On Purpose

I just finished reading Being Mortal, a thoughtful take on medicine’s broken approach to aging and death. For a topic that sounds morose, I found it quite heartwarming. Two things struck me: one, the families, couples, and patients interviewed find strength and courage through purpose and two, cancer sucks.

One chapter tells the story of a former doctor and his wife who move into a retirement community. He’s 87; she’s about the same. He occasionally chokes on food. She is all but blind. They go out for a walk, arm in arm, when she topples over and breaks both fibulas. He takes care of her while she convalesces in a wheelchair.

I’ll stop there because I don’t want to ruin the ending. Suffice to say they hop in a pool, are restored to their younger selves, and leave this planet with aliens who promise them eternal life. [If you’re under 50 or didn’t spend your childhood watching 80s movies , click here.]

What I found especially thought provoking, besides the nifty healing pool is that, despite the their advanced ages, they are happy because they each have a sense of purpose. “He found great purpose in caring for her, and she, likewise, found great meaning in being there for him… He dressed her, bathed her, helped feed her. When they walked, they held hands. At night, they lay in bed in each other's arms, awake and nestling for a while, before finally drifting to sleep.”

Aren’t they cute? 

The doctor also enjoys helping those around him. To wit: after moving into the community he helped a fledgling doctor conduct her first research study, created a bookclub for retired physicians, and served on the community’s health committee. Wherever this guy goes, he makes life a little better.

What a jerk.

——-

When I started my first real job, I went through two weeks of training [partying]. New-hires from around the world came to St. Charles, a quiet suburb about an hour outside of Chicago by train. There we learned how to be a consultant and comport ourselves in a professional setting. Our curriculum included, “How to write functional requirements documentation,” “How to drink at the on-campus bar,” “How to give a presentation hungover,” and, for the international students, “How to teach Americans jolly drinking songs.” I audited the last one every night.

During the course of our training [indoctrination], we learned about the company’s core values. I’ve forgotten most of them—too many late nights singing with the Italians—but one stuck with me: Beer.

No, wait…Stewardship.

I’ve always liked the idea of stewardship. Whenever I went camping as a kid, I hated finding garbage in the woods and telling my brother to pick it up. I liked the idea of stewardship, not the doing of it. That wouldn’t come until a few years later.

——-

One day in middle school, Mr. McCoy, our history teacher, burst into the religion classroom. “I need four boys.” 

Mrs. Lenth protested. “I’m trying to teach religion. Can this can wait until recess?” 

“This is a Catholic school, Celeste. If they haven’t gotten the gist by now, there’s no saving them.”

He surveyed his stock and, before Mrs. Lenth could protest again, called out four names. “Matt, Mark, John, and … Anthony.” Had our class contained a Luke, I wouldn’t have made the cut.

He didn’t explain why he needed four, or why he needed boys, but I was one of The Chosen and this was my ticket out of class. I wasn’t about to look this Irish gift horse in the mouth. 

“Follow me.” He turned and sped out the door. We put our belongings in our lockers and followed. 

We emerged into the warm sunlight like prisoners escaping prison. We felt free. 

McCoy reminded us we weren’t. “Let’s go, boys!”

“Where is he?” Mark said. He squinted and searched the parking lot.

John spotted him. “There, in the distance.” Mr. McCoy was halfway to the baseball field. He moved quick for a man who gave lectures with his hands crossed on his paunch.

We formed a single file line. Matt said, “Left…left…left, right, left.” 

I sang, “That’s the sound…” 

The others harmonized, “…of the men, working on the chain…gayayayang.”

As we reenacted my favorite scene from Cadence, I wondered why he’d chosen us. Were we in trouble? Was it because, except for me, we were named after the apostles? And the gospels? [Religion class wasn’t a total waste.] Were we the four coolest boys in class? Yes. That was probably it. 

Our marching song proved prescient. Mr. McCoy opened the gate around the baseball field and ushered us inside. It was dotted with litter—the diamond, the outfield, the no-man’s-land between the backstop and the neighbor’s fence.

Our job, Mr. McCoy explained, was, “to clean up this mess. And I do mean all of it. None of your usual half-ass.” 

“Not a problem, SIR,” I shouted. “We will give it nothing but our full-ass.” 

“Sarcasm will get you nowhere, LeDonne.” [Author’s note: while most of this story is fabricated embellishment, he did tell me this once. To this day, I still don’t know if he was being sarcastic.]

He explained that the night before, someone had torn dozens of pages from porn magazines and littered them on the field. We needed to pick it up before the other students spent their recess reading it and their 20s in therapy.

What a rollercoaster of pubescent emotions. Imagine being a 13-year-old boy forced to skip class—YAY!—only to be told you were working on a chain gang—NO!—but then you find that the trash contains images of things you didn’t even know humans did to each other, showing parts you’d never seen and some of us still haven’t seen—YAY!—but that it was a sopping mess from being rained on the night before—NO!

