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State of Anxiety is here to clear the confusion: We are supposed to have anxiety – that’s how the bills get paid. Anxiety is a normal reaction to stress. It motivates us to get shit done. It is also part of our grand … Continue reading
Mother’s Day and Father’s Day for the adopted individual can feel a bit more substantial than for the average accidentally conceived “John” or “Jane”. I don’t purchase many big-ticket items – and, never do I purchase anything site unseen. So, the premise of ordering and purchasing a little person this way makes my head spin. I feel permanently indebted to my parents, as I was an incorrigible kid.
Returning from my parent’s house this past Mother’s Day weekend afforded me some unavoidable solace in the car during the long drive home. I pondered the time spent with them over the weekend, and was overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude. As an adopted adult, I know full well the dedication, sacrifice, and momentary lapse of reason that goes into adopting a lonely, disgruntled, orphan child. For a prospective adoptive parent, the want of child must far exceed the desire for money, time, peace, and sanity. It’s the kind of love that transcends modern logic. Adopting anything is a crap-shoot at best, and one fraught with a million unknowns. “Will he love us back?” “Will he grow-up normal?” “Does he carry any communicable diseases?” “Will we regret this decision for eternity?” “Why is he so miserable?” “If we punish him, will he hit us with a bag of hammers in our sleep?”
To keep the orphanage inventory moving, I believe there involves some crafty salesmanship on behalf of the adoption agency, along with a robust “No Refund/No Return” policy. Make no mistake, this is nothing like buying a car or Floridian timeshare that you can offload once bored and fiscally upside down. This is an all-encompassing, point-of-no-return, life altering commitment. I once adopted a hermit crab, named “Herbie”, from a Petco pet store, and had to sign a declaration that I would protect and care for the little crustacean to the best of my ability for the duration of its natural life. Had I known that hermit crabs can live 12 – 20 years, I would not have entered into such a pact, and left the unaffectionate ‘lil guy on the check-out counter while sprinting from the store elated that I had shirked the responsibility of regular salt baths, twice daily warm water misting, and constant humidifier monitoring.
I cannot imagine signing on the dotted line for an actual child – or, just how many 
signatures such a covenant requires. I was never privy to any of the documentation regarding my own purchase. My parents could have chosen the simpler, semi-vogue option of an exotic, foreign child. Instead, they opted for the multi-year bureaucratic stall and emotional investment of a good ‘ole domestic toe-headed kid, homegrown right here in the U.S.A. Perhaps they just didn’t want to pay shipping.
An often unrecognized advantage to an adoptee is the notion of “family”. When you are not adopted and decide to banish a sleazy family member, that person forever remains flesh and blood. Sadly, there is no knocking anyone out of the family tree. But, for an adoptee, things are much more loosely defined. The adopted individual can simply select whomever he/she is actually “related” to within the family org chart. I find myself exceedingly proud to be related to some of my extended family members, while I relegate others to the “acquaintance” pool.
I have successfully dodged these individuals at WalMart, BBQs, and weddings. I simply deny all pseudo genealogical ties, and remind them, “It’s nothing personal – I am adopted, after all“. It also comes in handy in the instance of a really hot second or third cousin – though, society frowns upon such unions. On the flip side, never seeing an actual blood relative is a reverse mind-bender. The realization that I’m as related to my own mother as the Easter bunny is unsettling at times.
I was recently having a phone conversation with my friend, Monica, whom was lamenting 
over not wanting to spend as much time with her biological parents as they desire. She implemented a “No dropping-in” clause to curtail their regularly unannounced visits, and was feeling guilty about needing to distance herself from her overbearing mother in particular. Her reason was twofold. First, her love life was non-existent, and would remain so with her mom stopping-in every evening. Nothing kills a libido like the constant presence of a parent. Additionally, at 26, she realized the constant exposure to her mother’s neuroticism had become contagious. Being 10 years her senior, I gave her the good and bad news of what I have learned regarding parents: “The good news“, I said, “Is that what you are feeling is absolutely normal – even if your dad’s name was Geppetto, and he handmade you in his wood shop.” “The bad news“, I added, “Is that as we age, much of what we had always perceived as conventional behavior from our parents, is now seen for what it is: Bizarre“. “What’s worse?“, I added, “Is the epiphany that you have developed these unsavory traits for yourself.” I qualified my point with a couple examples of my dad’s behavior – a man I will always admire and revere.
