Just a Few Sit-Ups...

Years ago I caught Richard Jeni on TV, joking about the difference between the way men and women in our culture view their bodies.

Jeni contrasted women's (culturally conditioned) insecurity about their appearance, epitomized in the clichéd "Do these pants make my ass look fat?" with men's sometimes excessive confidence in theirs; according to Jeni, middle-aged Joe-Six-Pack (or kegger) thinks he's "just a few sit-ups from major stud-dom."

Jeni was poking fun at both sexes, I think; at women for being insecure about their appearance and at men for being so ridiculously secure about theirs.

So why am I writing about this?

We all know that although these clichés may be true enough to be humorous, they are also generalizations that do not apply to every man or woman in existence. We all know (well I know, and I hope you know) women who are secure in their appearance. We all know men who aren't cocky about the way they look. And those women and men strike me as healthier and happier on average than those at the extremes. The extremes—"do these make my ass look fat?" and "just a few sit-ups from major stud-dom"—aren't good for us, but they are where so many dwell.

For most of my life I've been an extremist, but not on the side of the spectrum men typically occupy. I've been irrationally insecure about my appearance/attractiveness/sexiness/whatever for almost my whole life. This insecurity has (metaphorically) crippled me, the same way it cripples so many others, and it's on the list of things I'm working to correct.

A few weeks ago I had my nose rubbed in just how irrational my insecurity is. An attractive, assertive woman made it amply clear that she found me very attractive. My insecurity frustrated her (understandable!) and she expressed that, as well. It is that experience (and that woman) that has catalyzed my most recent attempt to "get it right," to build up my confidence and "swagger."

The effort includes perseverance and affirmation, and this morning I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to see with honest eyes, rather than insecure ones. And you know what I saw?

I look pretty damn good, actually (no qualification necessary: not "for my age," not for anything). In fact:

I'm just a few sit-ups from major stud-dom.

Perseverance

In my previous 'blog, a commenter correctly pointed out that I have tried before to make changes, and I've failed. He wasn't suggesting that I not try; rather, he was noting (correctly) that I've been here before.


It wasn't news to me. I know I've tried before to make these kinds of changes in who and how I am, and I know too that I have not (yet!) been successful. I know that it all sounds good, and I don't blame those who are going to save their enthusiasm until they see I've succeeded. I understand all that.


I understand, too, that what really matters here is that I keep trying.

Thomas Edison had something to say about the importance of perseverance. He said, "I am not discouraged, because every wrong attempt discarded is another step forward." He said, "I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work." He said, "Nearly every man who develops an idea works at it up to the point where it looks impossible, and then gets discouraged. That's not the place to become discouraged." He said, "Many of life's failures are men who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up."

I don't intend to give up.

I am not certain that I will succeed in my attempts this time. I am optimistic—optimism is an integral part of the success I am seeking—but I am not certain. What I do know for certain is that I will not succeed if I do not try.


My real problem is the ridiculous amount of time I allow to pass between attempts. If I fail, I fail; do I really need two years to recover?


I say, "Hell, no!"


The other half of my commitment to address my shortcomings is a commitment to try again immediately (or nearly immediately) if I fail. It's time to 'man up."

Affirmation

So this self-esteem thing; as I continue to grapple with it, I've moved steadily from depressed through frustrated, and now I'm just flat pissed off. I refuse to be held hostage by my gut. I'm not putting up with this any more.

I've always felt that my 'gut' had the final say over me; that my mind (my best feature) couldn't really win the day. Because I believed that, I've never really put it to the test, instead just letting my 'gut' carry the day.

Well, screw that. Maybe it's true, maybe it's false, but I'm not going to let it go untested any longer.

I've heard that self-affirmation—repetition of a single positive thought over the course of time—can 'reprogram' our subconscious assumptions about ourselves. Hippy-dippy shit aside, this makes a certain amount of sense. One of the best things about being human is that we can make choices; we are not at the mercy of our genes. Just as we can be persuaded by the arguments of others to change aspects of who we are, so can we convince ourselves. It's another aspect of "fake it 'til you make it."

