I'm More Than My Squarish Body

Jane is often invited to visit groups and give talks at meetings. Most people are interested in her squarish body and features. That's all understandable enough, of course, since who isn't curious about anyone with something immediately different about them? But she also wants all of us to realize that she's more than her squarish body. She is not a zoological specimen, pinned to a black mat under glass, only to be labeled, "Squarish."

In regard to the differences people have -- when I heard her talk before a church group -- she said she'd recently had the opportunity to meet a guy with three ears. His two ears are naturally in the ordinary places, but, due to a developmental issue, he has a third ear in the middle of his forehead. Not as great as eyes on the back of your head, but still distinctive. She says he gave a talk on himself and took questions, and was able to hear even the most soft-spoken folks in the back of the room.

"He saw me sitting there," she said, "with my squarish body, and it seemed like he was wondering about me. But probably because of his third ear, his own difference, he wasn't fast to blurt it out. I would say I was probably the most accepting person there of him and his third ear."

In the course of her talk, Jane said that way back in the old days, kids in school were merciless. But now with everyone grown up, she gets a more sympathetic reception. I nodded, because I had issues as a kid, too, like lots of kids, but now I'm Sympathy Personified. I wanted to give her an "Attagirl," but those kinds of extraneous comments are frowned upon by the group, which has to hear my comments every week but only has this one shot to hear a woman with a squarish body.

Anyway, she said she's given this same talk numerous times, in schools, for civic organizations, and even for coffee clubs and in prisons. She varies it -- which is all very understandable -- for the group hosting her. "School children do a lot of staring, but of all the people, they're the closest to true understanding. One little roundish boy told me, 'You were born squarish, I was born roundish!' I needed kids like that when I was a kid!"

When it came time for questions, I thought, Should I ask her something about her experience with a squarish body, or something more process-oriented? I actually know better, I swear, but I went with the process question and amazingly got a squarish body answer: "Do you like giving these talks?" I believe she picked up on what I was getting at: Why subject yourself to this kind of carnival, the whole thing highlighting, really, what is extraneous to your basic humanity, your shape?

She gave me the usual rigamarole mumbo-jumbo answer you might expect. She knows people are curious, etc., and she has nothing to be ashamed of... I'm looking like, "Yeah, but..." Then she got down to brass tacks, and I believe I perceived an underlying hatred of the whole process, when she said, "My biggest problem with it is I think of myself as normal, just another person. And since I'm more than a person with a squarish body, sometimes I wonder why I'm dwelling on that one thing. Does that make sense?" I nodded, and she declared, "I'm much more than my squarish body. Just like the other guy is more than his third ear."

I felt pretty good with her answer. Although I got a dirty look from our group's leader. Since I'd very clearly subverted the whole session, bringing forth from her a proud proclamation that she's more than her squarish body, the very reason we were sitting there listening to her. We dismissed in shame and rolled our roundish bodies home.

Everyone's Cross to Bear

I was out on the prowl again today, "people-watching." They say it's in my blood, from the source of my blood, my family. I remember they mentioned it at my dad's funeral, that he liked it. I should have watched him closer, because I don't remember that.

The task I set for myself today was a deeper one than just summarizing activities. I was looking for something more "inner." I did all this very much on the sly, taking glance or two and trying to discern as much as I could. Note: If I discern a lot of personal information, like passwords, bank accounts, various trysts they're headed for, etc., I immediately forget it all. Let me repeat, no one's most confidential information was recorded.

VERY PRETTY GIRL, 18* -- Of course she has a huge cross to bear, being indisputably lovely. Good colors, too, of the clothes. She knows how to dress for maximum appeal. But her loveliness is her cross, because she knows so many who see her want her, and so many for all the wrong (superficial) reasons. I can read the minds of other guys. Both guys who have a hard time with women and those who don't. I hate the thought of some of these bastards taking her out. Thinking, 'She's on my arm, how nice for me," so selfish. The other dimension of her cross is others' envy.

