My Strange Addiction

I was at the gym recently and saw utter chaos in motion.

Utter chaos.

A guy was flailing like mad on the treadmill.  Watching him run was like watching one of those cartoon fights between Wile-E-Coyote and The Roadrunner.  It was just a blur, with an occasional arm or leg exploding from the center.  He was spraying sweat and slobber in every direction.  Hacking.  Wheezing.  Grunting.  Words like “BLONK”, “SQUONCH”, “GLURP” written in cartoon fonts hung in midair.  Then he would stop briefly, stare at the treadmill screen, grimace, and start the whole thing over again.  He is the sole reason they leave paper towels and bottles of cleanser in every nook and cranny of those fitness centers.  Nearly had to sanitize the whole YMCA when he finished.

Worst of all?  The guy was me.

That same evening I was flipping through the channels and ran across the show on TLC called “My Strange Addiction” that documents the stories of people who have, well, strange addictions.  Things like eating household cleanser.  Ingesting couch cushions.  Lifting weights.  Tanning.  Speaking as a ventriloquist.  Wearing full-size fur character suits.   They do these things habitually.  24/7.

You know.  Everyday,  garden-variety stuff.

While watching, I recalled my nutty run on the treadmill and I said to myself,

“Hello.  My name is Scott.  And I’m an addict.”

Here’s the deal.  True confessions time.  I’m addicted to the number seven.

“The number seven?”

Yeah.  The number seven.   Strange, right?

The whole treadmill debacle was a product of this madness.  A normal person at the gym sets goals for himself.  Like, today I would like to run three miles on the treadmill in under 22 minutes.  That’s me.  I set that goal.  The trouble is, I have to do that while keeping as many mathematical “7’s” on the treadmill screen as possible.

Here’s how it works.  Calories are displayed as a three digit number and one decimal point.  Time is displayed in minutes and seconds.  Speed is displayed in miles per hour with one decimal point.  Distance is shown in miles with two decimal points.  So, before I can stop running, each of these fields must either contain a seven, a combination of numbers that add up to seven, or multiples of seven… you get the picture.

So, for speed, 7.7 and 10.7 are particularly satisfying.  I can also run 8.7 miles per hour (‘cuz it has a seven), or 8.6 miles per hour (8+6=14  14 is a multiple of seven)  but not 8.5, because the brain power it would take to make those two numbers equal seven would make my head explode.

Much like yours is doing right now.

Now imagine the chaos on the treadmill.  I am exhausted, slobbering, sweating, and flailing.  All the while, I’m trying to add, subtract, multiply and divide my way to a justified stop.  All too often, I’ll think I have found nirvana and quickly smash down on the “Stop” button, only to find that while I was watching the time field click down to 1:43 (4+3=7  7×1=7), my mileage ticked from 3.52 (5+2=7  7X3=21) to 3.53 (an unthinkable number, really).  So… I gotta’ keep running.

It’s now to the point of laughable.  Every time I drink from a water fountain, I must take seven gulps, no matter how thirsty I am, even if it makes me gag.  Listening to the radio in the car, it’s OK to turn the volume up to 14, but never 11 or 12.  That’s probably why I like dogs, whose age is figured as human years multiplied by seven, and am allergic to cats.

Nine lives?  That’s two more than they need.

So, watching “My Strange Addiction,” I was very interested when the nut cases like me finally met with a counselor.  It was like I was in therapy.   Free with the purchase of a basic cable subscription.

As each person hit the couch, the core problem was the same.  Whether they were eating foam cushion inserts, or dressing like theme park mascots, they all had issues with control.   They usually had some traumatic event in their lives, and this was a coping mechanism.  The addiction gave them some sense of regularity and control, which reduced their anxiety.

For me, my life has been pretty easy.  Heck, The Cosby Show had more controversy than my childhood.  And it’s likely for that reason when the numbers don’t add up on the treadmill, I am still able to function. Though, that could all change if I’m asked to go to a Maroon 5 concert and sit in the 6th row listening to their amps all turned up to 11, all while drinking a 12-ounce V8 juice, sneezing, and petting a 4-year-old cat.  Yikes!

Make it a 7-Up, por favor, and we’re all good.

But maybe it is about control for me?  Who knows?

