Good Things

I have what my daughters would call dumb good luck. Really dumb. Off the charts stupid. This means I fall in shit and tend to come up smelling not just like roses but more like Coco Chanel. Things work out for me.

For example, last January, finally coming to terms with how horrible my teaching job was, I decided to quit in June. My wife — a sensible, logical woman — asked, "what will you do instead?" I shrugged. "Something will come to me." She expected (hoped?) I would start scouring the classifieds. That I still believe such things as classified ads still exist indicates how good I am at looking for jobs. It should then come as no surprise that I took January off from thinking about what would come next, what job would replace teaching. Everyone deserves a month to come to grips with things.

Then I took February off from making any decisions. March too. As April approached, she lost patience with me. (It's impressive she lasted that long, but she's pretty cool and seems to love me.) Still, she kind of broke and may have said something like, "what are you planning for us to live on?" When I shrugged this time she wasn't even a little amused, but here's the thing: I was sure something would come along. Like usual, something did.

Good things find me especially when I'm expecting them. Last year I was open to good things. I trusted the world and myself. So it's not shocking that I was presented with two opportunities and that the one I chose turned out to be fantastic. But even when I'm not expecting things to work out, they just do.

As a kid, I failed out of college. Talk about disaster. Three semesters of Clarkson tuition down the toilet. I came home at Christmas feeling like a complete failure, certain I would never recover. After New Year's, I drove to the community college. Handing my application to a woman there, I asked, "when will I hear if I get accepted?" She patted my hand, smiled, and said, "oh, honey, everyone gets accepted." In that moment good things began coming to me.

I took classes and worked full-time and did homework and loved most every moment of it. Classwork came easily, not because the classes were all easy but because I was ready to work, learn, and see what would happen. I didn't worry about grades. I just wanted to figure everything out and felt like I could. Good thing after good thing came my way.

A kid in psychology class complained he was failing math. I told him, "I know math." He asked me to tutor him and I did. During our fourth session I decided to become a teacher. It was just so clear. I finished community college, went on to earn a four-year degree in teaching, got into graduate school tuition-free with an assistant-ship that along with my what my girlfriend (now wife) earned paid rent and bills. After that I endured the life of a substitute teacher but only for five months. I was offered a part-time teaching job I hadn't even been looking for and which led to more good things.

But enough of my history. I want to think about what makes for my dumb good luck. I'm not pure as the driven snow. I've made too many mistakes, squandered opportunities, overestimated and underestimated my talents, and done people wrong. I'm as much of a mess as the next person.

It's not because I was born on third base thinking I hit a triple. I was born on first base with huge lead against a catcher with a weak arm, but I've always known that. (Of course, that proves I really was born on second base and am underestimating the privilege afforded white, middle class men.) I got a great head start, but plenty of people get better starts and haven't gotten where I have, so what's the deal?

Is it stupid good luck? I don't want to think so. Luck is arbitrary and unreliable. What I've experienced has been regular and predictable. I end up in good situations. I don't believe in luck, but if we have to call it luck, I can live with that.

You might think I'm going to say I've made my own luck, that I create all this good stuff. There's some truth to that, but I don't think I've done anything impressive for which I should take credit. I've just gotten used to good things, come to expect them. My expectations are skewed.

I don't care to be rich. Well, I wouldn't mind buying a Tesla, but really, I don't care much about wealth. I've never been poor that I know of. There were times Mom talked like we were poor, but Dad never went down that road. He exuded quiet confidence that all was and would be well. He found money. Not like that. He found it by going to work. He bought a business and worked a second job until the business got going. Mom took a job too. Together they made things work, made good things happen. They weren't rich but were satisfied. They had dreams that weren't crazy-town and reached them one after another.

Mostly I'm like that.

Back when we first married, all my wife wanted was a good job, a warm house, and two children. In that order. We did it backward. Two children we expected to be wonderful. And so they are. Not perfect, but perfect for us. While she was pregnant with our first child, we found a house and made it the warm, comfortable, messy, cozy home we always wanted. Now we have jobs that make us happy in most every way. It only took twenty-nine years.

All of this is supposed to be leading somewhere, but I don't have much of a conclusion to draw other than that I'm sure the next good thing is around the corner. Maybe it will be the thing I'm imagining. Maybe something else entirely. I'm shrugging as I type because it doesn't matter what it is, I know it will be good.

Okay, that sounds pretty damn Pollyanna. I know. Sorry. It's not like birds don't occasionally crap on my head. Just last weekend someone dented holy hell out of my mighty Prius. Even so, nothing was really damaged, the car is ten years old, and the dent kind of makes the car look tough. (Somewhere my tall, bearded friend is laughing at the ridiculous notion that a Prius could every look tough.) I've had troubles and worries. Lord knows I have anxieties. Yet, it works out. I come out ahead.

There's a whole other piece to write about my anxiety and the dark holes into which I sometimes fall. That piece, if I get around to writing it, will balance this one. I mention it just to be honest. I don't always remember and believe it, but for now I know that good things keep coming to me.

Why is that? How have I made that happen? If I share the answers, this can go viral, and the Tesla will at last be mine.

But I don't know the answers. All I have left is this story:

Yesterday I struggled choosing to do or not do something. A friend and I got together for lunch and I told her about it. She gave me a nugget of wisdom that unclogged my brain and brought me to the place where I could decide. I then called my wife (who is enjoying this decision process much more than the last one). She told me whatever I decided I would come out ahead and happy. I talked with two friends, then made my decision to go for it, to take a leap. It worked when I quit teaching and this time there are fewer risks though maybe an even bigger reward.

I was looking for a push and happened to have lunch with the friend who could provide it. Good things again.

I don't know what will happen now that I've made the decision and taken the leap, but it will be good and lead to the next good thing. Dumb good luck? I think it's something else but don't know its true name. What I do know is that the name will come to me, like most good things do.

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.

Deja Vu All Over Again, Damn It

I had a great idea for a post about exclamation points and how I have offended at least one person this week due to my refusal to use exclamation points in email.

This is the sort of thing that happens to me a lot (both having ideas for writing and offending people, but let's stay with the writing). Usually, I take the good idea to the keyboard and write until I decide I'm on the right track and keep going or decide there's nothing to it and give it up.

Sometimes a great idea feels really familiar. I was writing about exclamation points, telling how my typewriter (yeah, I own typewriters) doesn't have an exclamation point key. Great story, I thought but I also felt like I'd written it before. I kept going but began thinking that I hadn't just written it but had also posted it to this blog. I kept writing until I got to Gil Thorp.

My friend used to read the Gil Thorp newspaper comic and laugh at how nearly every word bubble ended in an exclamation point. We read out loud, exclaiming every line and laughing ourselves silly. Remembering that as I wrote started me smiling, but the sense of deja vu was overpowering. I opened a new tab and searched for Gil Thorp exclamation points. The second result was a piece I posted last April, the exact damn piece I was writing tonight. Damn. That's the sort of thing that almost calls for an exclamation point. But I'm no Gil Thorp.

Hey, want to hear about how my typewriter doesn't have an exclamation point key? Or have I told you that one already?

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.