YOUNG WOMAN IN COMPLICATED WHEELCHAIR, 24 -- These are tough situations. She can barely move, going in slow motion, very vulnerable, but she's out, not staying home. A lot of crosses she must bear, I can't even get to them all. She's looking to see pity, which she hates, notices the staring, people wondering what's wrong, etc. I would guess you'd have to put most of that out of your mind after a while. Life is too short for all that. But still, obviously people are wondering, even though we've all seen every extreme in life. Such moments make me wistful in philosophical musing, the crosses people bear. I'd guess she has many acquaintances who are helpers. I hope in her many struggles she's gained strength.

ME, 61 -- I'm ambivalent about what my life's meant. My so-called accomplishments, comparing them stacked up next to my regrets. Big regrets. Aging speeds up as you go, for me most recently felt in all kinds of frightening pain and changes in my knees. I believe I can honestly say, No one's suffered like me. Another cross is my worry that I look suspicious to others, like a dangerous old codger, say, to the pretty girl, 18, although in truth I'd be the best friend she ever had if some lech came swooping in. I'd go into a karate stance, and kick him firmly in the--

MAN, ABOUT 30, FIT, STEADILY EMPLOYED -- I'll call him Joe Above Average. Stickler for rules, takes a lot for him to cut loose. This cuts both ways. It keeps him steadily employed in a moderately responsible public position. But he wonders if this is all, everything he was actually cut out to do. Still, his nature isn't primarily to question but to continue in the same channel till something shifts on its own. His cross, then, is just moving over the border into malaise, to soon return to normal. Must be a queasy feeling, since he normally avoids such things. (I've had personal dealings with this guy, so I know he's a stickler for rules, even when pointless.)

LITTLE GIRL, 4 -- Cute blonde in light, loose dress, a dress tie in her mouth. Everything's reasonably new for her. I see her holding Daddy's hand. Every day's a decent-enough day. Her cross has to do with vague security issues, possibly fear of the dark. She's seen glimpses of scary movies; in this age of Netflix, it's hard to miss. But Daddy and Mommy are close enough, and there's a nightlight in every socket, so it's a still a very tiny cross.

SCRUFFY MAN, 32 -- Wearing one of those strapped undershirts as his main shirt -- my brother and I called them "goony dresses" when we were kids -- and it's tight. Also has a camouflage hat, scruffy hair, more than a tad overweight. This guy's not too worried; he knows where his next beer's coming from. He's got a decent enough hold on life and is obviously comfortable, going by a fairly slovenly look in public. His cross is a persistent nasty smoker's cough and mortality. This, however, is not directly a concern, but he worries which boy ought to get his half-restored mid-70s classic pickup. Other than that, "I'll just smoke and hack away, then die, no biggie." Let me modify his cross, half-cough, half-pickup.

LIMPING MAN, 45 -- He's lived a good life -- having an efficient nature, focused on a particular specialty. It might be air conditioning work, or some other repair job. His thinness is such he could really squeeze in there and work on things with the best of them. But there's this terrible limp, after a compressor (guessing) fell on his foot, and he's going gray. His cross is the fear of change, needing to keep up on developments in the appliance biz. He hopes things will still need fixed, since a lot of people just throw things away after a few years and buy new.

OLDER WOMAN, 72, CANE -- She has an advantage in that she doesn't need the cane all the time. As a cane, it's more or less a crutch, not literally. She's living a decent life in her retirement, likely a widow, but happy enough, reading, working an occasional crossword, watching basic cable, and working on a few safe hobbies. Sewing activities. She's well-liked by the other ladies at her church, although I'm sure the ones who are extremely cane-dependent resent certain things about her. She's traditional, but easy-going. Her cross has to do with future concerns, obviously involving the cane, but more than that, mortality. She knows the abyss is in the picture. More than the abyss, though, she fears she might become a burden to others. I should ask her ... nah! I'm sure I'm right.

* Ages estimated, but I'm sure I got the genders right.

