Christmas was pleasant for me, for the first time in . . . maybe for life? Well, it was pleasant. We had a relatively quiet family dinner at the new office. (Damn, I just have to get some pictures posted of that place.) And the day prompted my usual random thoughts - which, characteristically, I now inflict upon you.
Something my wife gave me as a Christmas gift was a book of photography and poetry by Gerry Spence. Spence is the (accurately) self-styled "Best trial lawyer in America." My admiration of him is almost boundless. The photos are of his Wyoming, which he loves as much as I love my Mother West Virginia. And his poetry is sensitive and revealing and even soaring. Seeing that gives me sort of "license" to write poetry again - if a manly guy like Spence can do it, it must be OK. (I know that's a stupid association to need to make.) And maybe even I'll take up some photography. Note to myself - Talk to Ragamuffin about cameras. We already have a big-ass printer.
My father-in-law gave me a pocket knife. Frankly, I don't know what the habits are of people elsewhere, but here it is most common to carry a knife. I've read condemnations of all blades in magazines, generally in liberal rags, the kind I favor. Give me a break. A crazy with a baseball bat is a whole lot more dangerous than me with my pocket knife. Hmmm - Maybe someday I'll take a baseball bat and a pocket knife through security at a courthouse, and see which gets seized. In any event, this knife that my father-in-law gave me was my favorite brand, "Buck." I have several of their knives, for every occasion, the oldest of which I received when I was about 10. They are made in Idaho, by American craftsmen. So I thought. I looked on the box, and there were chilling words: "Made in China." This is appalling. I went to the company website [buckknives.com], and apparently they still do some manufacturing in the United States - and they don't mention any overseas manufacturing. But this is an indicator of how terrible are the inroads that China is making into American craftsmanship and manufacturing. China uses essentially slave labor, pennies a day labor. American companies save enough on labor costs to more than cover the shipping to the United States. (Containerized shipping, is it the Achille's Heel of American Labor?) In a Wal-Mart-ized economy, saving pennies per unit is an adequate excuse to send American jobs offshore. Buck is a high end, recognizable brand, universally noted for quality, and it is having some of its products made in China . This is particularly troubling.
One thing i found on the Buck package insert and again on their website is interesting - and this will sound peculiar coming from me - it talks about their philosophy of business and that they have always considered God the Senior Partner in the firm - what a good sentiment. It's good enough, I think, to talk to my partner about using. I know that I am somewhat profane and rather unconventional. I think religious "authority" is ridiculous. No person is authoritative enough or wise enough to intercede with God for me. S/he will have to accept me as I am, without interpretation. Anyway, I think that "God as senior partner" thing is a good idea, which reflects our values. (My partner is a trustee of her church. She has found it humorous that I have helped her ghost-write some fairly pious offerings for the congregation.)
One of the books I received (everybody knows, if they don’t know what to get me as a gift, give me a book, and they have done a good deed) was a quarto size book about Scouting. I read it this afternoon & evening - really got into it. I am discouraged about Scouting today. When I was a kid, it was still OK to wear a Scout uniform, it was a matter of pride, and the scouting community, both youth and adult, was respected. The politicization of the movement is killing its good works and positive message of belonging and self-reliance for young people. All of the bullshit about gays and atheists is distracting those within the movement and has misrepresented our hearts to those outside the movement. Scouting is needed today. The fact that kids now would largely prefer to sit on their asses and play computer games bothers me greatly. And I recognize that I'm real hypocritical with that observation, given my physical condition - maybe I want better things for these kids than I myself had or did.
Perhaps I’ll expand on one or more of these topics later. These were just the things stirring around in my mind tonight.
Merry Christmas to all. Mizpah!
Roger
Monday, December 25, 2006
Friday, December 22, 2006
Thursday, December 21, 2006
God bless us, every one.
This has been a strange year for me. (Perhaps I'll elaborate in future posts.) I have never enjoyed Christmas. I have always read each Christmas Dickens' A Christmas Carol, and I think wished without much expectation that I would have a redemption event and find happiness from some helpful spooks, like Scrooge did.
For some ethereal, unexplainable reason this year, I have a positive attitude about Christmas. My partner has decorated our office like Ho Ho Hell - Two Christmas trees, wreaths on the three outside doors, garland and lights on all the mantles and stair railings and outside bannisters, candle-lights in every window. And I love it. It's cheery, and it's happy. I even put on some Kenny G Christmas music on the CD during a staff meeting today. I just don't understand me.
Well, I'll go with the flow. God bless us, every one.
Roger
For some ethereal, unexplainable reason this year, I have a positive attitude about Christmas. My partner has decorated our office like Ho Ho Hell - Two Christmas trees, wreaths on the three outside doors, garland and lights on all the mantles and stair railings and outside bannisters, candle-lights in every window. And I love it. It's cheery, and it's happy. I even put on some Kenny G Christmas music on the CD during a staff meeting today. I just don't understand me.
