Monthly Archives: November 2015

Disagree is not the same as disapprove


So today I was mulling something over that was kind of bugging me.  I’d even had a dream about it the other night.  I’d chased someone around in the dream angrily demanding answers.

There I was, driving along perseverating on this thing that was bugging me and then this number popped into my head:  FORTY-EIGHT.

I am FORTY-EIGHT years old.

Aren’t I a little too old, AT FORTY-EIGHT, to let something bug me like this?  Because this thing is not something with an easy answer and angrily demanding one won’t get me anywhere, in dreams or in reality.

Chances are good that I’m misinterpreting part of the situation.  Chances are also good  that even if I’m not, nothing will really change the outcome.  It is what it is, and I’m not going to change it by confronting anybody.

It turns out that you’re never going to be anybody but who you are, and if somebody doesn’t like who you are they can just move along.  Sometimes you just have to make peace with that and get on with your life.  I’m not saying it won’t still hurt.  I’m just saying that it’s not worth my time anymore.

So here’s an open message to anybody who reads it: If I’m not good enough, or my family isn’t good enough, or my house isn’t good enough, or the way I live my life isn’t good enough, or virtually anything that is about me isn’t good enough for YOU, that is of no concern to ME at all.  I’m not living my life for you and you don’t get a say in how I live or whether I’m happy.

If you’re wondering if this is about you, just ask yourself: do you disapprove of me in any major way?  If so, do you also love me despite whatever it is that you disapprove of?  Do you express your disapproval to me in some way, whether out loud or silently?  (Note: disagree is not the same as disapprove)  Do you make decisions about spending time with me based on your love, or is it more based on your disapproval?

If the disapproval outweighs the love, then yes, maybe this is about you.

I spend a lot of time in my work with people who are so broken and sick that they have no one.  If you have a choice, your choice should be to love everybody who can stand you, because you don’t know when that might get taken away from you.  If I love you, I love you despite anything about you that I may not agree with. That is my superpower.

If your disapproval outweighs your love, move it along.  There is no room for you here.




So tonight The Lovely Rhonda and I attended a stage production beloved the world over which, for reasons of wishing to avoid unnecessary stern correspondence from copyright infringement attorneys, I’ll refer to here as “Liverpants.”

Once, long ago when we were young and I was far more foolish than I am now, I confessed (possibly in a drunken whisper, although I can neither explain, confirm, or deny this) that should a polished stage production featuring sprightly Caucasians jigging around in short costumes to vaguely Celtic music ever come to town, I could possibly be interested in attending.  Thus technically only one of us was really attending voluntarily, although TLR pointed out that she does these things for me because she loves me and wants to be happy.

Should the opportunity present itself again, however, she will be staying home on account of that one time in the first half of the show where she rested her head on my shoulder briefly and whispered, “I am dying inside.”

Featuring as it did a great deal of ominous narration about the sun and the moon and the various things the sun and the moon meant to the hapless primitive villagers of the unnamed lands alluded to therein, I was prepared for a lot of woo-woo New Age crap, and to be sure there was a bit of it, but pretty soon we were all settling in for what we all came for: white people tap dancing in the most repressed way possible, i.e. without moving anything above and including the pelvis.  This was punctuated by musical numbers occasionally featuring, unfortunately, a soprano saxophone which thanks to a certain curly haired guy popular in the mid-1980’s is pretty much the kiss of easy listening death to the American audience.  Nonetheless we all soldiered on.

It went as one might expect, with nicely syncopated lines of fit young dancers tippity-tapping their way across the stage so effortlessly that I wanted to take off one of my orthopedic shoes and lob it at them in old-lady irritation.  At one point they brought out a couple of black guys and had a somewhat comedic dance-off between them and a trio of Irish guys.

I could picture the auditions: “Can ye merely throw your ankle above your head without bending anything, and does this velvet bodice fit ye?”

I did get scolded briefly by a Nice but Firm Usher Lady who informed me that Photography Is Strictly Forbidden despite the fact that I have taken probably a hundred photos in this very auditorium.  The offending photo, displayed here for your viewing pleasure, was of a friend who happened to be seated directly below us in the box seats.  Chantelle at the show

It was a good show despite the soprano sax and the mean lady who scolded me, and TLR dying inside, and the only other things I have to say are that I saw a guy in the lobby wearing flip-flops even though it’s in the 30’s tonight, plus also we park near the stage entrance so we often mill through the performers as they leave the building so we saw a lot of the dancers and dear God are they thin.  I supposed if you’re going to regularly throw your leg over your own shoulder you’d better be.  We wanted to make conversation: “Is it true you can lick the back of your own knee?  Asking for a friend.”