Even the Police Can't Take My Walk Away

What a great day! Finally, I didn't put it off any longer, I took a serious walk. All of a sudden I've been having this weird pain in my knees, and I'm thinking, Oh no! because I've known plenty of people who've had knee replacements. I've been sitting a lot and not walking, and now I know, I have to get out there now ... not later. The whole theme of my walk today was "Use It or Lose It."

Like I said, it was a very serious walk. Serious time, serious distance. I was watching my step, even meditating, and I truly was as focused as I've ever been. My earbuds and iPod were in my pocket the whole time, turned off. Instead, I listened to the birds, watched butterflies, checked out the various rocks, tree roots, and other things down at the lake. I vow, this was the first of many walks to come! In fact yesterday was a prologue to it, as I walked downtown, then around the square a few times and up and down a few alleys.

This morning, in the happiness of the whole thing, walking along joyously, I kept thinking, "No one can take this away from me!" Not the weather, even if it turns off bad afterwards; the weather can't take it away. Nothing can. Then I thought, even the police can't take it away! The police. They could come in right now and arrest me for something -- some trumped up charge -- but they can't take away my walk! Isn't that great...

It'd be interesting, though, to have the police try to take my walk away. They're like all up in my face, "You didn't take a walk at all, least of all a power walk, as we heard one other guy call his." Then I'm like, "I didn't call it a power walk." "No, but you implied that's what it was. Just like the other guy did." At this point, as you can see, they're trying to egg me into an argument -- Are they lying? Was there another guy? -- then they slam me against a tree, hoping I'll erupt violently.

But the thing about police, as I know better than anyone, being the King of Group Dynamics, is you can easily finesse them. Because something a lot of people don't know is that the police are totally swayed by body language. In fact, they're trained to key in on only a minimum number of cues. (Full disclosure: Because of my reputation in the field of group dynamics, I once served on a police commission.)

The No. 1 and No. 2 cues they look for are in your face and hands:

The face shows emotions. Do not sneer, control your face in every way. Lips not completely closed, but don't show teeth. Eyebrows relaxed. Nostrils still; if your nostrils flare out because of a bullheaded nature, you can kiss it goodbye. If I were stopped by the police, I'd simply center myself on the thought of watching my aged grandma opening a can of apricots. With that, my face would never go wrong.

The hands show intent. Hands can strangle, reach for weapons, grab at you, throw things, etc. But even if you don't do any of that in the presence of police, you're not home free. Don't clench them, don't hide them, keep them out front, or, better, to the side, lightly open and loose. Remember, rubbing your hands appears vulnerable but instead indicates guilt. You may, however, touch your hands, such as the fingers of your hands touching each other, in a half-praying-hands pose. Do not -- I repeat -- Do not go full praying hands! They take that two ways: 1) The prayer of the guilty; or, 2) A prelude to karate.

Anyway, just some free advice if you're ever out on a walk and the police try to take it away. The fact is, and I say this with certainty, the police are smart enough to know they can't really take your walk away. Think of it, what is a walk but an activity? It's not a tangible thing to be transferred. But you could get a stupid rookie -- Johnny Law with a hot head, who wants you to know he's boss. He's real stupid and even if he can't actually dispossess you of your walk, he might pressure you to deny it, denounce it, or otherwise give up your claim to it.

One other pointer in addition to watching your face and hands: If you get Johnny Law, play along, "Yes sir; No sir; Oh, I didn't know that, sir; That's sure a shiny badge you've got, sir; Is that car hard to drive, sir?; How many times do you rough up people in a day, sir?" Hear all that? As far as he's concerned, you're just an innocent, easily impressed rube, and he's bound to let you go. Then all the way home, you're savoring the whole thing, the walk you still have, and the fact that he thinks he got the best of you, while all along you played him like a cheap fiddle.

The Key to My Mouth

I'm able to go profound lengths of time profoundly silent. Witness what I've done here at my blog. I've resisted the temptation all month, until now, when I feel I have something to brag about, to write. I have literally let the pearls of wisdom that I normally transfer from my mouth to my hands lie dormant. They've been locked up.

Now, though, only when I have something to brag about, my profound silence, do I break my silence and proclaim it. Quite the deal.