My dad has honed a lengthy array of questionable habits since retiring and facing the sudden influx of time. One of my father’s most perplexing – and, quite hazardous – habits that I failed to notice until his 60′s, is the rampant use of cruise control in his Lincoln sedan at inappropriate times. My dad would use cruise control to parallel park if at all possible. He can occasionally be seen on California’s crowded highways, his speed locked at 70 mph, dodging between moving cars like a game of “Frogger”, while seeking-out the next open space to navigate his 8-foot American-made steel hood, never allowing himself to touch the brake pedal or cruise control “pause” and “resume” switch. When I asked him “why” he insisted on auto-piloting the car wherever possible, he retorted, “It saves gas!“. Growing up, I just assumed he was a lazy driver. But, a cost-cutting measure?! I’m not sure how much this stress-inducing method of driving has saved him throughout the years – probably about $17 in total. It wasn’t until he drove me to my niece’s high-school graduation that the full ramifications of this driving style set in. After successfully careening and swerving around the slower traffic during the hour-long freeway jaunt, he found a last minute opening in the slow lane immediately prior to our exit, where he maintained his 70 mph setting down the off-ramp until a second before sheer physics would have eradicated us. Then he stomped the brake pedal in what felt like a giant parachute releasing from the trunk to decelerate rapidly. Sadly, none of this was for our enjoyment or the endorphins – rather the .87 cents he saved in gas during the trip.
Another interesting characteristic of my dad that seemed typical until I was an adult is his 
anxious hoarding. The man rarely parts with, or discards anything. If the family wants something gone, it must be covertly disassembled, stealthily removed from the house under the cover of night, and buried under the existing garbage in the outside trash bin. It’s best to do this the evening before trash pick-up, at the risk he has extra time to sort through the garbage to ensure nothing has been thrown-out of potential value. Otherwise, he will remove the object from the trash unbeknownst to us, and it will be cleaned, reassembled, and placed in it’s original location. Over the years, he has slowly turned his home into a 1,800 sq. ft. museum of absurdity. He is cognizant enough to know this, which is why he has compartmentalized his house. Certain doors, closets, and rooms are locked, never to be opened except by him when no one is around. Behind these doors are troves of random electrical gadgetry and worthless relics from yesteryear.
While his garage is packed wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling, with only a narrow circuitous pathway to the inside mail slot and the washer/dryer – navigable only by short, malnourished adventurers with a hankering and bravado for the unknown. Upon seeing this marvel of pack-rat engineering, one might think my dad constructed tunnels for the North Vietnamese Army during the Vietnam War. The real tragedy is that 80% of his artifacts are trivial scrap that include cheap tennis rackets, broken skateboards, my old hamster cage, some bicycles from the 70′s, dried paint cans from the summer in high-school that I painted my 1968 Mustang, along with countless tools and storage chests. Nearly everything my dad squirreled away in his garage is rummage – with the exception of a 1941 Ford Coupe. In the trunk of this classic he locked away all contraband confiscated from my brother and me in our youth. Old “Playboy” magazines we stole from under the bed of our perverted neighbor, a wrist-rocket slingshot, a homemade crossbow, pellet guns, Chinese throwing stars and knives (I was a self-taught, wannabe Ninja), and an assortment of other illicit material coveted by prepubescent boys. Since my dad is the craftiest man around, he has an impressive collection of tools. Not once did we have a repairman at the house, and he was known as “MacGyver” throughout our neighborhood. The drawback was that I never got anything new. Everything we owned was of industrial grade from Sears or affixed with a “Craftsman” label. If something did break, dad would quickly fix it and we’d be on our way.
This went for clothing as well, as my mom had the skills of a commercial seamstress. My pants and shirts all consisted of the “Toughskins” clothing line from Sears. This was clothing made from the weather resistant wool of wild Himalayan Mountain Yaks. If I was somehow able to tear something, my mom would sew it back together using only her grit and 50lb. test fishing line – also from Sears. She went so far as to sew actual pockets from the rear of retired jeans on the knees of all my Toughskin pants so I had little chance of tearing them. No matter how tough I tried to act as a boy, I could never be taken seriously with jeans that looked like patch-worked clown pants.
I am my parents’ son – adopted, or not. Though I have gleaned neither my dad’s penchant for cruise control nor his obsessive hoarding, I see many other characteristics from my parents in the mannerisms of both my brother and me – despite our best attempts to remain free of their compulsions and unexplained antics. And, unlike many of my peers, I have never needed, nor wanted, to spend less time with my parents. When I paused for a moment and looked at them this past weekend, I could see the age in their comforting faces. I knew I had a lot to do with it, and wondered why they ever took on the challenge of my brother and me. And, though they may seem increasingly bonkers as they age, given the choice, I’d choose them every time. They clearly chose me. I wonder if “Herbie” the crab feels the same way …
Love hurts ...
It is common knowledge that breakups are the heart’s equivalent to getting stabbed in the crotch with scissors. To the recipient of walking papers from a relationship, even the brightest, most sunshiny day can feel like a canker sore. And, barring the passage of time, there is no single effective cure for the gut-wrenching angst associated with heartache.
