My Ten-Year-Old Self Gone Shopping

I almost bought a record last night. I was in bed, feeling off, out of balance, unsettled by new opportunities and possibilities. Good stuff but a lot to figure out and I get impatient. The ten-year-old within me says, "Buy something and our worries will go away!" I know better, but his voice is persistent and convincing. I've been listening to him a long, long time.

Earlier in the evening I was watching coffee videos on YouTube. Yes, there are coffee videos on YouTube. There are YouTube videos for nearly everything and what's not there is served somewhere else you may not want appearing in your search history. Anyway, my favorite coffee videos are by James Hoffman who is smart, funny, and produces stuff better than most anything on television.

Better for me at least.

My wife might argue the coffee videos are not terribly interesting and that I should watch Stranger Things, but I take the path less traveled which makes a lot less difference than I'd like to think.

Last night I watched Hoffman review the Niche Zero grinder. It's really something. I won't go too far into the weeds — spoilers! — but it's an Indiegogo project that actually ships and has satisfied backers, reviewers, and experts. Last night, I wanted one.

Have I mentioned it costs $651? That's not bad for an espresso grinder. I could spend a whole lot more and spending much less isn't worth doing. There's a $375 grinder that might work, but it's not nearly the Niche. Good tools make for good work and, in this case, great coffee.

I also want the Cafelat Robot, which Hoffman reviews using the Niche. The Robot is a $370 manual espresso machine meaning that the pressure necessary to making espresso is generated through arm strength applied to the arms of the machine. It's cool and retro looking, like the Jetson's butler, and follows the idea that good things like coffee should require some work.

Good thing I viewed this stuff with my wife in the house. I came close to purchasing both products, but how would I explain that to her?

I imagine it sounds as if I have to justify all purchases with my wife or I'll be in trouble. The ten-year-old in me thinks that, but we don't have quite that abusive of a relationship. I just don't want to appear foolish to her and were I to order these things on a whim, I'd be quite the fool. I already make excellent coffee. The Robot and Niche would be fun, but buying them covers up what's really going on with me which has everything to do with emotion, balance, and the ten-year-old inside me crying for a new toy.

I closed the computer. There are times for new toys and good reasons for them, but last night was not the time and I lacked good reasoning.

Later, in bed, still feeling out of balance, I got thinking about jazz guitarist Pat Metheny (as one does) and his album 80/81 which I want on vinyl. My turntable and records give me real pleasure and although I've spent well over the price of a Niche and Cafelat on them, the spending has been spread over three years which makes me feel better. I found 80/81 online for less than twenty dollars shipped and added it to my cart.

As I was about to complete the sale, I became aware of the feeling driving me furtive anxiety. When I was ten, I'd steal money out of my paper route or even Mom's purse to buy the things that might make me feel better and then lie about having done any of it. In bed last night, I felt the ten-year-old running the show.

Here's the part that interests me: I smiled.

I have a habit of not smiling about these things. I shove them down in the bottom of the trunk and close the lid. I try to deny feeling ten years old. But last night I smiled, shut the computer, turned out the light, and closed my eyes. Sleep didn't come for hours — I was still too far out of balance — but I was no longer desperate to buy a record, an espresso machine, or a grinder. I ruminated on other things than shopping my worries away. I didn't hear from the ten-year-old the rest of the night.

This morning I used my same old grinder. I boiled water and made a spectacular cup of coffee with the Aeropress I already own. I felt good doing it.

Later, in my car, I remembered that Metheny album and queued it up on my streaming service. As it began to play I said, "hang on," and opened the list of my records I keep on the phone. There it was: "Pat Metheny, 80/81." I bought it years ago. I smiled again and said, "it's okay. You're okay."

I drove across town to meet a friend at a coffee shop. "What are you working on," he asked before we got down to writing. "A couple blog posts and a longer piece," I said, but instead wrote this. If I had brought headphones, I know what album I'd have listened to.

I sipped good coffee while writing this. I heard the grinder and the espresso machine. If the coffee was better than what I brewed at home, I couldn't tell. My mind had moved into calmer waters. My friend sat across the table, typing. Looking around, I could find no sign of the ten-year-old and all his anxious desires.

Make A Place For It

Anxiety. I've written about mine all too often, but writing is one way I deal with it, so deal with that. Please. I've been spun up lately by my anxiety, dizzying circles within and around me. My mind spins up to anxiety as if it could catch up. I arrived for therapy yesterday feeling all this. My therapist suggested that I resist the urge to stop, avoid, or deny the anxiety. "Make a place for it," she said.