For the rest of summer, my mind is going to battle my 'gut' with consistent affirmations intended to build my social confidence. I will also take social risks that my 'gut' finds terrifying; my mind believes, and my gut is going to have to suck it up.

Don't wish me luck; I'm not going to need it.

Switzerland (resurrected from my MySpace 'blog - dated November 25, 2007)

Sometimes bad can foster good. As I reflect in incredulous gratitude on a big change in me over the last two months, I find myself pleased that some good came of being the way I was before.

The lack of confidence and assurance that's been a fundamental part of who I am for most of my life has very little in the way of an "upside." It's kept me isolated, earned me a reputation among some as aloof or arrogant, kept me from asserting myself in any number of circumstances—generally, it's been a millstone or albatross around my neck. And yet…

And yet it has helped shape me as a gentle man. It has helped me accept even painful decisions by others without animosity or recrimination. It has made me one who tries to see the other side, even if the "other side" causes me pain. It has made me a man to whom every relationship is precious, and it has made me a man who (for the most part) refuses to blame others just for having the gall to disagree with me.

I believe that good persons of conscience can and do disagree with one another. I believe that good persons of conscience sometimes even dislike one another. I don't, however, feel any compulsion to demonize those who disagree with me; to vilify them or cast aspersions on their intelligence, character, or morals. I don't have to be right, and even if I am right, I don't have to rub anyone's nose in it. If they are not deceptive or malicious, I can respect the dignity and humanity of even those with whom I strongly disagree.

Yet this belief, which I now hold strongly, started as a belief that if something went wrong, it was my fault; if I disagreed with someone, I was in the wrong. If, in the course of a friendship or relationship, I got hurt by another's choices, I always believed it was my fault—that I had myself to blame. And if I was the awful person who caused all this mess, I didn't want my awfulness to cause the other person to suffer guilt over it, so I made excuses for them.

Pretty neurotic, huh? Only in order to make excuses for them, I had to understand why they did what they did, and I learned something—once I did understand, I couldn't imagine blaming them for what they did.

Their reasons weren't always great reasons by my lights, but they were always understandable reasons. And if I could understand their reasons, even if I didn't agree, I couldn't get angry about it.

Even though I no longer blame myself, I don't automatically blame others, when they say or do things that bother or hurt me. Although I suddenly and surprisingly find myself self-confident and assured, I still have the habit (and I think it's a good one) of understanding, or trying to understand, why others make the choices they do. I still have the habit of… empathy.

It would be emotionally satisfying, when someone made a decision that hurt, to decide that he or she was an idiot, a demon, a monster, a you-name-it… but it wouldn't be true. And if it isn't true, is it something I want to buy into?

No, I don't think I do.

And that, Wayne, is why I'm Switzerland!

Like a Party Balloon

I've been thinking lately about ego. I have sufficient ego when it comes to many of my qualities—my intellect, my education, my acting, my speaking, my writing—but the area where it'd be most useful is the one area where I have an ego deficit. I want to grow my ego in that area—some (including me) might even say I need to; ego is part of self-confidence—but I've found it to be difficult.

An ego is an awful lot like a party balloon; the kind you blow up. It's like this:

• It's pretty difficult getting a balloon started. Until it's reached a certain size, it takes a lot of energy to inflate.
• Once a balloon is up to a certain size, it gets easier to blow up bigger.
• After it's reached that size, it's pretty tough for a while.
• If you keep blowing a balloon up, it reaches a point where the skin is thin and delicate, and it's easily burst.
• If you continue to inflate it beyond that point, eventually the balloon will pop.

Do you see the parallel? Like a party balloon, an ego:

• Is difficult to get started. It takes a lot of work to inflate it to a reasonable size.
• Gets easier to blow up bigger once it reaches a certain size.
• Is tough when it's not overinflated.
• Becomes delicate and is easily burst if it's overinflated.
• Can be blown up to the point where it self-destructs.

I'm at the "getting it started" phase.