Well, I'll go with the flow. God bless us, every one.
Roger
Monday, December 11, 2006
Days of Candor: A Personal Journey (Part 1)
Dear Friends -
For several days, I've gotten ragged by various Shelfers to "update [my] blog." I haven't posted here in a while, partly because my mind has been stirring around about the blog and what to post next.
My mind works in a peculiar way, I think. I don't write things out on the computer, finding the right word, or the right phrase as I go along. Rather, I write in my mind, and when a composition is essentially finished, I sit down and let my mind dictate to my fingers. I write my articles and reviews and even briefs that way, and have for three decades. Such is the writing today. I've been thinking a lot about "Truth" for weeks now. Somewhere just South of Truth is the Land of Candor, a far harder place to experience intelligently or comfortably.
It is to the Land of Candor that I go today.
I have a mental picture of everyone in this pleasant place of ours. In my mind's eye, Kathryn is an exotic, alluring blonde in the Mae West tradition, sultry as she reclines on the recamier. Emma has bright eyes, and a knowing smile, the Mona Lisa of our group. Allan is tall and lanky, and flows when he moves, the Simon Kenton of Long Island. Well, I have a picture of each of you. There are only a few people here who I have seen - Pete, Doreen, Lubee, Robert, Spidey, and Orbie, for they have pictures on their blogs. I wonder, what mental picture do you (none of whom have met me in real life) have of me? In your minds, am I an aw-shucks looking country boy in chinos and a plaid shirt? A button-down tight-ass lawyerly-looking type? Am I handsome? Witty? Clear of eye, and steady of hand? And here, I smile - I can see so many different images of myself through my imagination of your eyes, and all of them are wholly flattering to me.
The Truth of course, is different. But the Truth is often hidden, and we keep it locked up tight. Only when we go to that Land of Candor can Truth roam around a bit.
Sometime shortly after this is published, I intend to post a picture of me. I confess, I can't promise when that will be: I am quite hopeless on the technical details in this electronic world. I am a fountain pen kind of guy in a digital dimension. So that will be, perhaps, your first visual hint of the physical being who is "Roger."
When you see me in real life, or even in a photo, the most striking impression is not of my manly and distinguished moustache, my square and forceful jaw, my alluring salt & pepper hair, or even my keen and twinkling eyes. The first striking impression is that I am fat. Not "stout," not "portly," not "solid," but fat. That is beyond doubt the first thing that people notice about the physical me.
And how fat? Now that is a curiousity. Our body type and our gross appearance are the most visible parts of us, the parts that you can see accurately from 50 yards away. And yet we guard the numbers, the quantification, quite jealously, as if by hiding the numbers, our images will somehow morph into something pleasanter and more pleasing, or that our bodies will become magically sleek in the corporeal world, becoming the look that we so desperately yearn for. How silly. And I smile - there is hesitancy in my fingers, as if Secrecy (the polar opposite of Candor) wants me back in her clutches.
The numbers: Height, 6' 2"; Weight 480 pounds (216 Kg).
That is, I bet, shocking and disgusting to you. Well, it's not shocking to me, I live it. But it is disgusting and loathsome, nevertheless.
But I smile again, and look for qualifiers. After all, I reason, to some I look about a hundred pounds lighter. (I drive "The Guesser" at the carnival berserk - I always win the teddy bear.) And in some respects, I am massively strong. (But, hey, if you are even minimally active at my weight, you can't haul around that weight without at least some muscles.) But the fact remains: I am grossly, disgustingly fat. I am a self-indulgent sinner, addicted to, of all things, food. Of course I am - Just ask anybody.
The process of addiction is something that I don't understand very well. If I did, I suppose I wouldn't be addicted. I quit drinking when I quit living alone, but that was maybeless of an addiction than a nightly holiday. For some reason, I found an ethereal quality that just let me lay aside the booze. True addiction, I am told, is where the sufferer (not victim, which implies no possibility of control) uses the object of the addiction to create a state which blanks out the harsh feelings and realities of his/her existence. I don't know for sure. But that rings true. When I am in the place where food is all that exists, nothing else intrudes, and life is good.
Come with me for a while, and visit my life, my life as a fat person. Oh, you'll find a much more complete and better written description in Living Large: A Big Man's Ideas on Weight, Success and Acceptance, by Mike Berman, the noted politcal strategist. But these are my poor attempts to describe my life.