The typical breakup is comprised of a series of standard phases through which everyone progresses in roughly the same manner. However, the “actions” associated with each phase differ for men versus women. The male breakup is typically uncomplicated and simplistic in comparison to the female version – unless considering an anxious person – in which a routine breakup for either sex becomes a case-study in maladaptive social bizarredom. For the anxious individual, the symptoms and manifestations associated with the breakup phases are measurably more self-defeating, sadistic, lengthy, and, oddly – awe inspiring – than that of a split for the less anxious populace. And, though the phases for a breakup involving an anxious person can affect both males and females – it is far less socially acceptable in a man. This is the 
primary reason there are so few books available to men regarding breakups. You have to look no further than the breakup book covers and titles to validate this claim: “He’s Just Not That Into You“; “The Smart Girl’s Breakup Buddy“; and “Breakup Girl to the Rescue“, for example. The list is long, and each cloaked in pink, pastel, and effeminate covers. As general practice, men do not frequent bookstores following a breakup – except for the anxious man. Men go to bars and strip-clubs. Most guys just hook-up with a random stranger, stalk their ex, or binge drink upon having a significant relationship terminated. But, not the anxious man. He becomes an emotional crash-test dummy. Sulking within the aisles of a bookstore is just one of many places you might find this hapless soul seeking consolation. And, you can spot him from 50-yards: watery eyes; heart on sleeve; morose; slow talker; wreaks of pessimism; all while seeking asylum to mourn. He is the poster child for Kleenex, alcohol, and anti-depressants. And, he was recently … “me”.
Post breakup advice from a guy is seldom, if ever, helpful. “Man-therapy” is worthless – unless the man has “LCSW”, “MFT”, or “PhD.” following his name. After my very first breakup, my dad bluntly dispensed some advice while we worked on my Dodge pick-up. It was one short, memorable statement he made as he torqued on something important under the hood with some large torquing type of instrument. In referring to my ex, he said, “Son, there is nothing between her legs that you won’t find between another set – so, move on.” Sage advice. But clearly, my father assumed I was as shallow as my brother, whom rolled through breakups like a pimp with a titanium heart and sealed tear ducts. But, dad made a decent point – I have yet to discover some elusive North American rhinestone and sequins, vanilla-scented vagina – outside of a strip club, anyway.
There are basically three phases of any breakup. And, the following are how each plays-out for an anxious individual:
Phase I for the Anxious Breakup Victim is “Shock & Awe“:
This initial period feels like a cannonball fired directly into the abdomen, accompanied with a false sensation of, “I can totally fix this“. It is marred by feelings of inner turmoil, all-consuming grief, depression, anxiety, low self-esteem, jealousy, lack of food or sleep, complete disregard for personal hygiene, and sprinkled with regular moments of irrationality. It is further accompanied by a sense of defeat that this was the single greatest partner you will ever have, that you will never meet anyone as good, and you will die alone with only a stray cat and a self-propelled Roomba vacuum to care for you. The downward spiral continues until you have plummeted into a dark abyss of self damnation. Sure, you’ve somehow recovered from previous losses, but this one is seemingly insurmountable. It is within this early state that you believe the resultant heartache will actually kill you. Furthermore, your current state of emotions feel worse than had your love interest actually died in a freak beer bong or hair straightener/White Rain aerosol accident. Had they actually died, you would not be picturing them naked in ritualistic Conquistador-type sex orgies. And, in the instance of their death, you would receive paid time off from work with copious sympathy from colleagues and peers. Not so with breakups. People quickly tire of your incessant whining and ideological droning about times past. The Serenity Prayer rarely makes a dent here – no matter how many times recited, or how aggressively. And, the hours begrudgingly whittle away like a constant panic attack with alternating chest and stomach pains. If this stage of heartache was our national security, it would be “DEFCON 5″ – a most precarious state, in which appalling, regretful antics such as calling his or her mother to plead your case is not uncommon. In my most recent breakup, I phoned my ex’s mom in Idaho in an attempt to have her facilitate my planned reconciliation. When this failed, I sent a litany of texts and emails to my ex to argue my case and somehow win her back. And, after my pathetic writing campaign solicited little response, I went where no man – anxious or not – should traverse: a Tiffany’s jewelry store at the local mall, where I purchased a “Tiffany Novo” engagement ring, and vowed to make her happier than The Wiggles.
In the campaign to win back the object of your desire, this phase will most often include regular and methodical text diatribes (aka, “terror texting”), along with emails and 
voicemails in futile attempts to recon the defector – while each time, vowing not to send another – only to do so within hours. This stage is rife with a fuzzy logic that there is just the right combination of words and dire pleading to get them to reconsider. Like reminding them that no one will ever love them the way you do. Sure! How could this not work? And, what if you add some tears? How ’bout a $15,000 engagement ring?! It is wise to keep a dose or two of Ativan, Xanax, or Klonopin readily available to prevent the inevitable emotional meltdown or impulsive purchase. I took some during a long mountain bike ride after my breakup, and passed-out midway on a remote hillside. At least I didn’t pedal to another jewelry store. And, offering to do everything now that you were unwilling to do while in the relationship is a colossal ‘red-flag’ to yourself. Pay attention to it. The color of desperation is ‘safety orange’, and people will only pass you by with a look of extreme caution.
