Nothing but Good Feelings

Look outside, what do you see? Nothing but good feelings.

I struggle with the dark passenger. It's true. Even on the best days. But I was raised in Los Angeles in the 70s, a time when booze was lemonade, ashtrays were in airplanes, and getting roasted by the sun was far out. I knew I was moody. But we never talked about mental health when we passed the potatoes. I loved climbing on rocks and running real fast, but I didn’t realize that both of those things helped me avoid confrontation, you know, with people. I never really contemplated why I was an introvert. In fact, introvert? Not in my vocabulary. I didn't know what an alcoholic was. Cancer? I'm a kid, I am invincible. We didn't talk about why people died. They were just no longer around. I didn't comprehend that being alone was the happiest part of my life. The other parts were terrifying.

I'm not the best friend. Not the best son. Not the best coworker. Not the best partner. But I somehow manage to find my way. It's as though I have an extra compassionate gene, like the hugest C gene ever. That's what I tell myself anyhow. I justify being not the best on one hand with being the absolute best on the other. And I rely on this compassion to offset the melancholy.

It's taken me decades to deconstruct the dark side. Yes, therapy might have been quicker, but in my yoot, sports were better. I still love sports but I also love reading and pattern recognition and awareness. I've learned to self-medicate with herbs and a yoga mat. Nothing has really changed in regards to my good feelings. They are extraordinary. And nothing has changed with the darkness. I can name it now and I am prepared. I prepare with a knowing that love is always on the other side.

Look outside what do you see?

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Whose Legs Are These?

I have two legs and my Chevy Colorado has four. I evaluate and maintain the strength of my legs by walking and dancing. Living in Manhattan for over 20 years made me a strong walker. Loving to express my inner feelings by spinning around in circles made me a confident dancer. When my strength is on the decline and my confidence wanes, I often crank up my writing as a means to fill me with hope and lift the spirit. With this new found optimism, I get back on the track, run some laps, and rebuild the endurance to face another day. And then sometimes I'll over do it, tweak the knee, then I'm back on the yoga mat stretching out the hammies so I can walk again. When the tires of my Colorado need help, they communicate with me via the tire pressure monitor system (TPMS). A diminutive light on my dash turns yellow and begs for attention, especially when it is cold outside. But finding the time to put air in the tires is kind of complicated, mainly because most of the air pumps in the Hill City require quarters and I never have change. In fact, I haven't had an actual dollar in my wallet for months. When I look at the tires on the Colorado they look ok. Not too flat. Gauging air pressure from the naked eye is kind of hard for me. But the TPMS light, although tiny, burns bright. I cannot peel my eyes from the yellow icon, which looks exactly like a flat tire. So I got it in my head that a tire or tires need air. The time to act is now. I will make this a priority, today. I am under pressure to make this right, my tires rely on me, I need to lift them up. I am a decent person. I care about the Colorado. I'm concerned about safety. And that little light is driving me insane. While cruising to the Food Lion, I noticed a gas station that had an "Air" sign and a rolled up blue hose next to it. I pulled in hoping for the best. I asked the attendant how the air works. He said, just use the hose. "Is it free?" I asked. "Sure is," he said. I shook his hand vigorously in gratitude. I was stoked. He was amused at my enthusiasm. I felt empowered. Per Chevy, my front and rear tires should be at 32psi. Cool. I bet these badboys are way under 30psi. I am going to right this wrong. I am going to silence the TPMS warning light. Everybody get out of my way. The attendant asked if I needed an air pressure gauge since the hose didn't have one. Got it, "Yes, please!" I said. He handed over a simple apparatus. I was feeling more and more invigorated by the second. Sheee-it, let's do this. I started with the front left tire, which was closest to me. 36psi. What?! Ok, ok. Let's try the back left tire. 37psi. Wait a second. Then I checked the tires on the right. One was at 35psi and the other was at 36. Hmmm, so this is how it's going to be. Thankfully, the air pressure gauge I borrowed had a bleeder valve, which came in handy. Instead of inflating the tires I ended up deflating them. Weird, and totally counter to my internet research that said cold air decreases tire pressure. I dismissed logic with a flick of my wrist and forged on. If the TPMS light goes out, this is a win day for me. I cranked up the Colorado and continued on my way to the grocery store. Within seconds the little yellow flat ass tire icon was laughing at me. Rat. Bastard. I pulled into the Food Lion parking lot and shut down the Colorado. I sat in the truck and meditated on my life. The dash was silent and dark. When the days are cold, perhaps this is the time to hibernate. Do less, not more. Let the air out. I felt content, and it was high time to buy that box of bold, dark, jammy red wine. Night was falling. I exited the Chevy and chirped the doors. When I turned to take a loving glance at the Colorado my legs awkwardly tangled and I twisted my ankle. Mother...fff.. My hysterics echoed off the hills of Boonsboro. I rested for a second on the cold, damp pavement and admired the glowing marquee. F-O-O-D backlit by white fluorescents. Pretty sweet. But it was Saturday wine night and I needed to get up. Dee would be texting me soon. We were planning on a dance party and that’s serious business for us. But tonight, and I can dig it, my vintage spins would be replaced by smooth, subtle, shoulder shimmies.

These are my legs, and these legs love to boogie.

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