I guess I've always been that way. Starting way back, when I first heard of the concept of zipping your lip, then, more impressive to me, of locking it all together. I was like the fainting goat of speech, everything I was meant to be by nature, but with the added discipline of just keeping to myself.

Someone would interrupt me, let's say, then ply me for my opinion. But by then, whether stealthily or in the open light of everyone's field of vision, I would have taken an invisible key from my pocket and locked my mouth. Then, no matter how they begged and wheedled about it, I would sit silent, stone-face, breathing only through my nose.

That's a dynamite feeling, too. If you've never tried it, try it. Let a roomful of people sit there and see you with the discipline it takes to not unlock your mouth. I'm getting a head rush just thinking back over my life, and hoping, as strange as it sounds, that someone offends me very soon so I can do it again!

So often, though, I've been very civilized. I might be sitting there in a group, trying to offer my two cents' worth, and all the others are filibustering. Then I try to pipe up with something and some blowhard across the room will talk over me. So often I've just let it go.

But it all depends on how I'm feeling, and you definitely feel more civilized as an adult than a kid. But say I'm feeling cantankerous, like a kid, I'll reach for the key and very publicly lock my mouth, and that's it! Now, all of a sudden, everyone wants to hear me! Funny how that works! So, again, depending on how I feel, I might unlock it quickly, or I might just sit there and not.

It'd be cool ... How about this? I'm offended right away, then I lock my mouth and throw away the key. It's over there somewhere, invisible. They're begging me, "Please tell us what it was!" and I just point to my locked lips. Then I sit there the entire hour or two, whatever it is, letting the lock do its thing! It'd really flummox them! Later, they see me on the street and I'm talking, because I always carry a spare key.

Anyway, you have two lessons today. Locking your mouth is something to do. And, don't interrupt me, or get on my nerves in any other way, or I'll lock my mouth and you'll never know what you missed.

The Pink Professor -- My Dreamboat

I just came from the Roadhouse (one of the town's bikers bars) from spending time with my dearest amigo, the Pink Professor.

It was an early evening. I left a little early, since he had some responsibilities out there. As should be well known by now, he serves as the Pink Professor figure there, a very beautiful concept. In short, a bikers bar and bikers themselves really flourish if they're fortunate enough to find someone like him -- a Pink Professor figure -- to hang around the place and keep it softened up. The bikers are happy to have his counsel and assistance and perpetually good attitude, and it also gives the bar a nicer feel.

He wanted me to stop by for a few minutes, just to catch up after a few days out of each other's sight. It was supposed to be a few minutes but it stretched to a couple hours! But I didn't get him to myself, of course (and I'm not complaining), because he was called to referee a minor tiff, to welcome some traveling folks, and to talk with a waitress, in addition to just the ordinary "spirit" he lends the place. I did have him to myself for a little while, sitting in a booth together, and enjoying some soft chocolate chip cookies that I baked. I made a bunch of extras because I knew some of the regulars would like one. They were a big hit.

I probably shouldn't say it, but being a Pink Professor figure at a bikers bar is not really an easy position. He gets stressed just like anyone, but of course he knows it's all worth it if he can do the folks some good. This is where I come in, to help him. I played the intuitive card, looking at him square in the eye. He got my body language right away! My look was as if to say, "I am Svengali, and you are under my spell." And I held that look, and I kept it there! He got the message, which was, "You have to take care of Number 1, too..." Then I smiled and he got the message, that I wanted him to relax and have another cookie.

The guy teaches classes all day -- that's his professorial role. Then he's out at the bar many evenings. I need to be there to make sure he keeps his spirits up, and he generally does!

Anyway, I'm sitting there, looking worried, and suddenly he returns the "favor." Suddenly, I found myself arrested by a terrific stare from across the table. "Oh no," I thought, "I let down my guard, and now ... and now ..." His stare returned my exact sentiment, very easy for me to discern: "I am also Svengali, and now you are under my spell." I wanted to turn away; that was my first thought. But then I thought, "This Svengali has dreamy eyes; he can take me anywhere he wants to go!" Then he went way out there, gritting his teeth in kind of a fearsome way, a negative look with a positive message, which said, "You worry too much." That's true, I do...