But after the rollercoaster passed, and after we cleaned the field, I felt good. It could have been the sense of pride in cleaning up garbage, or the tug in the trousers each time I picked up a page, but we left that baseball field in a better condition than when we found it.

And I thought, Could I leave any place or, even better, the world, better than when I found it?

I’m trying. 

My purpose is to leave the world with a few more smiles in it than when I arrived. It is, in a sense, stewardship.

It drives me. It’s driven me to say “Yes” whenever an old lady asks if I can push her wheelchair across the street. It’s driving me right now to finish this damn newsletter. And it’ll continue to drive me to make someone else’s life a little better. Who knows, maybe someday my wife and I will walk arm in arm when I’ll suddenly tip over and break both fibulas. She’s going to need someone to keep make her laugh while she hoses me down for my daily bath.

Gratitude Dude

I’ve had a difficult time processing an emotion recently. Because it’s the first one I’ve had in years. What better way to work through it than writing to my email list, right?

First, some back story…

I’m back on social media. 

Sometime in the past few years I deleted my Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook accounts. It was great. I wasn’t bombarded with updates. I wasn’t distracted by little red notification badges. I was happy. 

My reason for quitting was that, if I didn’t spend so much time in the digital world, I could do more things in the real one, right?

Eh, not quite.

The truth is I didn’t do All The Things in the real world that I wanted. Sure, a wee wrench called The Pandemic derailed my plans of performing stand-up every night so I could get funnier and achieve my dream of International Stardom. But I still didn’t do everything I wanted.

Yes, Wiff and I made two cross country road trips in as many years, and yeah, okay, a Hollywood producer made an offer on the movie script we wrote. But I wanted to do more. (I’m not deleting that humblebrag even though I should. I’m about to establish my petty side so a little foreshadowing is warranted.)

Also…I got lonely!

So now I’m on Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok.

On the positive side, as I meet new comics, I can keep the connection alive on Instagram. I use it more as a text message replacement than I do for keeping tabs on other people. Though I still do that.

Which brings me to the negative side.

A few weeks ago, someone shared some great news. They were passed at The Comedy Cellar, the premiere comedy club in New York. (The term “passed” means “approved to perform here.” Comics go through an audition process, and if they pass muster, the club puts them on their roster.)

I was happy for this person. But a small part of me thought, “Them?!? How did they get passed there?!?” [I feel gross writing that.]

This isn’t the first time a friend or colleague has had great news. But it’s the first time in a long time I let it get to me. (I keep reiterating that this doesn’t happen often for me because—even if it’s a gross exaggeration—it protects my ego.) The truth? I feel that way anytime anyone shares good news.

“I won another scratch ticket!”
YOU DON’T DESERVE IT!

“I won Monopoly!”
YOU’RE A CHEATING CHEATER AND YOU KNOW IT!

“My bread landed butter side up!”
YOU SONOFA…actually, this was me, but I still didn’t think I was worthy. I mean, how often does your bread land butter side up?

Anyway, how do I process this?

First: get another slice of bread. Butter side up or not, the floor’s dirty.

Second: congratulate the person. They worked hard to achieve this goal. They deserve heaps of praise.

Third: get over it. Why spend time ruminating on others’ good fortune when I should be making my own? Being miffed is a choice. I love the advice that author Greg McKeowen, in his newest book, Effortless, advises readers to ask themselves, “What role have I enlisted this emotion to serve?” In this case, what job is whatever the noun form of being miffed—miffness? miffism? miffalotta?—doing? Answer? Wasting my time!

Fourth: No really, get over it. As a friend reminded me, “If you were good enough, you’d already be passed.” All the time I’ve spent thinking about this I could have spent writing better material so that I too can one day be passed at the Comedy Cellar. [Some time in the late 2050’s.]

Fifth, write about it in my newsletter. [And do NOT admit you ate both slices of buttered bread.]

I really don’t want to be this person, but something that helps me get out of a funk is thinking about things I’m thankful for. I know I ended that sentence with a preposition, but it was for a good reason: I avoid saying the G-word at all costs.

I’m afraid if I say “gratit-“—whoops, almost said the word that means appreciating what I have!—I’ll have to start doing yoga, talking about being “spiritual, not religious,” and spending hours cross-stitching decorative pillows with phrases like, “breathe” and “grace” and “live laugh love.” Whatever you call it, I’ve found that gratitude [damnit] makes it really hard to get bent out of shape.

Anyway, I’m thankful you subscribed to this list. And I’m thankful you listened to me get through this.

I feel better already.

Ritz Ready

The last stop on our month-long road trip finds us in the Ritz-Carlton. Which means we had to get Ritz Ready.