A couple of days ago, I called a fellow missionary that Gabby and I met a few years ago.  He and his wife live just west of downtown L.A. with their two small kids.  They serve a population of Guatemalan immigrants who are trying to make a better life for themselves here in the states.  Their ministry is to simply live in the community, make connections, and bring hope where there is often despair and brokenness.  They encourage vandals to stop tagging, and instead make art to sell for the benefit of their community.  They visit the elderly and paralyzed gang members in some forgotten nursing homes in the inner city.  Stuff like that.

The couple is essentially a very upgraded, deluxe version of Gabby and me, and the guy has a cool accent to boot.

The reason for my call was to learn more about their ministry, and to see how we might fit in.  Since our mission year in Guatemala, Gabby and I have been looking for ways to stay in touch with folks living on the margins of our society.  We figure taking off a month every other summer so our family can get immersed in service in another culture is a good way to do that.  Maybe we could spend that time in L.A. with Alastair and Katherine as our guides on this journey?

The more Alastair talked about their work, the more excited I got.  Reconnecting with our friends from Guatemala who have now made it to “El Norte”.  Being present.  Finding the divine in simple conversation.  Or sharing a meal.  Or singing a song.

And then I got scared.

“Alastair.  I have to tell you something.”

“What is it, Scott.”

“Well.  We live a pretty sheltered life here.  Lots of creature comforts.  I wake up at 5:34am (3+4=7  7X5=35) and go to the gym.  Then I come home and get the kids ready while Gabby goes in for her workout.  Then,  I work out of the house while Gabby takes care of the kids.  We go to McDonald’s, visit the park, check out a museum, go to church.  Come home to our nice, safe house.  Honestly, spending even four weeks away from our little cocoon sounds tough.  I like my material stuff.  It’s all very…

Sanitized.”

Then Alastair chimed in.  “Hmmm.  I may be hearing something different.  I don’t hear you saying that you’re looking for material comfort.  It sounds to me like you’re really looking for routine.  There is comfort in routine.  We know what to expect.  It grounds us.  Even when we’re living on God’s time.”

I was silent for a moment, and then commented, “I think you’re on to something.”

I remembered back to our time as missionaries in Guatemala.  It was a foreign land.  We were stepping out on faith.  We went from living as DINKS (Dual Income No Kids) outside Austin, Texas, to sharing a humble home with a Mayan family of eight in a small mountain village.  No indoor plumbing.  Just a hole in the ground.  No shower.  Chickens running through the house.  No real jobs.

And it was the most peaceful, expansive year of our lives.  We built a routine.  There was comfort in that.  Our new normal.  But most of all, there was comfort that we had given up control and were living on God’s time, letting go of ourselves, and playing by God’s rules.

So, maybe it’s time we try it again?  Develop a new normal.  One grounded in service and faith.  Same concept.  Different venue.

After all, Guatemala was seven years ago.

Does Your God Wear High-Heeled Plastic Shoes?

Let’s get this straight.  I love food.  The more processed, the better.

I have squealed with delight upon opening a box of Cookie Crisp as a Christmas gift.  I am a sucker for any “cheese” product that must, for legal reasons, be spelled with a “z” at the end.  And, this being the Girl Scout Cookie season, I can remember with great fondness the evening I polished off two sleeves of Do-Si-Do’s all by myself.

Some consider it gluttony.

I consider it a talent.

As a confession, I have frequently broken the 10^th commandment.  I covet my neighbor’s food.  Especially if the person seated next to me has ordered a meal that looks far more appealing than the one I have in front of me.  I would feel worse about this, but it’s only the 10^th commandment, right?  Not the first.  Though some could argue that my Kraft Mac n Cheese shrine comes dangerously close to “putting another God before” the big guy, I think I’ve discovered a loophole in the eternal damnation clause by simply thanking God for sending the genius food chemist to Earth to create that orange cheese powder that brings happiness to so many.

Problem solved.

Food coveting even applies to food I have given away.  Let’s say I just made a killer batch of chicken tortilla casserole that I plan to eat for the next week, and then I find out a neighbor is laid up after a difficult surgery.  Sure, I’ll do the right thing and deliver a meal.  As a recipient of such generosity, I know what a Godsend a hot meal can be when you’re overwhelmed with the other duties of life.  At the same time, there is a part of me that would like to include a note with the dish that reads,

“Enjoy the meal I have lovingly prepared for you.  Know that with each delicious bite you take, a tiny piece of my soul dies.  Get well soon. Love, Scott”

I can be a downright terrible human being.

