Influential Influenza (March 4, 2012)

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PreventDiseaseCarelessSpitting

 

Amongst all the talk of suddenly rising gas prices, the latest PR flameout from Rush Limbaugh and the ongoing farce otherwise known as the Republican Presidential primaries, there is a smaller, more personal issue garnering far less media attention – the last gasps (an appropriately selected noun) of the flu season.
Back in late 2009 I suffered an attack of the good old Swine Flu. Remember those heady times? I heard each case was somewhat individual but mine was marked by a sustained high fever that was positively impervious to medication or cool water, disordered thinking (more than usual anyway) and the kind of body pains and headaches formerly associated with medieval torture devices. I have never experienced anything like it and may I never again.

The flu that brought me to my knees late last week/early this week did not burn the brain but it did produce coughing fits violent enough to trigger vomiting – among other lovely features. It was also the first time since undergoing surgery last summer that I needed to rely on the kindness and goodwill of another for my survival. Traditionally, these are not circumstances under which I thrive. After a lifetime spent relying on little more than street smarts and the capacity for hard work, I do not take kindly to my body’s periodic rebellion. The notion of having to depend on someone other than myself tends to make me sweaty, depressed and uncomfortable. There are many family ecosystems in which humans cooperate for the benefit of the species – I just wasn’t born into them. I accepted that and adapted. It’s what we’re supposed to do right?

Another situation I typically find untenable is one in which another pays the price for my own misfortune. This also occurred this week when I passed the debilitating late season flu onto my new boyfriend, a lovely man who nursed me for three days without complaint or regard for his own immune system. How could I explain my crabbiness and withdrawal from this caring person? I was frustrated and humiliated by my own weakness, then ashamed of my inability to protect him from suffering the same fate. How do you tell someone rational that you are angry at yourself for indulging in his well-intentioned TLC? That you are frustrated by your own humanity, which you believed you were above. Why is that that I am simultaneously at my most humble, yet stubbornly arrogant when under the weather?

I believe almost any situation contains a learning experience, probably the only paradigm which has kept my mind from snapping at the absurd volume of interpersonal failure experienced. What I’m trying to learn here is that the sharing of burdens, of seamlessly taking your turn as the caregiver and caregivee is the way a relationship dynamic is supposed to work. It’s not a recourse to tallying debts and favors. That’s the world I am used to. “Becky, you owe me a squelching of your personhood/the perpetuation of a lie/all the energy you have, because remember when I did X for you?”

There’s no scoreboard in my new relationship and I do not need to rebel against affectionate cooperation. There are no accounts to settle once I’m back on my feet. Part one is identifying the knee-jerk dysfunction I brought to the table this week. Part two is figuring out how to keep the flu, and my partner’s compassionate response to it, from triggering an pointless identity crisis.

Post-Deflategate: What Tom Brady and the NFL Can Learn From ’90s Major League Baseball

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Tom-Brady deflategate

The new season of the National Football League begins this Thursday night. But as dedicated fans complete their fantasy drafts and excitement before the first official kickoff builds, we must admit this hasn’t been the typical NFL break. Instead, spring and summer 2015 have been the seasons of “Deflategate,” or what the National Review characterizes as “The Brady Botch.”

We all know the backstory, with a few definite, verifiable facts. During the January 18, 2015 AFC Championship contest between the New England Patriots and the Indianapolis Colts, the Pats used underinflated game balls that resulted in an easier grip for superstar quarterback Tom Brady. Whether those balls were deliberately deflated to gain an illegal advantage for the Patriots is a question likely to be debated until long after Brady makes his way to the Hall of Fame.

What is certain is that other teams, including the Baltimore Ravens, lodged similar allegations against New England during the 2014 season. It is also not the first time that the Patriots, Brady and head coach Bill Belichick have been accused of football malfeasance. The website YourTeamCheats.com boasts an impressive catalog of alleged New England skullduggery, including the 2007 “Spygate” incident, which led to a $500,000 fine for Belichick and cost the team its first-round selection in the 2008 NFL Draft.

It is also a fact that Tom Brady destroyed a cell phone associated with the NFL’s “Deflategate” investigation. He is under no legal obligation to explain why, and perhaps it’s in Brady’s long-term best interest never to utter another word about it. So I’m sure remaining skeptics trying to hold onto respect for the quarterback legend could have done without his early September Facebook post, written shortly after U.S. District Judge Richard M. Berman overturned Brady’s four-game suspension:

“While I am pleased to be eligible to play, I am sorry our league had to endure this. I don’t think it has been good for our sport – to a large degree, we have all lost…I am also sorry to anyone whose feelings I may have hurt as I have tried to work to resolve this situation.”

It’s the “hurt feelings” language that’s really galling. The carefully chosen, dismissive rhetoric from a person who fails to comprehend the situation as anything more than a crabby personal inconvenience. Brady might as well have ended his post with the hashtag #SorryNotSorry. It has been abundantly clear throughout the episode that the only victim Brady really sees is himself, his rich, handsome, model wife having, rules-are-for-regular people self.