Remedy for Phase I:
If you take away anything from this article, let it be this: Do not ask him/her to sleep with you one more time in the hope it will somehow woo them back. Walk away before you ever mutter this hopeless request. If you pose this question, you will be denied without even a sliver of dignity upon which to rest. Just think how bad Moses had it while wandering the desert for 40 years. If you plead unsuccessfully for reconciliation sex, the Gobi Desert will be paradise compared to the emotional banishment you will reap after proposing this request. Notwithstanding begging for breakup sex, The only souls who appear less fortunate than you during this state, are those exposed nationally on a “Dateline’s, ‘To Catch a Predator‘” documentaries. This is proof-positive that things can always be worse, and perspective is a very helpful tool at this juncture. But, just in case, stay out of internet chat rooms, and do not keep a 6-pack of Mike’s Hard Lemonade and condoms in the car with you. It is also imperative to limit self-humiliation and to avoid further contact with your ex. You would not leave your mangled arm in a running wood-chipper, would you? An effective technique to implement at this early stage is deleting the object of affection’s number from your phone contacts list. Even better, is turning off the phone and keeping it in the trunk of your car. If – as in my case – the number is permanently etched into your mind from days of deranged dialing, then change the object of affection’s name within your phone to something repulsive such as, “Rotten Crotch”, “Skank”, “Lucifer”, “Man Whore”, “Douchebag”, etc. This will limit moments of nostalgia and the certain romanticizing of his/her name. And, be proactive regarding the division of shared friends and alliances. This act may feel eerily reminiscent of 5th grade, where two team captains alternately select the best classmates for a game of dodgeball – sans the gratification of legally pummeling your ex’s face with a rubber ball. Additionally, perform an exorcism of all relationship mementos: Emails, cards, photos, half-used massage oils, candles, Chinese love beads, concert tees, CDs, the bedroom sex swing, etc. Despite how expensive, memorable, or impressively crafted, they must all be discarded. Jewelry is excluded, as it should go directly to a consignment shop, with the resulting cash used on strippers or facials. I still miss the beautiful desk globe my ex got me for Christmas – but, it looked much better at the bottom of my garbage can. The sheets we slept on – given to my landscaper to bundle yard waste and grass trimmings for disposal. My shirts she loved to wear – now used to wipe the mud and bugs off the front of my truck. Her toothbrush – perfect for removing hard-to-reach toilet algae from under the rim. Bath gels, shampoos, lotions, hair clips – all trash. I found that ridding of her hair was the final and most tenacious forensic leftover of which to dispose. I found it everywhere – for months. In my truck, all over my floors, in the dryer, permanenty intertwined in my hair brush, in my sock drawer, adhered to my shower tile, clogging pipes, etc. It’s a wonder she had any hair at all, with a shed-rate equal to a Wookie.
Next, change all venues you regularly frequented together, such as gyms, bars, naughty shops, theaters, cafes, Pottery Barn, etc. You could probably use the change of scenery 
anyhow. And, no matter what month the breakup occurs, it will seem everyone else you know is in a happy, healthy, sexually charged relationship. Even your ugliest and socially stunted of friends will somehow secure mates during this time, then say asinine things like, “Hey, when you get a new partner let us know so we can double-date!”. Ignore these dumdums. Look at them with pity as you would passengers on a doomed flight. They are headed toward imminent demise on account of their absurdity and lack of self awareness. And, skip rebound dating for now, under the presumption that “The quickest way to get over one, is to get under another“. This is a brief distractor and, invariably, turns into date-therapy and sound-boarding your problems on to some innocent philanthropist kind enough to get naked with this woeful, depressed version of you. Your sole focus is making it to the next phase while limiting any carnage to yourself or some unsuspecting prey from Match.com.
Phase II for the Anxious Breakup Victim is “Death-by-Analysis“:
This white-knuckle period of time is infused with just enough “What’s wrong with me” self-loathing to completely derail any chance of near term recovery. And, as the rest of the world seems to pass by on the giant teacups at Fantasyland, you publicly disintegrate into a plume of smoke and debris. It feels like a vapid waste of life that varies in length – though, always too long – and wreaks havoc on the synapses, short circuiting the neurons while your exhausted brain runs endless scenarios trying to solve the severed bond piece-by-piece in some macabre “CSI” type of relationship re-enactment. I wish this phase upon no one. The gestation further involves painstakingly dissecting every past conversation, event, moment, expression, and nuance of the relationship in a futile attempt to construct a reconnaissance and recovery strategy. It is a dark period where guys copiously violate many statutes of the “man code” through constant unsolicited contact, drunken weeping, the making of mixed CDs, and “un-friending” their love interest from Facebook, only to panic from their cyber absence and sending a new friend request days later. I deleted my ex twice during our first month apart, then sent follow-up requests to add me back. She went along with it – but, clearly out of pity. Pathetic? Only a ton. This insidious phase takes a hold just as you feel you could not sink any lower, and upon realizing the breakup was probably all your fault and that he/she is really never coming back. It is kind of like breaking-up all over again. Each day you awaken yearning for a mere 1% reduction in sorrow and heartache, and more than 4 hours of sleep. This assumes you get any sleep at all, with that constant reel of self-berating thoughts streaming your conscious like the news ticker on CNN. Immediately after my anxious breakup, I avoided my bedroom entirely, and slept on the living room couch for the next two months. Additionally, I spent all of my time outdoors and ‘on-the-go’ in an attempt to stay distracted till I was physically spent, then I would down a couple of sleeping pills to ensure unconsciousness for a few hours. I felt like a strung-out street junkie. I avoided my memory-tainted bedroom altogether. Her aura hung in there like a fat, lazy demon – always looming, while unresponsive to exorcisms. And, oddly, one whom sadistically hid her scrunchies and hair-ties throughout the night for me to find later. Her ghost was a bitch.