I talk and post about the farm, and the outdoors generally. Oh, by the way, and this is off the subject, but there really is a black bear or two on the farm, and I have named him/her Bubba. (The name of the farm is Wishekwanwe Moquegke - Shawnee for "Wind Hills." It's near the proverbial head of the hollow, and is a small valley bounded on three sides by ridges.) One of my best friends (if I could figure out how to put a footnote in this damn thing, here is where I would put one - I have about 8 best friends, that is, loving friends so close to me that I would not think of "ranking" them in any sort of order. Of my blessing in having these people in my life, perhaps that will be another part of this Personal Journey of mine.), er, where was I? Oh, yes, one of my best friends is a judge and a woodsman extraordinaire, who compliments me now and then on my rudimentary woods skills. He says that I can name the species of a bird from its shadow on the ground. Well, I can't do that very often, but if the point is that I get out in the woods, and that I know which end of the binoculars to use, I'll take credit for that. I get great pleasure in walking in the woods on the farm, at the boy scout camp, and elsewhere. One thing that West Virginia has in abundance is places to walk in nature. In my life, of course, there are a lot of limitations on that. If you look at a topographical map of farm (the USGS publishes those), the highest point is at the northwest corner and is 1603 feet above sea level. The meadow and the old barn sit at about 1100 feet. The horizontal distance from the farm to the point is around 1000 feet. Do the math: It's a hell of a steep hill. It has been years since I have climbed that hill, and I honestly don't know if I could do it now if all of our lives depended on it. That saddens me, more than I can put into words. I'm restricted to the meadow and only partway up the hills, where I must sit and rest and recover my breath and slow my heart rate. And on the rare occasions that I flush a deer or a quail, I cannot chase them and enjoy the lush freedom of running in my woods.
My everyday life is like yours, or anyone's I suppose. Except that I have to constantly be aware, and make a continuous adaptation to the world of the 99% non-super-obese people. I am nervous around chairs. I look carefully, and decide if the chair looks strong enough to hold me. I'll often ask someone to switch chairs with me, and I'll make a little joke about "man sized men." A couple of years ago, my loving partner ordered me a special desk chair, one that is robust in the extreme. I was so touched that I wanted to cry. But that would be "the tears of a clown," and not to be seen in polite society. I am usually unable to use booths at restaurants, something that I bet you use absolutely without thinking about it. Today I had lunch with one of those best friends, a minister, at a little restaurant called the "Poky Dot." It's a remarkably retro place, with glaring pastels and a real juke box. Mostly, the seating is in booths, but we went extra early to get one of the tables. Well, we didn't go early enough. So I looked at the one vacant booth, measured the space with my eye, and decided that I could JUST make it. And I did. My friend said that I looked really uncomfortable there, which of course I was. But I told her, it's reality, it's what we have to do. A week ago, I was having dinner with my mother as we were on a shopping jaunt near the University. The greeter at Applebee's led us to a booth. I had to explain to her that booths just don't cut it for men my size. She was sooooo embarassed. So was I, but to show it would violate some obscure rule in my mind. I laughed, told her it was not a big deal (a lie, but one well intended) and asked if she could give us a table. Cars are another problem. Somehow, my pocket rocket fits me fine. Maybe there are a lot of fat German engineers, I don't know. But other cars don't make it. My son drives his Chrysler PT Cruiser, an economical but relatively safe car. I can't drive it. I don't fit. Gross? Yes, I think so. But it's the truth, my truth, my life. The thought of an airline trip is anathema to me. I am essentially barred from flying coach, or even from purchasing a single seat. Next week, I have a deposition in an important case in Philly. I've never been there, but according to Mapquest, it's a 7 hour drive. At my speed, I'm thinking 6-1/2 hours, tops. But it's still a long haul, and surely would be nice to have the option of hopping a plane. But that option just isn't there. What will I do if I ever have to go to L.A.? I honestly don't know, I just don't know. Stairs are another barrier to me. I've indicated elsewhere that we have a new office, which is located in a grand old, huge house. The downstairs is given over to conference rooms and interview rooms. Because our "working offices" are often overrun with files and paper, they are hidden in a spacious second floor, and there is a grand staircase decorated with large stained glass panels. (Someday soon, I'll try to post pictures.) It's an old house with high ceilings, so the staircase is quite long. When I need to go up the staircase, I take a deep breath, and go slowly, one step up, lock the knee, next step up, lock the knee, and keep on until I reach the top. Going down is also tricky. My center of gravity is pretty high, and the muscles which balance me are not proportionally as strong as yours, so I am at risk of falling. Walking in the winter is a similar problem, because my balance is WAY below "normal."
Life in my daily activity, in my profession, is touched by my obesity. In my work, I meet lots and lots of people in all sorts of settings. I like nothing more than standing in front of a jury when it is my client's life that is in issue, and I think that I do that well. But to get there, I have to prove to every new prosecutor, every new insurance company lawyer, that I am a fit opponent, and prove that I should be taken seriously. Remember the "jolly fat man"? He's a myth, but one who is widely accepted. Just standing is sometimes a problem, too. When a client is doing a "plea colloquy," he or she is having a really long talk with the judge. In our state courts, the clients must stand to do that, and it is only fitting that the lawyer stand, too. The judges I most frequently practice in front of know that that's just not always possible for me, and they let me sit. But when I do, I am sorely aware of my limitation.
