliance is actually a loss of self, creativity and drive.

No, that is not a comforting embrace having your fingers firmly gripped around my privates.

My millions would buy me power and courage

Eye to eye contact

Calm confidence

An open heart

Carefully chosen words

And peace

You can’t simply push me around anymore.

The Good Word for Today is: While we can never control how someone will react to our words, we should not be crippled into silence by this fear.

LJ

Yours, Mine and Theirs

For four years now my folks have been gearing up for their big trans-Atlantic move.

By now, most people would already be on their way back.

So what has taken them so long to get up and go?

Fear of the unknown?

Worry about the children they’re leaving behind?

A lunatic seller who demanded more money for his apartment after he realized they had gotten a sweet deal?

Yeah. Probably a bit of all the above. And then some.

But if the thought crossed your mind that its taken them the better part of four years to move all their STUFF, you’d also be on to something.

The generation of children who grew up when neighbors were digging nuke shelters in their backyards have a special attachment to things. It’s a peculiar neurosis that wears many guises.

“You never know when you might need one of these!”

“How can I get rid of that when he/she clearly put so much thought into picking it out for me?”

“Look at how valuable my baseball cards are today! Imagine what this will fetch on e-bay in another ten years!”

And so on.

Anything to hang on to those precious bits of detritus for another day.

The really funny thing is that if you ask them why they can’t simply call any of the ubiquitous Junk haulers and have their stuff carted away; the retort is invariably that they are doing this for YOU. So that YOU and your children will have family treasures of your own.

Generation gap approaching…Ready…..set….LEAP!

Nobody is ever…EVER going to read those old Psychology Today magazines from 1967. Everything in them has been disproved, and frankly, after twenty years packed in a box under the stairs…the only remotely scientific value would be studying the black mold growing between the pages!

And even though we all laugh at the cleverness of the old: “grandparents and grandkids make great friends – because they share a common enemy” that does not necessarily mean they share a common taste in clothes, artwork, serving pieces or furniture.

Every visit to the old homestead included an invitation to case the house and stake out a claim on a family heirloom. Four years, and my stash amounts to a few books, a half dozen bottles of mysterious hot sauces from my dad’s collection and dibs on the small television from the kitchen (for watching DVDs! We don’t do TV.)

Try as I might, I could not picture most of their stuff fitting in with the décor of our modest home. Considering their house is nearly three times the size of ours, there isn’t much room even if we did want something of more substance. These are your things, your life, your taste, and not mine.

A few weeks ago everything suddenly changed.

This latest realtor iteration must have gone to the Heinrich Himmler school of real estate. No longer can mom and dad continue to park their stuff in their home, absolutely everything must go, down to the last spoon and twist tie in the kitchen – It must be Judenrein if its going to sell.

That’s it – I am never going home again. Our June visit will have been the last time to sit on the couch in our cavernous living room; the last bowl of cereal to be eaten in the kitchen while fondling the hardened pieces of gum under the counter where I deposited them twenty-seven years ago.

Suddenly it no longer matters whether their stuff matches any of mine.  There is far more to that chipped water pitcher than aesthetics; its not a memory, its a piece of me – and how do I let that go?

The Good Word for Today Is:  The genuinely sensitive know that conservation is not about making a better future – it’s that mistreating the world you live in is like spitting in your own glass.  Every object and every person has their place and time.

LJ

Park Your Nose At the Door

Everyone has at least one childhood friend whose house smelled like wet dog…or worse.

Just writing these words is making my nose wrinkle as I recall how that first wave of pungent odor would slam into my face like a tsunami the second the threshold was crossed.

That moment of shock invariably generated two immediate thoughts:

“Holy Cow! Whatever that is, I hope its not on the menu for dinner!”

“Geez! I wonder if my house smells too?”

Of course, Joey or Nancy never seemed to mind or notice, much as we all manage to deal with our own body odor and other room enhancing smells people produce (not suitable for this blog, but you know what I mean.)

They say scents are the most powerful way to trigger recall. Yesterday, a post workout experience at our local JCC  awakened this memory with the force of a sledgehammer between the eyes.

There are many emotional hurdles to cross when you join a health club that have little to do with a commitment to sticking to a routine and all that: “no pain, no gain” stuff.

Specifically – the Men’s locker room.

Getting comfortable with the idea of being naked in front of other people.

Getting comfortable with seeing other people naked, especially people you bump into frequently in other situations.

Getting comfortable with sharing a large, open shower following a lifetime of “dropped soap in the shower” jokes. Our JCC actually has liquid dispensers nailed to the wall – I guess they’re trying to alleviate some of that anxiety.

And just when you think you’ve got all that behind you (no pun intended), there is always room for one more surprise.

Even before I walked into the steam room I noticed a peculiar smell; somewhere between fresh basil and willow bark.

As I quickly pulled the door shut I felt and heard a crunch from beneath my feet. Wrapped in a blanket of confusion from the heavy, hazy air I was struck with terror that a few blindly placed steps might have brought about the demise of someone’s precious collection of pet Madagascan hissing cockroaches. The floor was littered with large, blackish, crunchy things.

A moment later I noticed a burly Russian spread out on the sole bench and realized he had his face buried in what looked like a large bouquet of some exotic, leafy plant. It might indeed be Madagascan, but at least it didn’t move on its own volition.

Is this how they get high in the old country?

“Okaaaay.” I thought, as this new reality settled in.

“Whatever floats your boat.” (probably not a good cliche for this picture).

Like Joey’s stinky house, after a brief adjustment, the smells mysteriously went away. It’s incredible how we humans adapt.

And that was just the moment where in walks another large, naked Russian who pulls the wad of branches from beneath his comrades face and begins whacking and dragging them across the supine’s body.

“Oh gosh, get me the heck out of here!”

I was not going to wait for him to turn to me and wave me to the floor with a grunt and a sweep of the hand.

I’m all for cultural differences and understanding, but to a limit.

The Good Word for Today is: The hardest thing we can learn is to see ourselves through someone else’s eyes. What sort of weird habits and idiosyncracies might we be better positioned to fix if we could do that?

LJ