Remedy for Phase II:
To counter the morbid feelings inherent to this phase, it is imperative to spend time outside, get regular sleep, eat right, and exercise. Seems basic enough, right? Not so much. Because, by this point you’ve probably succumbed to considerable weight loss. Wean off the liquor and Mylanta, and introduce your body to some calories in the form of broth, dry toast, and perhaps graduate to an actual fruit smoothie. And, wash it all down with some heavy metal. Because no matter when you breakup, you will hear only sappy, dismal love songs on the radio to feed your anguish. Richard Marx, Air Supply, The Commodores, John Waite and the grocery store Muzak play-list – all ready to drive a rusty stake into the tiny piece of heart you’ve got left. I found that even my local weather channel would play morose, tantric background instrumentals while illustrating the pending cumulus cloud patterns on a forecast map. There is often no mental escape except the unexpected solace brought on by the death metal genre. You won’t find any pantywaist power ballads on the Sirius “Heavy Metal-XL 40″ channel, for example. So, embrace your inner head-banger and savor some Goatwhore, Fleshgod Apocalypse, Hatesphere, or Napalm Death. Sure, it feels a tad Satanic and insubordinate at first. But, this audio ecstasy greatly facilitated my own recovery … at least while commuting. And, rather than sulking into the lump of moist waste that John Mayer and Maroon 5 will produce, death metal will usher you to the “healthy” angry stage of a breakup. As for television, it’s a semi effective distractor. But, watch only sitcoms or episodes of “COPS“. No dramas, no sophomoric “Bachelor“/”Bachelorette” series, and no episodes of “Cheaters“. Though, I have occasionally found solace from watching “Cheaters“, simply through “misery loves company” and nationally televised ‘train wrecks’ overshadow my own pain and grief.
Hopefully, you have already done so; if not, stop sending flowers and/or gifts and recoup some losses – mainly your dignity. Stop idealizing, and 
begin reducing your love interest’s grandiosity by confirming with family and friends that he/she was not that attractive, and will only get uglier/fatter/dumber/ or herpes now that you are not together. Friends usually have your best interests in mind, and make convincing liars. In my case, however, my male friends only added to my distress by stating that my ex was doing some other guy at random moments – and, probably – multiple guys. And, even though she was not sexually adventurous with me, she is certainly now an amateur porn star, while pulling ecstasy-induced all-night sexcapades. She was a former gymnast after all. In my mind, she made the “Kama Sutra” read like a beginners guide to yoga. And, whom will I be with now?? A girl can have sex at anytime with nearly anyone she chooses. Whereas a guy must constantly troll and toil at it – or, pay. It’s an imparity of nature. And, I was hideously cloaked in desperation and insecurity. Retail therapy often helps women within this state-of-mind regain some self assuredness. Many spare no expense when purchasing their way into temporary bliss. New clothes are not as cathartic or therapeutic for an emotionally wounded straight man, however. Retail therapy for a guy means a muscle car or a new truck with thousands in aftermarket modifications, followed by a serious bout of “buyer’s remorse”. This is precisely how I acquired a new $45,000 lifted, customized 4×4 truck. The high lasted about 60 hours, and until I had to fill the gas tank for the first time. Women also tend to splurge on new hair styles – also something that is wasted on men. Well … not on this anxious man. I once got a hair weave following a breakup, at an African American salon called the “Hair Kingdom”, simply because my ex loved long hair on guys and my nappy blonde hair would only curl and get bigger as it grew, until I looked like a giant microphone. But, the Hair Kingdom stylist hooked me up, and I walked out with a straight, foot-long, blonde mullet. It was the late eighties, so this was perfectly acceptable. I looked like any effiminate member of Poison, Motley Crue, or Winger. That horrible decision lasted for one week. But, only because the anti-itch scalp spray could not save me from the constant scratching I performed using a dinner fork where the extensions were tied against my scalp beacause – realistically – my hair was far too short for a weave. What is more disconcerting is that I even sucked at growing a proper mullet. I may be the only guy on record who has bought a mullet that was not part of a “Joe Dirt” Halloween costume.
