Sticking Out

Just a quick story.

A few years ago I couldn't stand kvetching about winter, forfeited a hundred bucks and bought myself cross-country skis (ebay). Got the boots new.

The following year, despite his protests that he wouldn't like it, that he's a downhill ski kinda guy, I did the same for FD, got him skis. He didn't love it, but no one does, not at first. It's not easy picking up a new sport at our age.

The original idea was to ski to work, clearly a pipe dream. We're a few years away from that, stamina-wise, skill-wise. But when the snow started yesterday, the thought of cleaning off the car, the dread of losing my parking space, the memory of spinning rubber, all that negotiating with people who can't drive, and the pathetic hunt for a spot at work, all of it feels overwhelming.

"I'm taking my skis, catching a bus to work. At least I can ski home, or try to ski home. When it's too much for me, I can flag a bus anywhere."

This is Chicago.

FD comes up with a better idea. He'll park the car on Granville, half-way between my office and our house, meet me somewhere in the park by the Chicago River. This is a big park, but because Chicago is flat, you can still see everyone within 500 yards. We'll meet somewhere in the middle, ski back to the car.

And we do this, and it's fabulous. If you ever want to be alone in the city, this is the way to do it. Get out your skis in the evening and live a little. Nobody's out doing this, not at night.

Fast forward. This morning, new snow. This time I ski to the bus stop, one that's about a mile from my house. There won't be time after work to play around. I miss the bus by that much, keep going until one is approaching from the opposite direction, measure out time in my mind, get to the next bus stop, take off my skis, and wait.

The bus comes, I hop on. People surely give me the look that says,

you are one eccentric weird person carrying skis and poles on a bus.

The bus driver isn't appearing appreciative, either. He scowls.

As I settle into my seat, however, a young woman across the aisle strikes up a conversation.

YG: You ski in the city? That's so cool.
TD: Well, I walk on skis, but yeah.
YG: Like, uh, why? And how? I mean, uh. . .
TD: No, not everyone shovels, and if you look around, there's snow everywhere!
YG: So it's good exercise, right?
TD: Uh, huh, and I have this very sedentary job, and so it's good to shake out the emboli.

Etc.

We talk until she gets off the bus, and I learn she's from out of town, has recently moved here from Michigan where everyone drives everywhere. Well, of course, Michigan.

I'm thinking, during this social encounter, I really don't want to be talking to her, I want to check messages and stuff, just breathe, but she's young and enthusiastic, and I'm flattered, you know, in a way.

She gets off before me and says, "It was so nice to meet you. Take care."

And I'm thinking, it was so nice, actually.

These kinds of things can't happen to you unless you carry skis.

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Natalie and Monk

You probably know that care-takers get a bad rap. It's bad to be one, you tend to focus on others, put yourself last, burn out, lose self. You deny other people the joy of taking care of you. I could go on and on.

If you're familiar with the show then you know that Monk is a famous detective with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and Natalie is his assistant. Monk's disorder is so severe that much of Natalie's job is watching out for him, making sure he is safe. His concentration on cleanliness (germ phobic) and order (symmetry) make Monk something of an absent-minded professor. He bumps into things. He gets hurt because he's more worried about the order of nature than his own safety.

But Natalie saves him, usually, from things like walking in front of a bus.

I tape the show and always have to hear the song, It's a Jungle Out There, will sing along with Randy Newman. What can I tell you.

Anyway, because I tape much more than I watch as a rule, I have a huge assortment of shows to choose from. One night I choose Monk and the Magician. I try to get FD to watch it with me, but as soon as he realizes who the murderer is (first ten minutes) he sees no point in watching anymore. Guys are like this unless they're watching recaps of sports.

So he goes out to do some guy thing or another and I have the remote to myself. I buzz through to where I've left off, and it becomes very obvious that the magician is a very, very bad guy. Monk figures it out right away, not as fast as FD but fast.

FD returns as it's just about to end and I rewind, make him join me. "Watch this!" I command. This is a good part so he can't complain. Monk is in very serious danger, I'm getting very worried. Pazowie! Abracadabra! Natalie shows up with the police and saves him. She throws her arms around him and gives him an emotional hug. I would have, too. This was a really close call.

My pulse eventually returns to normal and FD says to me, "She seems to really have feelings for him. That's not exactly appropriate for an assistant, is it?"

"She's his care-taker," I say. "Her job is making sure he's okay."

"He really needs that much care-taking? It's just OCD."

Just OCD.

"Honey, it's never just OCD. And no matter what the disabling disorder, we tell people to find someone, if at all possible, to check in on them, maybe even coach or take care of them, pay for it if necessary.

Some people really need shadows. In tribal societies this has always been understood. In our industrialized, independence-is-valued-to-a-fault society, too few of us have people to watch out for us, to make sure we' don't kill ourselves, don't drink or stick needles in our arms, who will brush the crumbs off our chins, tuck in or cut off our tags, make sure we've eaten, know where we've dropped our keys. It would be nice if we could always have it together, but most of us can't. And is it all that necessary, anyway? Always having it together?"

I can't help it, I'm on a roll.

"And this doesn't apply just to people who are a little less than functional due to some disorder or another. A person can be perfectly independent and still need a little help now and then. It's ridiculous that we blow off our parents so early, now that I think about it, so dramatically, find it necessary to bark things at people who are just trying to help, like that woman on a television commercial from the seventies, the one who said, Mother please, I'd rather do it myself."

This is the end of the rant.

And you know it's true, we can't help but do this when we're teenagers, even as children or young adults. It is very normal and very good to blow off the caretakers, to glory in our independent choices, our autonomy, at any age, really. Then, we're not sure when it happens, all of sudden it's not so bad to let someone else lend us a hand.

I tell FD, "You'll take care of me, I imagine, one day. When I get old and can't find my glasses."

"Uh, why would I do that?"

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