That’s why I was so surprised at dinner last night when my daughter Audrey blurted out,

“Daddy is nicer than mommy.”

Huh?

This is coming from a girl who has seen her father hand out more time outs per minute than a couple of whistle-happy coaches during the closing drive of a tight NFL football game.

Upon further review, we figured out why Audrey said such a thing.  Yesterday, while in a rush, Gabby and I were devouring a couple of protein bars for breakfast before heading out of the house with the kids.  It was 10:00am.  We had just returned from the gym after a big workout, and were famished since we’d skipped breakfast.  Then Audrey asked,

“Daddy.  Can I have a bite of that?”

* Yes.  I can resist this face.  Even when it’s covered in a generous application of shimmering Princess lip balm.

I looked down at my Kashi bar.  Soy nuggets and selfishness coated in waxy chocolate.  One-hundred-eighty calories my body was craving.  Reluctantly, I broke off a crumb that would be “much too small for the other Whos’ mouses” and handed it to her.

You would have thought I’d given her a pillowcase full of pink cotton candy.

“Thanks daddy!” she beamed.

She returned fifteen seconds later, pleading for another morsel.  I flicked off another crumb, and she was once again satisfied.  Then she went to beg a bite from her mother.  The woman who frequently brings home special treats from Book Club just for the kids.  The one who scans the internet looking for wonderful events for the kids to attend.  The mother who would give both her kidneys to my children if only it would cure their simple head cold.  The mom whose neck has caught more puke than a frat house toilet.

“Sorry, honey.  You already ate your breakfast, but mommy hasn’t had hers yet.  This is my breakfast.”

Audrey, digging deep for her best counter-attack, comes back with “But daddy gave me some of his!”

“Well, your daddy is nicer than me.”

And there it is.  Burned into her brain forever.

Since that time, Audrey has parroted the “Daddy is nicer than mommy” equation numerous times.  Each time, I feel more guilt than the last.  It eats at me like the Thump-Thump-Thumping of the Tell-Tale Heart.

Why?

Because I keep replaying all of the times in my mind when, quite close to dinnertime,  I would wait for that little girl to go around the corner so I could quietly open the pantry and eat some of her Halloween treats without her hearing.

“Daddy?  Why do you smell like candy?”

“I don’t know honey.  I smell like candy?  Um… er… That’s strange.”

Or when I’d swipe a French fry while she was gazing out the window, while Gabby looked on, fry-free, with disapproval.

So this morning, when she verbally proclaimed my superiority to mommy, I had to set the record straight.  I can’t walk around with that kinda’ thing weighing on my conscience.

“Audrey.  Daddy really isn’t nicer than mommy.  In fact, it’s probably the other way around.”

She looked at me like I was trying to explain the theory of relativity.  Stunned silence.

“It’s like this, honey.  Mommy is the one who holds you when you’re sick.  She thinks of fun treats to give you when you and your brother are behaving well.  She takes you to the library to pick out your favorite books.  And daddy… sometimes daddy eats your cookies, and swipes an apple slice off your plate when he’s really hungry.  And that’s not so nice, is it?”

I wasn’t sure what to expect.  Would she cry as the world as she knew it came crumbling down?  Would she hold on to this memory and save it for a therapy session twenty years into the future?  Maybe she would stomp off, leaving behind only the stench of betrayal.

I looked down at her.  Her clear brown eyes gazing up at me.  Her face.  Expressionless.

“Daddy?”

“Yes  honey.”

I prepared to answer one of life’s big philosophical questions of trust.

“Where are my clickety-clackety’s?”

Clickety-Clackety’s?

*  Behold:  One of Audrey/Imelda’s countless pair of clickety-clackety’s

Here I am, confessing my transgressions to a three-year-old, and her main concern is the location of her loud plastic high heels.  Did she even hear me?

Just as I am about to go into greater detail, I realize it.  Of course she heard me!  Every word!  And that’s the beauty of a child.  The ones that Jesus said have the keys to the Kingdom.

We often think that children are Jesus’ favorites because of their innocence.  Their curiosity.  Their faith.