So What's Up With This 'Blog's Name, Anyway?

If you've read much of this 'blog, you've already figured out that it isn't particularly humorous. Mostly, it's snapshots of my internal life or bits of my personal philosophy or occasionally rants and raves. Serious topics, in other words, so "One Foot On a Banana Peel" may strike you as a bit frivolous.

But "One Foot On a Banana Peel" is a pretty good metaphor for those topics. I write about life (as I know it), and life (as I know it) is uncertain and precarious.

I think that at least occasionally, all of us feel that unsteadiness. Maybe it's when we are waiting for a job interview, or we're proposing marriage to the love of our life. Maybe it's before we get on an airplane, or when we move to a new city. Maybe it's when we see a newborn baby, or when we say our final farewell to a beloved parent. In those moments we have our noses rubbed in the unknown country that is the future, and it can tip us off balance.

The thing is, the future is always unknowable, and we always stand with "one foot on a banana peel." I don't say this to scare anyone; I say it because it's true, and living with the truth is better—more realistic, more fulfilling, more rewarding, and ultimately more joyful—than living with a convenient and comfortable fiction.

Even as I make plans for the future—and I do, make no mistake about that—I try to be mindful of where I'm standing: one foot on a banana peel. I try not to focus too much on that nebulous future at the expense of the tangible present, because I am well aware that the present is all I've really got.

Take, for example, my current (somewhat embryonic) five year plan to move to Kaua'i. I'm planning for a future I cannot depend on—any number of circumstances could derail that plan, and many of those circumstances would be just fine with me. So the things I'm planning are things that don't trap me on that train and no other. They're things that enrich me now, as well as empower me to move if, when the time comes, that's still what I want to do.

The trick to standing with one foot on a banana peel is knowing that you are. If you know you're standing on a slippery service, you stand differently: weight forward, alert and aware, ready for shifting footing. And if you're ready, you can adapt to it when it happens.

A Father's Honor

I am glad there's a day to celebrate fathers. There should be. Fathers (and mothers) deserve celebration, at least if they've been parents (and so many have): made sacrifices and committed their time, attention, and treasure to their kids' well-being. I believe that days like Father's Day really, really matter.

That being said, the day itself has been bittersweet for almost as long as I can remember. A number of things contribute to that mixture, ranging from the... "difficult" relationship between Dad and me from adolescence until just before he died in February of 2009 to my own unrealized dream of being a dad. But despite the decidedly-mixed emotions I experience on Father's Day, I would never want anyone to think I disapproved of the day or its meaning.

Dad

Since Dad died, the day has had an added taste of bitter (and of sweet): bitter because he isn't here any more and sweet because he still lives in my memory.

No one is perfect, but when I was young my dad seemed perfect to me. I remember him playing with me in the snow when I was five years old, and making a marvelous fool of himself in a school talent show the same year. I remember fishing trips; getting up at some ridiculously early hour and riding down to Ventura with a boat following the truck all the way. I remember feeling safe and empowered and loved.

I put my poor dad through more than a fair share of anxiety, too. There was the time I fell against the sheet metal dashboard of his surplus mail truck: the sharp edge of the dash gashed open my forehead. Like any scalp wound, this one bled profusely, and the shock and pain of it caused my eyes to glaze over. When Dad looked over to see how I was, he thought I was dead. And there was the time when I knocked myself out goofing off on a boat launch dock at Ventura Harbor; I'm sure Dad had that "What if?" moment: "What if he'd rolled off the dock into the water? What if he'd been caught between the boat and the dock? What if..."

Then, just before I reached adolescence, Dad had a heart attack. After he recovered, he seemed different to me; more distant, sterner, less playful. In retrospect, and based on what Mom and other of his age peers have said, I think he pushed his family away after the heart attack because he thought his death was imminent. He was trying to prepare us to deal with his loss. From my perspective, he seemed demanding and unforgiving, expecting me to just get it right. I think he wanted me, as the oldest, to be ready to be "the man of the house" when he died.