There is a financial reality to super-obesity, too. I don't go to Wal*Mart clothes shopping, nor can I go to local clothing stores. I either shop online, or make a run to specialty stores in Pittsburgh, 100 miles away. Oh, and shoes, those are a problem, too. Allen Edmond makes a hell of a shoe, but it's not designed to take the kind of abuse I would give it. So, online I can find athletic-type shoes made for referees which are all black, and acceptable for all but jury trials. (My son calls them "old man shoes," and I think he's right.)
In my mental life, my emotional life, there are other costs. I am never invisible in the presence of others, I do not ever blend into a crowd. I can think of nothing more delicious than going to Wal*Mart and being unnoticed. Wherever I go, I see shock or distate in other people's eyes. Often, I hear derogatory comments, some intended for my ears and some not. Sigh - as if they think I don't know I'm fat. It is always instructive to meet people with whom I've interacted by email or phone - I have a bright and booming voice with a mild regional accent, and I don't know what people expect in the physical world after talking to me. Well, what they get is me. All of these reactions isolate me and drive my thoughts inward. I am the wallflower of wallflowers.
It is also a fair question to wonder about my love life. I won't go very far there. It's really strange - I have loved and been loved in many ways by remarkable women. Damn if I understand that.
There have been three times in my life that I have been genuinely fit. At age 18, I lost weight on a low-carbohydrate diet, and reached 180. I was strong, as 18 year olds generally are, was very active, and even ran some distance. It didn't last. Then, at 33, I went on one of the first of the fasting-type diets, and went down to 175. At that weight, I ran long distances, and thought (correctly, I think) that I looked pretty good. I will always remember running on a beach in North Carolina at that time. As I ran, I passed some attractive women, and they actually whistled at me. Wow, that was the first time that ever happened. Well, that period of fitness didn't last long, either. By the way, at that time, I was obsessing about weight, and I really think that I was actively mentally ill. (Oh, did I mention? I'm bipolar. LOL. Definitely I will visit there in another part of this Personal Journey of mine.) And at 46, I went on another fasting diet that lasted 13 months, and went from 450 down to 250. That wasn't nearly as low as I had gone before, but time in the weight room over the years let me carry that 250 pounds well. Again, it didn't last. Every time, I defeated myself. I had attacked the effect, weight loss, but was too fucking stupid to see the cause: addiction to food.
At various weights, for years I was able to work as a really busy volunteer paramedic. My weight in those years was in the high 200's, and low 300's. Rocky can tell you how grueling EMS work is - it takes strength and stamina. Strength, I had. Stamina, I barely had. Right now, I am going to a specialty gym, at 5:00 AM, three days a week. There, I'm slowly regaining some upper body strength and just a touch of stamina - nothing remarkable, nothing to brag about, no big change in body weight - just a little, just my way of trying to hang on until some ineffable quality that I'm seeking will appear in my life and again let me be normal and feel normal - if that ever comes.
Ah, what about the risk of mortality, that is something that I should be acutely attuned to from my EMS experience. I remember working a cardiac arrest on a 45 year old guy who weighed about 550. Rocky will tell you how absurdly difficult it is to get an IV in a super-obese person. Ultimately, I stuck him in the foot to work the arrest. Rocky can also tell you lots about carrying the super-obese down stairs, and how often she has to call an engine company to come and help with the lifting. There are sooooo many other examples of mortality of the super-obese that are commonly known. Remember John Candy? A wonderful, sensitive, positive guy - Dead at age 43 of a heart attack. There is another example closer to me. You probably have never heard of Herman Kahn. He was one of the 20th century's greatest scholars, and was the first scientific futurist. He is best known for writing the books, On Thermonuclear War, and Thinking About the Unthinkable. (Remember the doctrine of Mutually Assured Destruction? That was Kahn's work.) He was even the inspiration for the "Dr. Strangelove" character in Stanley Kubrick's 1962 movie. And he was a fat guy who didn't or couldn't control that one part of his life. The result? Death of a heart attack at 61.
So, for Heaven's sake, why don't I "fix it"? Why don't I exercise will power, reduce my body weight to something healthy, and scrupulously maintain that? It's a fair question. I don't do it - there must be a reason. Is it the addiction? Lack of character? Comfort in loneliness and social isolation? Some "drama queen" quality? Honestly, I don't know. This should be the longest paragraph of this post, but it may be the shortest. I honestly don't know. I am looking for or waiting for some indescribable quality, the same quality that let me lay aside drinking. And I don't know how to find it, and I feel lost.
I haven't done this post for you - oh, you are my audience, you and some others to whom I've emailed this diatribe. But I haven't done it for you, or for them. I've done it for ME. As old as I am, I am still learning and trying to be a better person, a truer person. This writing tonight is just one step in living Truth, and becoming more congruent with it. Like Popeye, perhaps, I am who I am. And I have to live with that.
More later.
Mizpah!
Roger
For several days, I've gotten ragged by various Shelfers to "update [my] blog." I haven't posted here in a while, partly because my mind has been stirring around about the blog and what to post next.