The Final Phase (III) for the Anxious Breakup Victim is “Reattaching Genetalia“
Congratulations! You are beginning to feel some emancipation from your emotional purgatory. Liberating, isn’t it?! It is this stage where you no longer wish hair loss and STDs upon the ex whom so callously discarded your heart. You do not feel as physically repulsive as before, and you actually have some real marketability to leverage now that you’ve given-up the pastime of wallowing in anger and self-defeat. As a dumpee, you are on the right path if you think the guy (Alfred Lord Tennyson) who said, “It is better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all” could be right – but is probably still an insensitive jackass. Thankfully, the visceral imagery has stopped, and no longer do you fondly muse over your ex every minute of each day – maybe once every 30 minutes or so. But, what a glorious reprieve found in those 30-minute windows! A couple of months ago, the loss seemed insurmountable and definitely fatal. You have even moderately accepted that – depending on your ex’s “promiscuity index” – he/she has been naked with someone you despise. Somewhat unsettling to know, but no longer a deathblow. And, you can watch as the season changes and know that you are not going to perish from a bleeding heart. On the upside, you’ve even lost enough weight to rock those skinny jeans. But, don’t.
Perhaps the best part of this phase is that you have stopped idealizing the relationship and see it for what it was: A two-party ‘shitshow’. All of their annoying behaviors – the reason you should have broke-up in the first place – were in fact irksome – not endearing. In my scenario, I clearly recall not wanting to be with her anyway. Her shrill cackle of a laugh was reason enough to flee the relationship. In the end, I did not want to hurt her, and I still loved our time together … when she wasn’t laughing. After she was gone, I came to realize it was solely the friendship I missed …… and, the yummy egg sandwiches she would make for breakfast. Use this time to accelerate gaining distance from the person and the past. It really is okay that your supposed “perfect” relationship is irretrievable. It’s a delusion that 
if you had back, would end in the same twisted wreckage. You may even consider going on a date and not verbally vomiting the name of your ex. There is a limitless frontier of “strange” showcasing itself within bars, grocery stores, salsa clubs, festivals, concerts and even at traffic lights. Intersections are not my preferred venue. But, everything is fair game now that you’ve removed your head from your ass and rediscovered your innate potential. What is important is that you get out there and take some swings, or jabs, or cracks – or, whatever your preferred sports analogy. Your individual success will hinge on how high you set the bar. Anyone with low enough standards can post some impressive numbers. My recommendation? Start high and adjust accordingly. Hooking-up with an ogre on your first attempt may qualify. But, anything that you have to muscle out your back door under the cover of night, or chew off your own arm to avoid waking, does not count. So, save yourself the extended shower and bad conscience.
Finally, it is important to note that is within this final phase of your recovery that your ex will fortuitously make a reappearance. This assumes you followed the aforementioned recommendations, and their reappearance is not in response to a court subpoena for your criminal stalking trial. The moment your ex senses you have moved on, will be the moment they cannot stand knowing you have. The sick irony of this, however, is that they will absolutely not contact you prior to you getting over them. It’s yet another cruel discrepancy of nature. Plan for this momentous day by readying yourself for the moral high-ground. Quiet confidence speaks volumes here. There is no need to remind him/her what they lost in you, because This isn’t about you. It’s about their own fragile and bruised ego, and the fact they only care that you have managed to somehow prevail in their absence. It’s one of life’s oldest traps to test your mettle. Keep moving forward – preferably with someone else.
Remember, “It’s Called a Breakup Because it’s Broken“. I read that on a neon pink breakup book cover somewhere …
Though I have always been a steadfast athlete and competitor, I lack grace in my day-to-day endeavors. Perhaps it is because my anxious mind is always focused on anything else but what I’m doing at the moment. It began as a child with a series of unfortunate events: I cracked my chin while trying to stand atop a large, plastic ball; I was badly sickened for discovering then ingesting granulated dishwasher detergent under the kitchen sink; I once fell during a rain storm on an electrified fence at a family friend’s ranch, incurring a nasty electrocution; While in the fourth grade, I broke my left hand and received my very first concussion on the same day, and over a single recess period. And, within the past 2 months alone, I broke my left foot doing a flip into the shallow-end of a pool, and partially ruptured an eardrum while scuba diving. Most of my cuts, breaks, abrasions, and contusions are directly attributed to my propensity to become unwillingly horizontal or, otherwise breached. I’m not sure why my parents so carelessly let me ride my unicycle off curbs with no helmet. I think they figured natural selection would ‘weed me out’ and they wouldn’t have to buy anymore LEGO’s. Continue reading
Despite a loving, generally happy home, my brother, Jeff, and I took “sibling rivalry” to a dark and desperate level. It was a class of anarchy like no other, and it drove my mom to counseling, and my dad to a dive bar in San Jose, called The Office, regularly after work. The turmoil began the day I was adopted at a year old from the Children’s Home Society of Oakland, CA in a svelte 1967 Pontiac station wagon, by an educated, young man and a petite woman with a bouffant hairdo. I believe it was aptly named a “beehive” back then, and was typically accompanied by hip, black, pointy glasses. Upon arrival home, I was stalked about the premises by my brother, Jeff (also adopted). As a toddler, my only hobby was annoying the piss out of Jeff. I had no reason, but hobbies are like that. I was only too eager to kick down, or otherwise destroy, his latest LEGO or Lincoln Log engineering marvels, and he soon lost all patience while harboring some ill-will toward his shelter-baby brother. Continue reading
I have left many opportunities on the table with regard to meeting women in the past, until the day I ran into an “unfortunate” male acquaintance with a defective personality at a concert. I will call him, “Tim” – because that’s his real name. As I feigned interest in whatever Tim was saying, I interrupted him to point out a stunning blonde 10 yards away. While I was busy convincing myself that she had a boyfriend and was out-of-my-league, Tim was already introducing himself to her. Inadequate guys have no fear and nothing to lose – particularly self-esteem. This is primarily due to a lifetime of getting rejected by women. Since the beautiful girl had a cute friend with her, I opted to walk over. Much to my awe, Tim was soon entering the blonde’s number into his phone. Again, I convinced myself of another falsehood: that she had given him a fake number. A few days later, I learned I was wrong on this account when Tim called to tell me about his amazing date with her. I was beside myself with resentment. Within this life-altering moment, I decided it was far better to heal from the sting of quick, potential humiliation then to spend days regretting inaction. I called my new paradigm, “Regret Minimization Theory”, and was certain it would measurably increase my successes related to the pursuit of “strange”.
