Maybe I'll Give This Post a Real Name When It's Finished

I caught up with a couple of old friends about a week ago. It was wonderful in so many ways but troubling in others. I won't pour out my whole soul in this post -- I find it difficult to put it back where it belongs and, besides, there will be other posts, I hope -- but the not-so-wonderful parts were variations on my deep desire to connect with others. In the first phone conversation, it was painful to disagree so strongly with someone I love and respect so much. The second conversation was smooth sailing all the way, but I can involuntarily turn anything into a negative and all too frequently do. Our conversation was free and easy and gave me a lot of pleasure. But, as I told him, I'll eventually reframe it as "I've set the bar for 'Chuck's' expectations of me too high," and I'll be afraid to talk to you again ... afraid of disappointing you, afraid of disappointing me.

Suicide's nothing to joke about but one of my best friends from high school and I were only half-joking -- well, at least I was only half-joking, which means together we were at least one-quarter serious -- when, debriefing after a double-date that couldn't have gone better, we said, "We can't top that! We should just kill ourselves right now!" I react to joy that way a lot. I don't mean with suicidal ideation -- that's ten other posts, and it's not usually associated with positive experiences -- but with fear, fear that I've raised expectations too high and it's all downhill from here, fear that I'll see in someone's eyes, or hear in someone's voice, or even sense in someone's body language, "Where's that Other Guy who was so fun to be with?" I got heaps of praise from my father, as well as my mother, but my dad's way of telling me I'd screwed up was, "I'm disappointed in you."

In retrospect, I wish he'd said, "No watching baseball for a week, son." Now that would have been a serious punishment for me back then -- it still would be now! -- but instead of worrying that I wasn't good enough for him, I would have worried about not missing another week of baseball. I'm not a father, I'm no expert in childhood development, and my parents did a whole lot of things right. And the things they did wrong almost always came with good intentions. But kids should be worrying about whether they'll miss their favorite show or get grounded, not whether their parents will love them if they don't do what's expected of them.

Back to catching up with my buddies: I sang in an a capella group with them in college and, the day after the conversation with the second, who was the leader of the group in many ways, I was feeling so light that I sang to my wife. It probably wasn't the first time since our wedding day -- when the three group members who were able to attend joined me in serenading her -- but I'm sorry to say that it's a rarity. When I was singing almost every day back in college, I noticed a strange thing: I was in better voice after I cried or laughed. My theory is that the relaxation that follows a good cry, or a good laugh, includes a literal relaxation of the vocal chords. (A big part of singing well is just "getting out of the way" of the instrument that is your body, not to sound too precious.)

Then again, I sing bass and also find -- even if you never sing but just talk over breakfast, you may have noticed the same thing -- that I often wake up in the morning with a more resonant voice and an ability to hit lower notes. Forget about "Then again": maybe that's a second example of how relaxation -- is one ever more relaxed than after a good night's sleep? -- I know what you're thinking but let's keep this clean, people -- improves one's singing. Anyway, I didn't do much crying in my conversation with Chuck, but I laughed a lot in both talks, and damn it if my voice wasn't better!

I sang a few bars from the only solo I sang in that college singing group -- garnered when a morning audition helped my bass voice hit the low notes! -- and then followed that up with some attempts at singing first tenor (the highest voice part in an all-male group), hitting high notes I didn't think I could reach anymore. I was so tickled by the whole experience that I fantasized about calling Chuck the next day and "auditioning" for the part of first tenor. It was all silly and just-for-fun, but that was the beauty of it. I was proud of the way my voice sounded, I was unafraid of calling my old buddy again (even at the risk of making a damn fool of myself), and I was feeling free and easy.

It was less than 24 hours later that the thought of doing what I just described seemed an impossibility and the memory a hazy dream. Not only was I not able to hit those high notes, I was no longer that same guy who had the confidence, serenity, and sheer zest for life to goof around like that. Where did that other guy go? I can lose myself so thoroughly that the above is nothing. When I'm truly lost I don't have words for the experience, so I certainly wouldn't be writing something like this. I probably wouldn't be writing at all, and every syllable out of my mouth would be accompanied by pain. I'm hearing the warning bells go off -- you see, in my mind, I just came close to saying that I was safe from "losing myself so thoroughly," and that's tantamount to placing a curse on myself -- so I feel the need to tread lightly. I'm not superstitious in my head but I can be in my gut, and I do think there is something real about self-fulfilling prophecies.

I have a particularly skeptical mind, but my body is as suggestible as they come. I can't watch a person with a facial or vocal tic -- hell, I can't think about it -- without following suit. Most people find it incredibly difficult to heed the absurd admonition, "Don't think about purple elephants!"; I usually find it difficult to filter out just about anything. So perhaps I should say that, intellectually, I have a skeptical mind but, viscerally, all bets are off. Just talking about how I'm in a good place -- or at least not a dark place -- can lead me where I don't want to go. I've wondered for decades why I am like that and how much control I have, or could have, over that awful cascade. For now, I'll just say that I've witnessed the pattern, and it scares the hell out of me. As for the general subject of superstition, I like what ballplayer-turned-announcer Mark Grace had to say: "I'm not superstitious. It's bad luck!"

My wife suggested several days ago that I write about catching up with my old friends. I'm contrarian enough that I knew I'd at least resist the suggestion, though it's been marinating in my head ever since. I thought this would be a jumping-off point for talking about other things -- the logical implications of disagreeing so strongly with someone whose judgment you respect at least as emphatically, the difficulty of convincing someone on the other side of the political spectrum to see it your way, the loneliness of moving from liberalism toward conservatism and having so few friends and acquaintances join you on the journey -- and noticing what you hadn't noticed when you were a liberal, that conservatives are so frequently maligned, and often by people you have great admiration for -- but those topics will have to wait for another day, if I ever decide to take them on. It turns out the introduction to this little essay was the essay.