And in a way, it’s easy to comprehend Brady’s attitude. Shortly after the January controversy exploded, Hall of Fame receiver Jerry Rice had himself a good laugh on national television, discussing his own experience with breaking the rules. NBC Sports writer Mike Florioquoted Rice as saying on ESPN, “I know this might be a little illegal, guys, but you put a little spray, a little stickum on [gloves], to make sure that texture is a little sticky.” The football legend offered this as an alternative to underinflated balls, saving Tom Brady future hassles with embarrassing rule enforcement.

This should have been a scandal. The NFL banned stickum in 1981 – before Rice was drafted. Instead as Florio observes, “At a time when many were expecting Rice to claim that his words were taken out of context or that he was joking, [he] has taken to Twitter to admit that he did it, and that it was more than ‘a little illegal.’”

And there you have it. Integrity and regulation, the ease of flouting these standards, has long been a breezy joke amongst the NFL, its leadership and players. I’m not even going to touch Commissioner Roger Goodell and his “command” of the league throughout “Deflategate” and indeed any other crisis over the course of his nine-year tenure. There’s just not space enough in this particular column. He’s excessive when restraint is warranted, and criminally unreactive when strength is needed (one name: Ray Rice). I’m a woman. The league has a misogyny problem it tries to solve with pink jerseys in October. Concussions. I could go on.

But here’s the thing. I am a real fan. I’m one of those eager maniacs obsessing over the prospects of my fantasy team, looking for new spots to watch games with my boyfriend and wondering if Peyton Manning will get his groove back this season. I want more from the sport I love than this grotesque level of human cynicism.

The NFL would be wise to remember the hard learned lessons of Major League Baseball. After the 1994-95 league strike, and the tremendous fallout from a performance enhancement scandal that left dozens of high-profile stars with tattered careers and legacies, baseball officially surrendered its long run as America’s favorite pastime…to football.

I live in Chicago and hockey season starts next month. I’m just sayin’.

Kick Me Baby (February 21, 2012)

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“Kickboxing. Sport of the future.”
– Lloyd Dobler, Say Anything (1989)

Lloyd Dobler, John Cusack’s iconic character from the classic film of the 1980s was the first good guy on whom I had a crush. Otherwise, it’s always been bad boys for me. It’s telling that one of the few times I became smitten with a sensitive, caring soul, he also happened to be a fictional character.

In any case, Lloyd’s passion for the sport of kickboxing was the beginning of my familiarity with the activity. Regular boxing always seemed challenging enough but this new incarnation involved a whole mess of kicks along with the requisite punches. As I spent all of my prime years (15-25) on the couch eating, gaining weight and losing muscle tone, I had the urge to do little more than bandage Lloyd after that mean Diane Court surprised him at the gym, resulting in a nice shot to the schnoz.

In my mid-20s, as I realized that I had trouble walking more than one flight of stairs and that my body bore a passing resemblance to the obese, chain smoking mother I abhorred, I finally got off my ass. Eight years and 60 pounds later, I have become more than one who patronizes the gym out of necessity. I found that I actually love to sweat, to challenge myself, to raise the adrenaline. I now get off on strength and agility, the ability to hang with the toughest, the way I once found solace in a Kit Kat binge.

One thing that has always made me uncomfortable however, is violence. Can’t stand to see it. Can bear even less to be the perpetrator of it. I am the woman who watches episodes of Grey’s Anatomy through her fingers. So though I always admired the badassery of a Laila Ali or a Cara Castronuova (a former trainer on The Biggest Loser), I never figured I’d have the stones to take up a sport that celebrates physical combat.

My usual Tuesday workout had long been a 20-mile round trip bike ride to downtown Chicago, bookending a Russian kettlebell session with my friend and trainer Rob. Well about six weeks ago, Rob had to cancel our usual meeting and I decided on a whim to take a shorter ride to the Lincoln Park gym I patronize. I was finally going to give kickboxing class a whirl. I asked around and learned it was all bag, no hand to hand engagement.

The meek, it turns out, shall inherit kickboxing. As long as I don’t have to spar with an actual human, I. Am. An. Animal. I have split boxing gloves in my enthusiasm for whaling on the bag. I have been interrupted by the instructor with inquiries into the condition of my wrists and knuckles. At first I was confused and assumed I was simply using the wrong form. But as it turns out, Reagan wanted to know if I was ok because I was “killing” the heavy black sack in front of me. I don’t need Dr. Freud to tell me I have a lot of aggression to release. But finally, at long last, I have a safe outlet. I don’t have to fear hitting as hard as I can.

I suppose in a way, much like Lloyd Dobler, the discovery of kickboxing has provided a sense of power and control in a world where I often feel weak and ineffectual. Lloyd was the product of a disordered upbringing, graduating high school while living with his single mother of a sister. As the movie opens, he is hopelessly in love with a girl who seems unaware of his existence, staring at the probability of a lackluster future. I am also the product of a disordered upbringing and like the character, demanding physical exercise, striking out at a nameless target seems a lot more spirited and hopeful than sitting around waiting for something to happen.