But we can’t forget their God-like forgiveness.  Quick to forget.  The nimble minds that render some of our greatest failings to a size no larger than nonsense.  Mere toys compared to the reality of God’s grace.  It’s a gift, to be sure.  One that I should give far more often.  For forgiveness is a mission and ministry all its own.

As I hear my daughter click-clacking through the house, I think maybe I’ll finish right where I started.  Selfishly.  Forgiving myself.

‘Cause we all gotta’ start somewhere.

Displaying the Christmas Uglies

Christmas is over.  Done.  Adios.

I hate to be the bearer of bad news.  January 5^th was the twelfth day of Christmas.  The Epiphany.  The church celebration to commemorate the Three Kings arriving to Jesus’ crib to deliver their gifts.

I love the idea of Twelfth night.  Knowing that the Savior of the Universe had to wait a couple of weeks to get his gifts makes me feel a lot better about any belated birthday cards I have to send throughout the year.  Call it the Holy Grace Period.

The Holidays came to a close rather quickly at our house.  On January 1^st, our house looked like the Enron office after Arthur Andersen had cleaned up all the old files.  There were no traces of Christmas left inside, save for the extra ten pounds I had gained between Halloween and December 31^st in an attempt to start the new year “treat free” in our pantry.  The only thing left is an inedible waxy chocolate Santa that will only be eaten in the event I become diabetic and need a kicker of insulin to keep from going into a coma.

The outside is a different story.  Our house is still wrapped in Christmas wire.  Not Christmas lights.

Christmas wire.

Don’t get me wrong.  The lights are there.  In fact, if you squint your eyes and sing “Here Comes Santa Clause”, you can see the roof lined with large red bulbs, white icicle lights hanging from the eaves, and the bushes and trees wrapped in white splendor.  I may be biased, but it is one of the most tasteful displays I’ve ever done.  Very symmetrical.

But Gabby won’t let me turn them on. Even starry-eyed pleas from the kids aren’t enough.  Christmas is over.   She doesn’t want us to be “those people.”

My grandfather was one of “those people.”  Legend has it that on December 27^th, the lights on his house became “Independence Lights” and he told all the neighbors he was just getting a jump on the July 4^th festivities.  A permanent fireworks display.  This is believable, since he was also the guy in the neighborhood that got so sick of cutting the grass one summer that he just dumped gasoline on the whole yard and set it on fire.

One man’s lazy is another man’s efficient, I guess.

But I have to hand it to Gabby.  While she holds fast on keeping our roof line free of Christmas cheer in the new year, she permits the annual “Christmas Uglies” to be hung with pride.

“What are the ‘Christmas Uglies?’” you ask.

Christmas Uglies are those God-awful Holiday decorations that should never see the light of day.  This could be stuff you made when you were a kid.  Maybe the stuff that exists in the time period somewhere between “Antique” and “Retro”.  Gifts from ancient aunts who likely bought the décor as a joke, just to spite you.

We have a number of notable Christmas Uglies.

The first is a candle holder that we made at one of those do-it-yourself ceramics places at our niece’s birthday party.  Gabby and I once took a pottery class together, and the majority of our items ended up on what our teacher termed the “Shelf of Shame.”  So, with a renewed sense of purpose and an eye for redemption, we worked together to create our masterpiece.  The kids had all finished their projects, eaten cake, watched the birthday girl unwrap gifts, and made contributions to their college savings plan.  Meanwhile, we worked until they literally had to kick us out.  The result is a cracked, Technicolor eyesore that is either too big or too small for any standard sized candle.  Still, it holds memories of our love, as well as a load of toxic paint, so we display it proudly.

Next is something we call the “Mistle-Toes”.  It is a maroon felt bag, tied with a sprig of mistletoe.  Protruding from the bag are two creepy, grayish-pink rubber gnome feet that look like a Hobbit was trying to escape from a mobster’s sack before he got whacked.  I hang it proudly over the doorway, though surprisingly, it has never bought me a single kiss.

The final Ugly is an ornament I received from a coworker fourteen years ago.  She was a regular Martha Stewart, and made gifts for each of us every year.  The decoration is a glass ball the size of a newborn’s noggin.  It has been hand-painted on one side with a poinsettia flower.  On the other side is painted the WorldCom logo.