She hits me with these koans regularly. Damn it.

After each session, I sit in the waiting room or behind the wheel of my car and write a bit of reflection. It's a way to remember and keep the session going beyond the fifty-minute hour. Yesterday I wrote, "Make a place for it? Where? How?" There was more, but that's the only non-whining part, so I'll leave it at that.

Here's the thing: I don't need to understand or have the answers. Not yet. For now the questions are enough because they have me aware of options other than spinning up, remaining anxious, and denial.

Perhaps the place I make for anxiety right now is on the next stool at the bar. We can sit together, listen to music, chat with the bartender, munch some food, and sip our beer. Then, at some point, I'll want to go home, but anxiety will want one more. I'll leave a twenty on the bar for my bill and anxiety's next beer. See you later, I'll say, because I know we will meet again.

For now, I'm still stuck to my bar stool, raising my glass for a wordless toast to us. We stare into the mirror behind the bar, anxiety and me, working at coming to grips with all we see there.

In Lieu Of...

While I'm trying to make time to get back to posting my own stuff, I want to share this from Alan Jacobs' One More Post About Twitter:

Twitter is even worse than I remember it being. The same compulsive temporary madness-of-crowds obsessions — sure, of course, Kobe Bryant is the most important person in your life, even though you’ve never mentioned him before and will probably never mention him again — but conducted with a greater intensity than I had remembered. Also, it seems that the reply function is now reserved as a dedicated performance space for sociopaths (if you don’t believe me, look at the first ten replies to any widely-read tweet).

What a horrible, horrible thing Twitter is. If the people who work there weren’t sociopaths themselves they’d shut the whole thing down for the good of humanity.

I couldn't have said it better, though regular readers know I have tried.

I like the part describing people who work at Twitter as sociopaths but would confine the accusation to those in charge. The workers are trying to earn a dollar and I too worked for an organization doing terrible things.

Have mercy on their wretched souls while people in charge burn in hell.

Acceptance & The Return

Well, I ate too much yesterday, but I'm up early enough to get to writing group without hurrying. I win some and lose some. I don't have a piece of writing to bring to group, but there are other things to do there besides focusing on me.

I ate all three meals yesterday out at restaurants — a bagel and cream cheese for breakfast, burger, fries and beer for lunch; taco, fries, and margarita at dinner. No wonder the scale read 220.0 pounds this morning when I was 216.8 yesterday. Have I really gained 3.2 solid pounds in a day? No, but it's a reminder to do things differently today.

Tomorrow I'll be back at 216-217 pounds. It won't require much effort beyond returning to habits I've built the last month and a half. I have three steps planned:

1. Return to two light meals prepared at home,
2. Continue fifty push-ups a day, working on twenty consecutive, and
3. Hit the gym or go for a run.

Nothing complicated, radical, or new. It's just a return to what I've been doing and how I have been feeling.

How have I been feeling? Better until this morning when I woke tired, feeling there was still food in my belly. I woke up feeling full, knowing I had made mistakes yesterday.

Yet I'm not feeling guilt, anger, or even disappointment. That's pretty weird for me. Weirder still, I feel comfortable knowing I'm ready to return, that I'm already returning. I'm not about to redouble my efforts or get down to serious work on this. No, I'm just returning to what I've been doing. Yesterday happened and I know why. I accept it.

Previously, losing weight was about will power and giving things up. Guess how well that worked. This time, instead of will power I'm depending on accepting who I am while still believing in the need for change. It's a weird balance that I can't explain well but feel strongly and that's enough. I accept yesterday's eating and I'm open to the return to my habits.

Accepting the bad and good paves the way for the gift of a return. The return isn't about past mistakes or problems. It's welcoming myself with gratitude and happiness, maybe even love and returning to the journey.

That sense of return allows me to better accept that the journey is long and that in turn makes it easy to dismiss small problems. I was sick for nine days, but that doesn't end the journey. I ate poorly yesterday, but that hardly matters on the journey. No need to pile on the idea that I have to make up for mistakes and repair damage. I just return to what I had been doing.

What about the weight? Earlier I said that I'll be 216-217 pounds tomorrow. That sounds like I'll have to punish myself for yesterday's mistake with a day of fasting or a killer workout, but I'm sure the return will take me where I want to go, that I'll be back in the groove and things will just work out. No punishment necessary.

I feel lighter than when I woke, lighter than when I started writing this. I'm feeling the return and acceptance, the trust that the path to which I'm returning is a good one. If nothing else, I'm lighter for shedding the dead weight of guilt and recrimination. Acceptance turns out to be so much lighter.