I put my hand up to my eyes -- I was playing silly, like he'd nailed me -- thinking I might break the spell and escape, and when I would look up again, he'd be looking the other way. But when I looked again, he was still looking right at me ... continuously ... then he burst out laughing, as if to say, "You worry too much, yes -- I nailed you on that. But don't worry about it!" What an ironic thing to say!

The guy is a dreamboat. The Roadhouse is lucky to have him. And as for me, I'm lucky too ... but, hey, it goes both ways! I think I can speak for him, "We're both lucky!"

Breakfast With The Pink Professor

I had a special treat this morning, going out to breakfast with my dear friend, the Pink Professor.

We met on the street and greeted each other like two old slippers, our normal thing. It's all quite buddy buddy, no real distance at this point, as you can well imagine. When you're completely sympatico, you just do whatever, a hug, an elbow bump, nose rubbing, anything you want. It's all the same.

The key thing is the soul connection, and that's definitely there. You look at a thousand girls or guys and none of them are the one, although, of course, at a basic level, if you were on a desert island, they'd do. I see a bunch of people and immediately think, Could we have something? And the answer is nearly 100% of the time, No.

Even seeing two people out together -- obviously sympatico -- doesn't always raise any desire in me, since there's always something that seems off. It's like looking for your double; you always figure one's out there somewhere, only you never seem to meet.

But in the Pink Professor, I found exactly what I was looking for!

I'm not at liberty to say his actual name. He serves as the Pink Professor figure at one of the local bikers bars, a beautiful softening presence (spirit) for the erstwhile roughnecks who hang out there. He gives that special flavor that any assembly needs, and also smooths the way for newbies, families, and other non-stereotypical guests. I know because I was one! Someone could've taken a pool cue to me, but the Pink Professor was there to welcome me.

It started out like that ... and it's blossomed in the last couple months into something very special, to the point that we shuffle around his place or my place in our bathrobes, enjoying each other's company, naturally with the curtains drawn. We don't even have to talk, that's how close we are. He might sweep hand through the air, as if to say, "We've got the whole place to ourselves." Then I might point at the door, as if to say, "We're all here!" Then he might motion to the couch, as if to say, "The couch looks like a comfortable sofa." And I nod, as if in agreement.

What I said above, being a couple old slippers is my favorite-most image to describe this relationship. If there's ever a ceremony, I'd love to see a couple miniature bronzed slippers -- small, of course -- on top of the cake. I might try to get the "Cake Boss" guy on TV to make one, since he might come up with some way to animate the whole cake -- plywood, PCP pipes, styrofoam, and cake -- making for a real celebration.

Anyway, we met today downtown to have breakfast at some little place that's cool. You go there and you immediately feel you're going to be comfortable. You look over and some guy's reading a newspaper by the window. That's cool. Or two women will be sitting in the corner, lost in each other's eyes. To me, that's cool. Who am I to judge?

We ordered. And being the Pink Professor and his dear friend-- who am also something of a guy with a Pink Professor mindset -- we were courteous and caring for the waitress to the max. What we give at the bikers bar, it's our strict ethic to give everywhere else. It comes natural to us, to be total nice guys, caring for everyone.

Our food came and we ate it. We both like the same kinds of food, eggs, bacon, muffins, coffee, so that's remarkable.

We kept the small talk flowing freely, and the other kind of small talk we're known for, i.e., body language. I look over at him and sigh, as if to say, "Why can't it always be like this?" And he pats my hand, as if to say, "This is just the beginning. We're still relatively young, 60ish or under." I put my hand up and drop it back to the table, as if to say, "I don't mind aging, just so I have someone to spend the years with." And he nods, as if to say, "You got it. You got it ... and I got it too!"

What a beautiful time we both had at breakfast. We made other plans for later. Then a quick embrace and he needed to get to work, his professorial duties. I went home, very happy, stars in my eyes and my belly nicely full.