I was too young to understand. All I really knew was that Dad wasn't the same any more; didn't play like he used to, was more serious and sober, was different. And I mourned then: it felt like I'd lost my dad, even though I saw him every day.

Dad didn't know that; I've always been pretty reserved, and once he changed I was even more reserved around him. And it may not have occurred to him that there was a problem that needed addressing; he sincerely believed he was not long for this earth, and the problem would resolve itself. We butted heads, a lot, because I resented the change and because I didn't want to be what he seemed to want me to be and because—I have to face it—we were a lot alike: intelligent, stubborn, independent, determined.

Of course the joke was on him... he lived more than 40 years after that heart attack. And gradually, as he came to terms with the idea that maybe he wasn't going to die just yet, the funny, sarcastic, playful, delightful man he really was resurfaced. The birth of his granddaughter—my niece Madison—catalyzed... I sometimes think of it as a kind of resurrection.

And it was good to have him back.

Dad's motives were pure. He was doing the best he knew how to take care of the family he loved so much. And despite our conflicts and disagreements, I never stopped loving him, and I never doubted he loved me. He didn't always show it (and neither did I), but I think we both knew.

Still, we never actually reconciled until he got sick. I was living in his house—I'd sold my mobile home, and the deal for my new house hadn't closed yet—and for a while at least, I had time to spend with him. We didn't talk much, but we spent time together. Companionable time. Time just to be father and son. And I had the honor and privilege of helping care for him as cancer ravaged him. I had the privilege of being with him when he died. I got to say goodbye.

I can't tell you how important it was that I got to say goodbye. The time I had with Dad in the weeks before his death and the opportunity I had to say goodbye before he died, let me feel like he and I finally resolved our differences. It was among the finest gifts he ever gave me, with my life and my home growing up and my extended family and many wonderful memories.

Now, I miss him. Not more than anyone else does, but I miss him. That's one of the spices that flavor my emotions on Father's Day; I miss my dad.

Me

The other main spice is my unrealized dream of being a dad.

I can't remember the first time I dreamed of being a dad. I know I was pretty young—not older than 19 or 20, and maybe even younger—and from that first imagining, it has been a constant in my life. I love kids (truth of the matter is, I love just about everyone, but I especially love kids). Whether smelly infants or silly 'tweens or surly teenagers or whatever, I love 'em.

That isn't to say they can't annoy and aggravate me—they absolutely can—but even in those moments I'm committed to them and interested in their well-being. I find them irresistible and amazing and delightful. Even when I was myself a surly teenager, I still enjoyed being around kids younger than me; I don't remember ever being "too cool" for kids.

Because fatherhood was a dream for me (and is; this has never changed), I actually and deliberately worked to make myself better "Dad" material. I paid attention to what the dads I knew did. I paid attention to what kids responded to. I did what "Dadding" I could; when my cousins or their kids were around, I played at being dad to them as best I was able. And I looked forward to that day, surely imminent, when I'd get to be a dad in fact; when I and my (hypothetical) partner would begin raising a family.

And it kept not happening. There were lots of reasons why, most beginning and ending with the personal qualities that made it difficult for me to get into a relationship that might lead in that direction.

I am an introvert (see 10 Myths About Introverts for some insights). That can be an obstacle. I also suffer from craptastic self-esteem and precious little self-confidence (though I'm making progress dealing with those: intellectually, I get it, but emotionally, not yet). I'm shy, too. It takes a pretty special woman to get past all these barriers and overcome my defenses to the point where she can see that I'm worth it. And all that overcoming takes time... understandably, women generally find someone who doesn't make it so difficult.

So here I am, *mumble* years old, and still no partner and no kids. I haven't given up hope—I am optimistic despite all the reasons I have not to be—but here I am. I'm surrounded by great dads with great kids and I want to count myself among their number... but I'm not a member of the club.

I do not begrudge fathers their honors on Father's Day (or any other day). Far from it. I envy fathers on Father's Day (and pretty much every other day). I honor the spirit of Father's Day, and in my heart I celebrate it.

But I can't not taste the bitter mixed in with the sweet.