I Have Become Fragile

I spent the majority of this lovely Sunday in a considerable amount of pain. I don’t mean the low-grade constant aching kind either, I had sharp shooting pain in my both my wrists, occasional spasms in my lower back, and the tendon or muscle or whatever it is that attaches my right wrist to the elbow was pretty painful too, not to mention the muscle just behind the elbow bone, we think it is called the tricep, but really what do we know.

The elbow pain was the most constant, especially when I opened drawers, started the car or even got off the couch- where coincidentally I spent a lot of time on today, inspite of Mairin's occasional glares and eye rolls. I tried to be useful and productive, but I felt like a marionette who had been split apart and haphazardly put back together- every joint tender and slightly askew.

What may you ask caused this level of discomfort? The answer to this question is the most painful aspect of this story. My body is quickly becoming older than my mind.

I spent so much of my youth taking my body for granted, and now that I am well into my fortieth decade, now that my mind and spirit are wise and nimble and eager for life, now that I am starting to understand and appreciate my own mortality, now that I might be thinking about the early stages of onset middle-life crisis, my body has chosen to become not the temple I was promised, but more like a geriatric ward of some decrepit and ignored hospital.

I have become fragile.

I went skating with Kaia this morning and while she was having her lesson, I was swimming in my own sweat in the bowl practicing pumping and carving up the low-grade sides of the pool. I was super careful not to push myself too hard or ride too fast or go too high. I skated like a timid old man who was afraid of getting hurt. Lots of slow repetitive up, turn and back down the ramp. Nothing fancy. Nothing reckless. Nothing stupid.

But even when you are skating like this you fall. I tumbled a few times. Nothing major. I had a helmet, elbow and knee pads and I landed on them each time I fell, which wasn’t too often and I was never going too fast. I don’t even remember a specific fall that could have caused the pain I am still feeling as I type these words twelve hours later.

I am hoping that my some miracle I wake up tomorrow and a night’s rest will have cured all my aches. That somehow in the night a better puppet master will put me back together properly, but the reality is that my body will only be getting worse and more frail and enfeebled. Now, that I am finally ready to use it to run half-marathons and do body pump and skate in a bowl, I have to be worried that the slightest mistake can cause serious injury.

All this talk of degradation has got me down. I know I am still young and I have time, but it’s a stark wake-up call to realize that forty years have passed and the time you have got left is less than time you have already had. You are on a downward slope. You have reached peak life. The realization that your life may have reached climax and your story is on the falling actin side of the plot line is a sobering fact.

I just hope the pain goes away by Wednesday because I want to get back to the park and practice my moves. I actually felt pretty good out there today.

…

The rest of the day, as I mentioned above, was pretty chill. We went for a swim. The girls did some baking. I read on the couch, fell in and out of a few naps and got take-away sushi for dinner. There were a few times when I thought that I should try and sneak in a few mentor comments, but then I convinced myself that it was Sunday, my day of rest and that I shouldn’t feel guilty for resting. Even now, as I type this and wait for Skye to fall asleep, I am in intense negotiation with myself to try and write at least three, two, one comment to give me a jump on the week, but did I mentioned the pain? Wouldn’t it make more sense to just crawl into bed and read some more? Early bed time? Ready for the week? Give my bones time to heal?

It will be a game time call whether or not I write a few or not. As of now, it is too close to make the call.

…

“Daddy, why are they called The X-Men? I mean shouldn’t they be called The X-People? There are lots of mutants that are girls or women. It just doesn’t make sense to call them all X-Men. And why do most of the women always have such big boobs? Why can’t they just be regular?” Kaia.

Looks like someone is already exploring sexist comic book tropes. I wonder if I should start preparing her for the abuse she will face if she ever makes these thoughts public, or just let her question and think without the glaring abuse of sad pathetic Internet trolls.

…

I didn’t say anything about Mohammad Ali yesterday, but he has been on my mind. What can I say that millions of people armed with his quotes and their memes won’t say in the coming weeks?

I was not a super fan, but I knew enough to know that he was one of the bravest revolutionaries this country has ever know. I saw the films and read the books and articles and pumped my fists at his quotes and quips and assaults on the hypocrisy of the American empire. He was not only a boxing champion, but a true champion of the people. There has never been and there will never be another person like Mohammad Ali.

I am sure he was and will be many thing for many people, but I hope in our enthusiasm to celebrate his life, we do not white-wash his brash, in-your-face, activist spirit. Kind of sad to think that while so many people in the media are celebrating his life, if he were a young, black, outspoken athlete in today’s Trump America, he would be just as hated if not more so than he was in the sixties.

Anyway…celebrate his life and his ideals. Post pictures of his victories, because he was so pretty, but do not forget that his biggest match was against the imperial systematic racist side of America, and this is a match that is still being fought by African-Americans today.

For you Ari. I know how deeply you loved him.

…

I jammed a lot in this one. Give it more than a like. Engage, leave a comment. Connect.

Vacancy of Days

The hardest part is knowing where to start. Usually the music greases the wheels and makes it easier. These days it’s Carrie and Lowell by Sufan Stevens that gets me to the spot where I feel ready to say something about something. The blank page defeated by an inaugural sentence.

A few minutes ago I tweeted the following:

The #whenIwas hashtag should be an eye opening, somber look at what it means to deal with @EverydaySexism. Something most men never face.

It is filled with disturbing sexist comments many women face as young as seven years old. It ranges from suggestive sexual advances forced upon children to flagrant outdated remarks about what is and what is not acceptable for girls-- apparently math and science seldom fit this bill. On this hashtag women share stories of being cat called or spoken to about their sexuality as young as ten years old. It got me thinking about how ill-equipped Kaia is to deal with such disgusting suggestions. It got me thinking about the world she must learn to navigate and how different this world will be from my male-privileged course. 

As a young man, I was able to be and do whatever I wanted. There was no one leering at me or suggesting that my only value was sexual. There was no one passively aggressively hinting that I couldn’t do anything because of my gender. Sure there were unrealistic expectations of what it meant to be a man, but I still had the advantage of being a man.


The sadder and scarier point I want to make is that after I posted that tweet, several people immediately called me a faggot and hurled insults. There is this emerging dangerous culture of attacking people when they say what you don’t agree with online, and these attacks more and more often are directed at women or people who talk about equality and sexism.


I guess rather than getting discouraged, we have to stay vigilant. If I want my daughters to live in a world where they are not objectified or taken less seriously than their male counterparts, I have to keep speaking up and taking back our collective spaces. I think this standing firm is equally more important for men; we cannot leave this battle for women alone. We have to be in it together.

…

did you remember
that the vacancy of days
is where loved is stored?

…

My desk at work is such a crazy mess and every time I interact with it, I doubt whether or not I will be a good head of grade. I am hoping my ideas are more important than my organisational skills. I can do motivation and inspiration, I think, but administration is not my strong suit. I hope to try and clean it, the desk, tomorrow if I can make some time. I cleaned my inbox today, so that was a start.

I am also contemplating changes in my wardrobe for next year. How extreme will it need to be? More long sleeve shirts? Ties? Vests? Same-same? These are things I think about as I brush my teeth in the morning. Any ideas for new professional yet hip wardrobe choices are welcome in the comments below. Feel free to include photos and where items can be purchased. I am open to radical changes.