We got haircuts. We did our nails. We gave Bailey a bath. We stopped on the drive over and changed into prettier, fancier clothes and moved our luggage into into prettier, fancier bags. We filled up our rental car with premium and got a car wash. We would have bought a new car but didn’t have the time.

When you stay at the Ritz, you rise to the Ritz. You wear new underwear. You do your hair. You don’t wear a hat, unless it’s a fancy hat. And even then, as soon as the valet takes your stagecoach and you step into The Ritz, you remove it and hand it to one of the bell boys who is hired for the sole purpose of holding top hats.

You speak with a vaguely British accent, the refined Oxford one, not the backwater Cockney one, nor one from any place that ends in -shire. If in doubt, do an impression of Tony Blair. If you don’t know Tony, try Hugh Grant. If that’s too hard, try Ben Franklin, George Washington, or any of the Founding Fathers.

You tip generously. Or not. I’m not sure if the rich at the Ritz tip more or less than us regular folks. Or at all. Maybe they don’t even look at The Help. The bellboy boy seemed to appreciate the $100 I slipped him, even going so far as to say, “thank you, m’lord.” I didn’t know bellboys were allowed to speak at the Ritz. Will he be caned?

The coffee machine is better. It’s Illy. Which is Italian for fancy. The pods are all plastic. There’s no foil. No paper. No filter. Because those. aren’t. fancy. For the Ritz Regulars, the machine pulls espresso. For everyone else, caffe. Which is Italian for pansy.

There are Ritz-branded bottled waters everywhere. On the desk. On each nightstand and next to the coffee maker, in case your pansy coffee is still too strong. There are bottles near each of the bathroom sinks. (There are three!) They’re hidden in each drawer with the bibles. Nestled between the cushions of the couch. I think I even slept on a giant bottle of water. One of The Help came by last night and gave us more water. What’s wrong with non-Ritz water? Is that why my hair’s falling out and my belly protrudes?

The bed is heavenly. Not capital H Heavenly from that dump of a hotel and my pre-Ritz favorite, The Westin. Yuck. There are more sheets than I know what to do with and each of them has a higher thread count than all the sheets I own, combined. Why do they fold the two dozen sheets into some sort of pretzel you have to unwrap in order to sleep? I don’t know. Why are there eight pillows? Are they different? I don’t know. During my first night’s sleep I changed my pillow every hour on the hour and threw the old one out, which is what I assume they meant for me to do. Is that right? I don’t know. Those are Ritz Secrets.

The no dogs allowed signs are tiny and shaped like a dog taking a poop. They’re black, and small, and when they’re placed low on the dirt, impossible to read. Impossibly chic. They don’t actually say “no dogs allowed.” They just say “No.” That’s not just cool. That’s Ritz. But what do I know? I’m not rich.

I’m a pretender. An imposter. I splurged for a few nights because it’s our anniversary (thank you!) and it’s the end of a month long road trip. We’re tired. We’re haggard — save for the new hair cuts. We need to do laundry. We’re furry. We need a brushing. Sorry, Bailey walked into view and I just realized she’s not fully Ritz Ready. How did they let us through the front door?

I don’t belong. I’m not sure I want to belong. There is nothing wrong with the Ritz, with the people at The Ritz, the bellboys who hold top hats at the Ritz, or the valets at the Ritz who valet automobiles — cars are so pedestrian. But I’m wearing a white t-shirt and sweatpants as I write this from my Ritz desk. The shirt probably [definitely] has pits stains. I’m not even wearing socks! Gross! My hair’s a mess. My breath smells like coffee. I’m a dumpster fire behind a luxury building. I’m the one trash can in the lobby that didn’t get emptied, and maybe [definitely] stinks a little. I’m dehydrated. I’m nervous. I’m waiting for that knock on the door, and the manager to softly whisper, “We know you’re not Ritz; come with us.”

But yet I’m here. I’m sipping Ritz water. Trying to work the Ritz caffe machine. I just pulled an espresso. Or the machine cleaned itself. I don’t know. I need to brush up on my Italian. I still need to brush my teeth. But later today I’ll probably [definitely] have a Ritz cocktail in the Ritz lobby. And no one will know I don’t belong. They’ll take my order. They’ll bring me nuts. They’ll take my 8000% tip. The Ritz patrons will pet my dog. They’ll smile at me. And they’ll have no idea there’s an imposter in their midst.

And that’s the point. I don’t matter. Not as much as I think I do. No one really cares what I look like or how I dress. Or how many Negronis I’ve had [a lot]. Or that my dog is licking their children and shedding all over the lobby. Because they’re too nice and too busy with their own jobs and own lives to really care what’s going on with mine. I am nothing.

But in that nothingness, I am free. I’m free to wear a pink shirt. Or a red sweater. Or a watch with an orange wrist band. They don’t care because they don’t have time to care. They might be just as worried about being Ritz Ready as me.

So next time I don’t feel Ritz Ready, I’ll just remember that no one is.