I was recently performing an intellectual audit of my success ratio since implementing this methodology, and noticed that though I was taking more risks while posting the same adequate numbers in obtaining dates, I was sustaining far less regret. So, overall, the return-on-investment was worthwhile. Much like fishing, this scenario is akin to throwing bait in the water more often, only to be shunned by more wary fish. And, like fishing, it is best to get your “bait” in the water in the attempt, than to not participate at all. Yes, I used the sophomoric analogy of fish bait to male genitalia. Let’s be honest, there is little difference in presentation. And, I definitely walked a little taller each day having avoided the typical regrets associated with my refusal to take risks in meeting women. Apparently, shouldering the burden of regret affected my posture and ability to walk erect. There I go again.
There is one noteworthy encounter that continues to bedevil me. It was a regular workday afternoon when a few colleagues invited me to sushi for lunch. I acquiesced on a place known for their tepid and mediocre fish. The venue was called Yo-Yo Sushi, and was the fast-food of the sushi genre. The layout of this particular venue was such that the sushi chefs were in the center of the room, with a very large sushi bar around them. The bar – half the size of the restaurant – was surrounded by chairs packed in close proximity. Encircling the sushi prep area and bar, was a slow moving moat of water that facilitated the clunky journey of a fleet of wooden sushi boats gently chained together. The water also contained some questionable floating debris.The sushi itself was somewhat protected by a sneeze guard. However, I believe the opaque, plexiglass buffer was actually used to skew the appearance of the warmish fish. At any given moment, 1/3 of the boats that passed were empty, with the remaining boats containing fish that a feral tabby would hesitate to paw. This was food that had likely been touring the bar for over an hour. Word on the street was to avoid the moat altogether, and order directly from the disgruntled chefs. Angry fish just tastes better.
After being seated at the bar, my concentration went from imminent food poisoning to the gorgeous, professional brunette in a royal blue sweater directly across the sushi bar from me. Reminding myself of my new decree to never let a good opportunity pass – or, whatever I had previously decreed – I decided to create a tactic that would allow me to meet this woman, unbeknownst to both my colleagues and the other patrons in the packed restaurant. It did not take me long to craft a scheme of which any Lothario would be 
proud. Since I was sitting to the far right of my coworkers at the bar; and, the circuitous water also flowed to the right, I would draft a slightly perceptible note addressed to “Hottie in Blue Sweater” with a quick introduction and my contact information, then fold it into a standing triangle and place it upon one of the empty wooden boats while letting the flowing aqueduct carry my suave, yet vulnerable, declaration. Upon receipt, I would discreetly wave or nod so she could identify her maritime suitor. Why I did not think of sending a spicy tuna roll or a bowl of edamame with a private introduction via the waitress remains a mystery. I quickly discovered that the downside of avoiding future regret, was the regret that comes much, much sooner.
I stealthily and swiftly placed my note on the next empty boat – somewhere between the discolored unagi and salmon-roe schooners – and watched it drift away from me and toward my ‘afternoon delight’. As the dinghy haplessly wafted away to the right, my heart crept into my throat. I quickly realized the error in my way. But, it was much too late. Like a drunk middle manager spewing racist jokes at the company Christmas party, my fate was sealed … at the speed of a clumsy sushi canal. This was a social suicide mission. My anxiety hit fever pitch within moments. Uneasy stomach, shortness of breath, dilated pupils, and internal terror. I promptly regained composure and focused steadfastly on appearing calm as my gaze followed that boat. Any appearance of alarm would surely draw attention to the note’s owner. If only I could deploy a mini sushi torpedo to sink and destroy the evidence. How did this ever seem a plausible idea?! Not only could one of the vexed sushi chefs mistakenly replace my message with another piece of chum, but I failed to notice the married – and, far less attractive – woman on the left of the bar in the LIGHT blue sweater. What if she errantly accepted the note in hopes her ship had finally come in?? A blue sweater is a blue sweater, after all. And, what are the Health Dept. rules on utilizing a public food serving medium as an instrument to get laid? Surely there was a statute regulating this practice.