I never realized in my youth, as I sat watching Say Anything ad nauseam with my younger sister, trading memorable quotes at lightening speed, that kickboxing was the sport of my future.

Unexpected Valentine (February 13, 2012)

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At 33.5 years of age, I have lived long enough to know that both tragedy and spiritual uplift often come from the most unlikely places. One of the supremely terrible and wonderful features of human life is that we can plan all we want, but never quite know what to expect. But awareness of this fact doesn’t always lead to preparedness, a ready script that one can summon in response to these little surprises.

Thus I was left on the street this evening, wordlessly clutching a three-foot tall white teddy bear named Shawn.

As part of my normal routine, I switched from one commuter train to the next, en route to the gym after a long day spent at the office. Upon alighting from the second train, a walk of roughly 6 blocks stood between me and the fitness center I patronize. Typically, I traverse the distance on autopilot, thinking over the day, what needs to be done when I get home, dread of the coming sweat session – the usual.

On this night, roughly halfway through my walk, I was interrupted from a reverie by the honk of a car horn. I looked to my left and it seemed that a rather well-dressed man driving a Mercedes-Benz was trying to grab my attention. Part of city living means coping with unwanted attention from various miscreants, but if Mr. Mercedes was a lunatic or a deadbeat, I had to admire the presentation.

I waved him off naturally, but he persisted. With an angry look on his face, he finally spoke: “Look I know this is weird, but can you just walk over here for a second?”

With that the gentleman thrust the aforementioned giant teddy bear from his driver side window, packaged adorably with a stand, fake roses and a balloon. “Here. Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said rather unenthusiastically.

By now I was running down a mental list of former friends and lovers. Had my memory lapsed completely? No other explanation made the scene logical. But failing to locate even a spark of recognition, I finally summoned the brain power to utter a single word, “Why?”

He sighed deeply before replying, “Because. You are a lot prettier and probably a lot nicer than the woman I just broke up with.”

I wasn’t ready for that at all. “But why me? Don’t you want to give this to your mother, sister or at least a female friend?” [Presumably one that you have known for longer than 15 seconds?]

The man answered, “I really just want it out of my sight.”

Why is that against every inclination I believed I had (I am SO not the teddy bear type), I suddenly wanted this stuffed animal more than anything? This bear represented something to the man – a loss, a broken promise, frustrated hopes. I will never really know the full story but all at once, I saw myself walking away from so many unsatisfying entanglements with nothing more than a box of tsotchkes. Here was someone in pain that I understood, literally asking me to lighten his load by taking a distressing Valentine’s Day gift home. It seemed the least I could do.

By way of acceptance, I asked “May I at least have your name? So I know what to call the bear?”

“Shawn,” was all he said. We made brief eye contact, and I like to believe, exchanged knowing looks. Yes, Shawn, this too shall pass. I was you last year.

Then Shawn peeled off into the night, into a world I never believed existed – where handsome men with nice cars and giant gifts still go home alone.

And I continued my walk to the gym, laden with a symbol of someone’s disappointment. In the same moment that he gifted me the largest stuffed animal I will ever own, (and I WILL keep it because no one’s pain belongs in a landfill), I hope I provided a service in return.

Super Rituals (February 7, 2012)

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super bowl party

As I get older, I am starting to realize that social and cultural rituals for which I used to think I was too evolved are beginning to adopt personal meaning.

I am not speaking of the big markers of the annual societal calendar, like the November/December holiday season. I simply have too many family and failed romance issues to get down with that period. Besides I hate the cold and the push to spend money I don’t have.

The touchstones to which I am referring are of the more mundane variety: St. Patrick’s Day, the annual Oscars telecast and the Super Bowl. I want to BE somewhere on these days, feel a sudden urge that I don’t experience at more obvious times to participate and belong. What is it about a community of strangers that can make one feel so at home?

I experienced the now familiar lure this past Sunday. As a huge sports fan generally, and an NFL devotee more specifically, I have always enjoyed the Super Bowl. Once you take into account the commercials, National Anthem suspense (will the chosen singer forget the lyrics?) and Halftime Show (Madonna!!), the whole glittery spectacle is almost too much to resist. And with any luck, the game will be dramatic too, as the latest Giants/Patriots faceoff certainly was.

I met a couple friends at a popular Wrigleyville bar, a place I had never been, but on this day it didn’t matter. Every inebriated Chicagoan was an instant pal trying to assess team allegiance, looking for potential kinship and maybe an excuse to buy a shot. It’s like all the eye contact avoiding, brisk walks and dehumanization that can often serve as the hallmarks of urban life take a time out upon which everyone has silently agreed.

I used to think that those drawn to participate in the corporate-enhanced mass market rituals that comprise American culture just so didn’t get it. Couldn’t these lemmings see they were being preyed upon under the guise of collective enjoyment?

Yet paradoxically as I gain life experience and heartbreak, become more used to disappointment, these ceremonies inspire a childlike suspension of disbelief in which I am wholeheartedly willing to engage. Perhaps that is the point of rituals in the end. Everyone needs a break from isolation and introspection. Sometimes we just need something to celebrate.