* Gabby, showing her love for the Christmas Ugly

Yes, I said WorldCom.  Nothing says Happy Holidays like the logo of one of the largest corporate frauds in the history of our nation.

I once worked for WorldCom as a corporate trainer.  Though, I always make sure to tell folks that I was not responsible for ethics training.  I did, however, have my picture taken with the CEO, Bernie Ebbers, who is now spending the rest of his life in prison.

Which reminds me, I forgot to send him a card.  Thank goodness for the Holy Grace Period.

The once clear-as-a-bell glass ornament has been clouded by years of fingerprints, smudged paint, and a felony conviction.  Still, it means something to me.  I’m not sure why I like it so much.  It doesn’t make too much sense, really.  I’m embarrassed to have the company name on my resume, yet I love the decoration on the tree.

Each year, there is the Christmas debate as to where to hang it.  If I am the one who comes across it in the box of breakables, I gingerly place it in a prominent spot, only to find it slowly move toward the back of the tree as Jesus’ birth nears.  I think Gabby just wants to make sure it’s out of the line of sight of our under-the-tree nativity scene before Jesus finally shows on the 25^th.

Might upset the baby.

But each year it lives on.  It’s a reminder of bad choices.   A glimpse of reality.  Our warts on display, so to speak.  Because the most wonderful time of the year is no time to start feigning perfection.  Where is the fun in that?  Where is the authenticity?  If we can’t accept who we are, how can we ever expect to serve others without judgment?

So each year brings another Christmas miracle.  Eight years of Christmas with Gabby.  Eight opportunities for her to “accidentally” drop the Christmas Ugly and shatter it into pieces like the corporation it represents.

But each year, I watch her carefully wrap it in layers of bubble wrap, along with some of our most cherished decorations.  Out of respect.  Respect for me.  Respect for imperfection.  Respect for those who aren’t afraid to let it all hang out.

Because she doesn’t want to be one of “those people.”

Contagious

I went to the doctor’s office a few days ago because I felt like I needed an expert opinion.  A seasoned medical  professional who could tell me what kind of trouble I was in.  A stoic voice to give it to me straight.

But he didn’t even have to open his mouth for me to figure out I was screwed.

In front of me sat a man who had likely witnessed all sorts of stomach-churning maladies.  We’re talking open sores, severed limbs, and rashes in regions of the body that were never meant to be without clothing.  As soon as he saw my face, he looked as if someone had just force-fed him a quart of expired cottage cheese.

“Whoa,” he said. “You definitely have a problem there.”

He looked down at my chart to help stifle his gag reflex.

“I figured as much,” I replied.

In order to allow my doctor to see the full effect of my ailment, I had purposefully avoided wiping my inflamed right eye, which had consequently been secreting a grayish-green ooze for the past twenty minutes.  I must have looked like a guy who had just learned to blow his nose through his eyeball.  Through the haze, I could make out the outline of his face.  He was a dead ringer for George Costanza from Sienfeld.

As he handed me a slip of paper, he unloaded his diagnosis.

“Looks like you have a pretty bad case of pink eye.”

My kids had accompanied me on the appointment.  The doctor’s words caught Audrey’s attention and she immediately looked up from the electronic talking book she got for Christmas.

“A pink eye?!” she beamed.  “Let me see!”

Pink being her favorite color, she must have thought princesses were flying out of my face.  When I showed her my oozing eyeball, she was sorely disappointed.

“That’s red!” she corrected, and quickly went back to her book.  The doctor interrupted our father-daughter moment.

“ Here’s a prescription for some eye drops.  Use them four times a day for three days.”  Though no one else was even in the office at the time, he stood up as if he was late for an appointment.

“Good luck with the eye.  Let me know if it doesn’t clear up.”

There were no long goodbyes.  No pleasantries.  No handshake.  The entire appointment lasted two minutes.  I left the office feeling like a modern-day leper.

‘Cuz that’s how it is with pink eye.

Sure, left untreated, pink eye can result in blindness.  But with today’s available medical treatments, it’s really not a serious thing.  Still, the stigma with pink eye is that it is twice as contagious as Disco Fever, and ten times as revolting.  Oozing eyes?  Disgusting with a capital GUSTING.   If you have pink eye, no one wants to touch you.  At least that’s what I learned when my wife got home.

“How was the appointment?” she asked.

“Dr. Costanza says I have pink eye.”