My mind works in a peculiar way, I think. I don't write things out on the computer, finding the right word, or the right phrase as I go along. Rather, I write in my mind, and when a composition is essentially finished, I sit down and let my mind dictate to my fingers. I write my articles and reviews and even briefs that way, and have for three decades. Such is the writing today. I've been thinking a lot about "Truth" for weeks now. Somewhere just South of Truth is the Land of Candor, a far harder place to experience intelligently or comfortably.
It is to the Land of Candor that I go today.
I have a mental picture of everyone in this pleasant place of ours. In my mind's eye, Kathryn is an exotic, alluring blonde in the Mae West tradition, sultry as she reclines on the recamier. Emma has bright eyes, and a knowing smile, the Mona Lisa of our group. Allan is tall and lanky, and flows when he moves, the Simon Kenton of Long Island. Well, I have a picture of each of you. There are only a few people here who I have seen - Pete, Doreen, Lubee, Robert, Spidey, and Orbie, for they have pictures on their blogs. I wonder, what mental picture do you (none of whom have met me in real life) have of me? In your minds, am I an aw-shucks looking country boy in chinos and a plaid shirt? A button-down tight-ass lawyerly-looking type? Am I handsome? Witty? Clear of eye, and steady of hand? And here, I smile - I can see so many different images of myself through my imagination of your eyes, and all of them are wholly flattering to me.
The Truth of course, is different. But the Truth is often hidden, and we keep it locked up tight. Only when we go to that Land of Candor can Truth roam around a bit.
Sometime shortly after this is published, I intend to post a picture of me. I confess, I can't promise when that will be: I am quite hopeless on the technical details in this electronic world. I am a fountain pen kind of guy in a digital dimension. So that will be, perhaps, your first visual hint of the physical being who is "Roger."
When you see me in real life, or even in a photo, the most striking impression is not of my manly and distinguished moustache, my square and forceful jaw, my alluring salt & pepper hair, or even my keen and twinkling eyes. The first striking impression is that I am fat. Not "stout," not "portly," not "solid," but fat. That is beyond doubt the first thing that people notice about the physical me.
And how fat? Now that is a curiousity. Our body type and our gross appearance are the most visible parts of us, the parts that you can see accurately from 50 yards away. And yet we guard the numbers, the quantification, quite jealously, as if by hiding the numbers, our images will somehow morph into something pleasanter and more pleasing, or that our bodies will become magically sleek in the corporeal world, becoming the look that we so desperately yearn for. How silly. And I smile - there is hesitancy in my fingers, as if Secrecy (the polar opposite of Candor) wants me back in her clutches.
The numbers: Height, 6' 2"; Weight 480 pounds (216 Kg).
That is, I bet, shocking and disgusting to you. Well, it's not shocking to me, I live it. But it is disgusting and loathsome, nevertheless.
But I smile again, and look for qualifiers. After all, I reason, to some I look about a hundred pounds lighter. (I drive "The Guesser" at the carnival berserk - I always win the teddy bear.) And in some respects, I am massively strong. (But, hey, if you are even minimally active at my weight, you can't haul around that weight without at least some muscles.) But the fact remains: I am grossly, disgustingly fat. I am a self-indulgent sinner, addicted to, of all things, food. Of course I am - Just ask anybody.
The process of addiction is something that I don't understand very well. If I did, I suppose I wouldn't be addicted. I quit drinking when I quit living alone, but that was maybeless of an addiction than a nightly holiday. For some reason, I found an ethereal quality that just let me lay aside the booze. True addiction, I am told, is where the sufferer (not victim, which implies no possibility of control) uses the object of the addiction to create a state which blanks out the harsh feelings and realities of his/her existence. I don't know for sure. But that rings true. When I am in the place where food is all that exists, nothing else intrudes, and life is good.
Come with me for a while, and visit my life, my life as a fat person. Oh, you'll find a much more complete and better written description in Living Large: A Big Man's Ideas on Weight, Success and Acceptance, by Mike Berman, the noted politcal strategist. But these are my poor attempts to describe my life.
I talk and post about the farm, and the outdoors generally. Oh, by the way, and this is off the subject, but there really is a black bear or two on the farm, and I have named him/her Bubba. (The name of the farm is Wishekwanwe Moquegke - Shawnee for "Wind Hills." It's near the proverbial head of the hollow, and is a small valley bounded on three sides by ridges.) One of my best friends (if I could figure out how to put a footnote in this damn thing, here is where I would put one - I have about 8 best friends, that is, loving friends so close to me that I would not think of "ranking" them in any sort of order. Of my blessing in having these people in my life, perhaps that will be another part of this Personal Journey of mine.), er, where was I? Oh, yes, one of my best friends is a judge and a woodsman extraordinaire, who compliments me now and then on my rudimentary woods skills. He says that I can name the species of a bird from its shadow on the ground. Well, I can't do that very often, but if the point is that I get out in the woods, and that I know which end of the binoculars to use, I'll take credit for that. I get great pleasure in walking in the woods on the farm, at the boy scout camp, and elsewhere. One thing that West Virginia has in abundance is places to walk in nature. In my life, of course, there are a lot of limitations on that. If you look at a topographical map of farm (the USGS publishes those), the highest point is at the northwest corner and is 1603 feet above sea level. The meadow and the old barn sit at about 1100 feet. The horizontal distance from the farm to the point is around 1000 feet. Do the math: It's a hell of a steep hill. It has been years since I have climbed that hill, and I honestly don't know if I could do it now if all of our lives depended on it. That saddens me, more than I can put into words. I'm restricted to the meadow and only partway up the hills, where I must sit and rest and recover my breath and slow my heart rate. And on the rare occasions that I flush a deer or a quail, I cannot chase them and enjoy the lush freedom of running in my woods.