My pulse quickened as my little love-boat passed the approximately 12 diners that separated the hottie in royal blue and me. Then the unexpected: The memo floated right past it’s intended recipient completely unnoticed. My excitement and trepidation turned to dread. This scenario never crossed my mind, nor did I have a contingency plan. My note-on-a-boat was now completing one full bar rotation, passing another 10 diners as it came left around the bend toward my colleagues on it’s disgraceful homeward stretch. My coworkers spotted the dispatch as it slowly meandered by, and deduced by the red hue of my face, to whom it belonged. My strained expression and bulging eyes begged for their silence. A logical man would have removed the note altogether, cut his losses and avoided further humiliation. But, this was no ordinary brunette. And, far greater men have been demoralized by poorer choices. Recall Hugh Grant and the street hooker, Divine Brown in 2007.
I left my chips on the table, and bid my rickety skiff another meek – though, slightly empowered – “bon voyage”. This time, for whatever reason, it seemed every patron was now focused on the passing sushi boats. Perhaps they were just hungry and out of conversation. One-by-one, each customer noticed the passing message, then chuckled while scanning the bar for the courier. Further committing to my novel “no regrets” mantra, and fueled by the positive reactions of my newly recruited audience, I no longer tried to hide my participation. I was “all in”, and pushed my anxiety aside by letting her and everyone know that I was serious in my quest to meet this woman. In my mind, if nothing else wooed her, self-deprecation would surely win her affection. Two of the girlfriends flanking her saw the note, and prodded her to grab it, despite stares from gushing gawkers around the sushi bar. She begrudgingly snatched the little paper triangle from the wooden boat, glanced at it, and stashed it somewhere – most likely the soy stained floor – without so much as a chuckle. She was quite embarrassed and disgruntled at being the center of attention. This was clearly not the lunchtime experience she had envisioned when she left her cubicle. I had annoyed her, humiliated myself, and provided impromptu entertainment for all. This was love kamikaze style – but, happily, without the burning aftertaste of regret.
This past Mother’s Day reminded me of some things. My folks had a fairly unconventional methodology in raising my brother, Jeff, and me. Mom and dad were strict – while, Jeff and I were tantamount to two drunken Iraqi soldiers on a weekend pass. I honestly feel sorry for them. The saddest part, is that they adopted us from an orphanage that charged them actual money for the 18 years of fracas and domestic disorder. Trust me, no humans on historical record have been duped to this degree regarding any financial transaction. Amazingly, they had planned to adopt at least one more child (a girl), before the stark Continue reading
Growing up, I had to suck on Motrin pills to appease my sweet-tooth, as sugar and sweets were forbidden in our home. I often failed to spit them out in time, but the nasty synthetic taste was worth the reward. When I was able to obtain sugary sweets, it was most often PEZ. I loved PEZ – and, still do. And, I don’t care if I eat them from a pink “Hello Kitty” dispenser. I still receive PEZ candy dispensers on holidays, and I savor each confectionery tablet. The delicious, pastel rectangles are beyond addictive. I typically dump the dispensers and mainline the candy from the wrapped packs. As a kid, I would scarf the pieces in seconds, which yielded soaring blood-glucose levels. The sugar-high would result in a temporary “Scarface” persona. Though, in lieu of a machine gun strapped to each arm, and cocaine residue splattered across my face, I hauled-ass down the sidewalk on my Big-Wheel, with a BB gun in my right hand, and orange PEZ-tinged lips as I frothed and cursed throughout the neighborhood. Continue reading
My brother, Jeff, and I were adopted in our youth from separate families. After many years, we came to strongly resemble one another – like an owner to his dog. There is one remarkably divergent characteristic, however: Jeff is not as sensitive or emotional as I am. And, recently, it hit me as to why. I attribute the anomaly to the first albums we ever owned, which were gifts from our aunt one Christmas. Jeff received Black Sabbath, “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath”, whereas I was the proud recipient of ABBA’s, “The Magic of ABBA”. Continue reading
Though today I exhibit some OCD characteristics and am regarded as a very hygienic man, as a child I was once indistinguishable from a Bangladeshi street mongrel. The dichotomy is hard for even me to fathom. The parents of other children often wondered if I had a home …. or, even a legal guardian. I would spend school recesses launching myself off jungle gyms into tanbark and dirt. And, on rainy days I was consistently sent home by school administrators for a change of clothing due to romps in the mud. I also habitually feigned illness so I could remain home from school, where I would burn things – including my plastic toys. I savored the sight of the black, noxious smoke spiraling into the sky. Continue reading