“Ewwwww.” she responded, giving me an awkward kiss on the shoulder.  “I’m not going to get close to your face then.”

For the past three days, she will only pat me on the butt, my upper back, or the tip of my elbow.  She doesn’t have to say it, but I know she is thinking far ahead as she does this, realizing that it is physically impossible for these areas to come into contact with my eye.  A recent hug consisted of her holding her arms straight in front of her, elbows locked, and squeezing my shoulders, like we were being watched by Sister Agnes at the Our Lady of Perpetual Motion Catholic School seventh grade dance.

Make room for Jesus, as they say.

“No kiss?” I inquired.

“No way.  That stuff might splatter into my eye or something.”

And this coming from a woman who voluntarily worked a foot care clinic for the homeless.  She is constantly reminding me to wash my hands, and insists that I use my own towels.  My white pillow cases have been replaced by yellow ones, “so we can make sure they don’t contaminate the other ones.”  She would probably quarantine me to living under the deck in the back yard if she wasn’t afraid our 14-year-old dog, Bailey would get it.

Spreading like wildfire.

I spoke with my friend Jim tonight.  An old college buddy.  In the old days we spent a lot of quality time together.  In the course of an hour, we might spend 13 seconds talking about something of substance, and the other 59 minutes 47 seconds making fun of each other.

It was a deep friendship.

Tonight, our substantive talk far outweighed the crap.  In fact, neither one of us made any comment that would offend the other’s mother, which made me feel warm and sad all at the same time.  As we caught up on the particulars of each other’s lives, I failed to mention the pink eye for fear that he would hang up on me.  I hear that stuff can ooze through phone lines and such.

The topic of our conversations drifted to this blog.  Odds are good that I’m the one who brought it up.  You tend to expect that from someone who writes about himself twice a week and publishes it for the whole world to see.  Such exploits involve a certain amount of ego.

“So.  Why are you writing the blog?” Jim asked.

“What do you mean?”

He clarified his statement.

“What’s it all about?  What’s it for?”

I thought for a brief moment, and then regurgitated some bullet points originally provided to me from my friend Charity (an aptly named friend, to be sure) who convinced me I needed one.  I added a few of my own.

Well… 1) if you’re going to write a book, it helps to build a following.  2)  It’s a good way to assure you keep “practicing” writing,  3)  it’s a good way to get feedback on your work,  4) it’s a way of chronicling and journaling about my life so my kids can read it one day,

He interrupted me.

“I’m a little disappointed in your answer.”

I was silent.

“I thought it was going to be about more than building a following.  Aren’t you trying to change the world or something?”

Hmmm….

Jim is absolutely right.  This whole blog experiment started as a way for me to write.  A fun diversion.  Encouragement to finish a book about a seven-year-old experience that I am just now beginning to understand.  At the end of said project, my wife and I will have a complete journal of an incredibly meaningful experience in our lives that still influences the way we live.  On top of that, writing about it would remind us of our own vow to live with integrity and serve, because those are things that easily get swept under the rug when you’re yelling at your kids or filling their lunch boxes.

But maybe there is something more here.

Something pink-eye-ish.

Something contagious.

There is a large body of research that shows how behaviors are contagious.  Nothing earth-shattering here.

Call it the “Pay It Forward” law, if you must.  What you’ve learned based on anecdotal evidence in your own life has been proven by honest-to-goodness research.  Behaviors are contagious.  Do your own experiment and yawn at your next office meeting.  See what happens.

But recent science carries the whole “yawn phenomenon” a lot further.  They find that bad stuff is contagious. Like obesity.  Vandalism.  Smoking.  Fascinating stuff!

But it’s not just the bad things.  Cooperation is contagious.  So is generosity.  Altruism.

There is a disease I’d like to spread.

The good news is, we’re all inextricably linked.  This new year, I am realizing that my actions and my words have an impact that extends beyond my body.  Each day I have a choice which direction I will go.  Will I enrich someone’s life today?  Or simply ignore them in indifference?  Will I forgive?  Or hold a grudge?  Will I serve?  Or settle for status quo?

So, as I sit and ponder what this is all for, and contemplate writing a mission statement for this here blog, I will start the year off with a simple resolution.

Be contagious.

And Dr. Costanza would tell you, I’m off to a good start.