My everyday life is like yours, or anyone's I suppose. Except that I have to constantly be aware, and make a continuous adaptation to the world of the 99% non-super-obese people. I am nervous around chairs. I look carefully, and decide if the chair looks strong enough to hold me. I'll often ask someone to switch chairs with me, and I'll make a little joke about "man sized men." A couple of years ago, my loving partner ordered me a special desk chair, one that is robust in the extreme. I was so touched that I wanted to cry. But that would be "the tears of a clown," and not to be seen in polite society. I am usually unable to use booths at restaurants, something that I bet you use absolutely without thinking about it. Today I had lunch with one of those best friends, a minister, at a little restaurant called the "Poky Dot." It's a remarkably retro place, with glaring pastels and a real juke box. Mostly, the seating is in booths, but we went extra early to get one of the tables. Well, we didn't go early enough. So I looked at the one vacant booth, measured the space with my eye, and decided that I could JUST make it. And I did. My friend said that I looked really uncomfortable there, which of course I was. But I told her, it's reality, it's what we have to do. A week ago, I was having dinner with my mother as we were on a shopping jaunt near the University. The greeter at Applebee's led us to a booth. I had to explain to her that booths just don't cut it for men my size. She was sooooo embarassed. So was I, but to show it would violate some obscure rule in my mind. I laughed, told her it was not a big deal (a lie, but one well intended) and asked if she could give us a table. Cars are another problem. Somehow, my pocket rocket fits me fine. Maybe there are a lot of fat German engineers, I don't know. But other cars don't make it. My son drives his Chrysler PT Cruiser, an economical but relatively safe car. I can't drive it. I don't fit. Gross? Yes, I think so. But it's the truth, my truth, my life. The thought of an airline trip is anathema to me. I am essentially barred from flying coach, or even from purchasing a single seat. Next week, I have a deposition in an important case in Philly. I've never been there, but according to Mapquest, it's a 7 hour drive. At my speed, I'm thinking 6-1/2 hours, tops. But it's still a long haul, and surely would be nice to have the option of hopping a plane. But that option just isn't there. What will I do if I ever have to go to L.A.? I honestly don't know, I just don't know. Stairs are another barrier to me. I've indicated elsewhere that we have a new office, which is located in a grand old, huge house. The downstairs is given over to conference rooms and interview rooms. Because our "working offices" are often overrun with files and paper, they are hidden in a spacious second floor, and there is a grand staircase decorated with large stained glass panels. (Someday soon, I'll try to post pictures.) It's an old house with high ceilings, so the staircase is quite long. When I need to go up the staircase, I take a deep breath, and go slowly, one step up, lock the knee, next step up, lock the knee, and keep on until I reach the top. Going down is also tricky. My center of gravity is pretty high, and the muscles which balance me are not proportionally as strong as yours, so I am at risk of falling. Walking in the winter is a similar problem, because my balance is WAY below "normal."
Life in my daily activity, in my profession, is touched by my obesity. In my work, I meet lots and lots of people in all sorts of settings. I like nothing more than standing in front of a jury when it is my client's life that is in issue, and I think that I do that well. But to get there, I have to prove to every new prosecutor, every new insurance company lawyer, that I am a fit opponent, and prove that I should be taken seriously. Remember the "jolly fat man"? He's a myth, but one who is widely accepted. Just standing is sometimes a problem, too. When a client is doing a "plea colloquy," he or she is having a really long talk with the judge. In our state courts, the clients must stand to do that, and it is only fitting that the lawyer stand, too. The judges I most frequently practice in front of know that that's just not always possible for me, and they let me sit. But when I do, I am sorely aware of my limitation.
There is a financial reality to super-obesity, too. I don't go to Wal*Mart clothes shopping, nor can I go to local clothing stores. I either shop online, or make a run to specialty stores in Pittsburgh, 100 miles away. Oh, and shoes, those are a problem, too. Allen Edmond makes a hell of a shoe, but it's not designed to take the kind of abuse I would give it. So, online I can find athletic-type shoes made for referees which are all black, and acceptable for all but jury trials. (My son calls them "old man shoes," and I think he's right.)
In my mental life, my emotional life, there are other costs. I am never invisible in the presence of others, I do not ever blend into a crowd. I can think of nothing more delicious than going to Wal*Mart and being unnoticed. Wherever I go, I see shock or distate in other people's eyes. Often, I hear derogatory comments, some intended for my ears and some not. Sigh - as if they think I don't know I'm fat. It is always instructive to meet people with whom I've interacted by email or phone - I have a bright and booming voice with a mild regional accent, and I don't know what people expect in the physical world after talking to me. Well, what they get is me. All of these reactions isolate me and drive my thoughts inward. I am the wallflower of wallflowers.
It is also a fair question to wonder about my love life. I won't go very far there. It's really strange - I have loved and been loved in many ways by remarkable women. Damn if I understand that.
There have been three times in my life that I have been genuinely fit. At age 18, I lost weight on a low-carbohydrate diet, and reached 180. I was strong, as 18 year olds generally are, was very active, and even ran some distance. It didn't last. Then, at 33, I went on one of the first of the fasting-type diets, and went down to 175. At that weight, I ran long distances, and thought (correctly, I think) that I looked pretty good. I will always remember running on a beach in North Carolina at that time. As I ran, I passed some attractive women, and they actually whistled at me. Wow, that was the first time that ever happened. Well, that period of fitness didn't last long, either. By the way, at that time, I was obsessing about weight, and I really think that I was actively mentally ill. (Oh, did I mention? I'm bipolar. LOL. Definitely I will visit there in another part of this Personal Journey of mine.) And at 46, I went on another fasting diet that lasted 13 months, and went from 450 down to 250. That wasn't nearly as low as I had gone before, but time in the weight room over the years let me carry that 250 pounds well. Again, it didn't last. Every time, I defeated myself. I had attacked the effect, weight loss, but was too fucking stupid to see the cause: addiction to food.
At various weights, for years I was able to work as a really busy volunteer paramedic. My weight in those years was in the high 200's, and low 300's. Rocky can tell you how grueling EMS work is - it takes strength and stamina. Strength, I had. Stamina, I barely had. Right now, I am going to a specialty gym, at 5:00 AM, three days a week. There, I'm slowly regaining some upper body strength and just a touch of stamina - nothing remarkable, nothing to brag about, no big change in body weight - just a little, just my way of trying to hang on until some ineffable quality that I'm seeking will appear in my life and again let me be normal and feel normal - if that ever comes.
Ah, what about the risk of mortality, that is something that I should be acutely attuned to from my EMS experience. I remember working a cardiac arrest on a 45 year old guy who weighed about 550. Rocky will tell you how absurdly difficult it is to get an IV in a super-obese person. Ultimately, I stuck him in the foot to work the arrest. Rocky can also tell you lots about carrying the super-obese down stairs, and how often she has to call an engine company to come and help with the lifting. There are sooooo many other examples of mortality of the super-obese that are commonly known. Remember John Candy? A wonderful, sensitive, positive guy - Dead at age 43 of a heart attack. There is another example closer to me. You probably have never heard of Herman Kahn. He was one of the 20th century's greatest scholars, and was the first scientific futurist. He is best known for writing the books, On Thermonuclear War, and Thinking About the Unthinkable. (Remember the doctrine of Mutually Assured Destruction? That was Kahn's work.) He was even the inspiration for the "Dr. Strangelove" character in Stanley Kubrick's 1962 movie. And he was a fat guy who didn't or couldn't control that one part of his life. The result? Death of a heart attack at 61.
So, for Heaven's sake, why don't I "fix it"? Why don't I exercise will power, reduce my body weight to something healthy, and scrupulously maintain that? It's a fair question. I don't do it - there must be a reason. Is it the addiction? Lack of character? Comfort in loneliness and social isolation? Some "drama queen" quality? Honestly, I don't know. This should be the longest paragraph of this post, but it may be the shortest. I honestly don't know. I am looking for or waiting for some indescribable quality, the same quality that let me lay aside drinking. And I don't know how to find it, and I feel lost.
I haven't done this post for you - oh, you are my audience, you and some others to whom I've emailed this diatribe. But I haven't done it for you, or for them. I've done it for ME. As old as I am, I am still learning and trying to be a better person, a truer person. This writing tonight is just one step in living Truth, and becoming more congruent with it. Like Popeye, perhaps, I am who I am. And I have to live with that.
More later.
Mizpah!
Roger
Sunday, December 3, 2006
The inevitable weakness of Progressive Democrats
I don't suppose it's much of a surprise to say that I'm a liberal - well, in these times, we call ourselves "Progressives." I was gladdened and saddened today when I read the script of the Democratic response to the President's weekly radio address yesterday. Rather than a traditional partisan response, whoever makes the decisions for the Democratic party selected Rev. Jim Wallis to make the address. Wallis is the head of the Sojourners/Call to Renewal, an evangenical social justice organization. In the past, he has been critical of both parties and critical of partisanship as wasteful and pointless. He was true to these beliefs in his address: "Answering the call to lift people out of poverty will require spiritual commitment and bipartisan political leadership. . . . Real solutions must transcend partisan politics," he said. "It is time to find common ground by moving to higher ground." He mentioned one of the most divisive issues on the political spectrum: "Wouldn't coming together to find common ground that dramatically reduces the number of abortions be better than both the left and the right using it as an issue to divide us?" he asked. Hearing a message of construction and not destruction is refreshing and positive and uplifting. But it also saddens me. We live in a competitive political climate. The Neocons, Theocons and Paleocons will brook no compromise. They are Right - just ask them. The weakness of progressive Democrats is that we aren't always confident that God has given us the True Answer. We are willing to make room in our minds for the possibility that we are wrong, and we listen critically to new information. Some issues are crystal clear, even if we don't effectively manage them - childhood poverty and hunger is such an issue. Others are not so clear. We are in Iraq, whether we would have made that decision in 2003 or not. There are a number of options to wind up that war, and there is no clear consensus in the Democratic party for which one is "right." We have a constitutional right to abortion, but the party has adherents of all views, and their opinions change, at least a little, on occasion. You see, we LISTEN. Do we accept the biblical seven days of creation myth? OK, now consider scientific evidence. Isn't it possible that God created the universe gradually, and perhaps with others than us a part of the equation? We look for truth, and are never sure we have all of it. The opposition sees that as weakness, and exploits us for being "wishy-washy." To fight those who are harming people in the name of freedom or capitalism or whatever, must we become what we despise in them, close-minded zealots? And if we don't, will our message of progress and understanding vanish in the cacaphony of conservative drum-beating? I have no absolute answer. I wish I did. I guess that makes me a liberal. I guess I'll have to live with that. Mizpah.
Friday, December 1, 2006
Abraham, Theodore & Me
I caught Senator John McCain on CNN this evening. He was speaking to a Republican party gathering, and a part of his theme was that the party needs to return to its ideological and historical roots. He specifically mentioned that the Republicans are the party of Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt.
Initially, I was peeved, I confess. Lincoln and TR are my two heroes. (Perhaps in another post, I'll bemoan the absence of heroes in modern life, particularly among young people.) It seemed cheeky for Sen. McCain to invoke them when VERY few people in the Republican party would support either of them today. But Sen. McCain is certainly on the left of the Republican hard core, and has earned the right to invoke heroes.
In any event, it won't work. The Republican party will cite Lincoln and TR with the same ideological purity that made Rasputin cite Jesus Christ. Any similarity between the modern party and its historical roots is strictly coincidental. No modern Republican will advance civil rights as strongly and as seriously as Lincoln. No modern Republican will intervene against corporate behemoths, like TR did in the 1902 national anthracite coal strike. Surely, no Republican will protect 230,000,000 acres of natural American like TR did: 150 National Forests, 51 Federal Bird Reservations, 4 National Game Preserves, 5 National Parks and 18 National Monuments.
The Democratic party glosses over its own historical roots, too. We have "Jefferson-Jackson Day" dinners, and ignore the inconsistencies between Jefferson's words and actions, and ignore the jingoism of Jackson.
The modern Republican party is the party of William Howard Taft, Calvin Coolidge, Warren G. Harding, Eisenhower, Nixon, Reagan and the Bushes - some poor presidents, some good, maybe even a great one lurking there. It's not the party of Lincoln or Theodore Roosevelt.
Modern political parties need to stand for what they believe NOW.
Mizpah.
Roger
Initially, I was peeved, I confess. Lincoln and TR are my two heroes. (Perhaps in another post, I'll bemoan the absence of heroes in modern life, particularly among young people.) It seemed cheeky for Sen. McCain to invoke them when VERY few people in the Republican party would support either of them today. But Sen. McCain is certainly on the left of the Republican hard core, and has earned the right to invoke heroes.
In any event, it won't work. The Republican party will cite Lincoln and TR with the same ideological purity that made Rasputin cite Jesus Christ. Any similarity between the modern party and its historical roots is strictly coincidental. No modern Republican will advance civil rights as strongly and as seriously as Lincoln. No modern Republican will intervene against corporate behemoths, like TR did in the 1902 national anthracite coal strike. Surely, no Republican will protect 230,000,000 acres of natural American like TR did: 150 National Forests, 51 Federal Bird Reservations, 4 National Game Preserves, 5 National Parks and 18 National Monuments.
The Democratic party glosses over its own historical roots, too. We have "Jefferson-Jackson Day" dinners, and ignore the inconsistencies between Jefferson's words and actions, and ignore the jingoism of Jackson.
The modern Republican party is the party of William Howard Taft, Calvin Coolidge, Warren G. Harding, Eisenhower, Nixon, Reagan and the Bushes - some poor presidents, some good, maybe even a great one lurking there. It's not the party of Lincoln or Theodore Roosevelt.
Modern political parties need to stand for what they believe NOW.
Mizpah.
Roger
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