upfromdysfunction.com

“Today is the greatest day I have ever known.
Can’t wait for tomorrow—might not have that long.”
(Smashing Pumpkins)

As a child it never occurred to me that time was the most precious of gifts.
Or that I might run out of it. Intellectually I knew, but behaviorally…there would always be another time.

But sometimes there isn’t. Because all things must pass. And do.

My shiny Schwinn bike (with training wheels), Grandpa Maisei (my Dad’s dad), Little League….come and gone.

And elementary school days. They ran out too.

The house I grew up in. Mr. Gelfand to the west/Chris Hovanyi to the west. I moved and they’re long gone.

And the Riviera Swim Club.

All things must pass.

The acne. The Bar Mitzvah lessons. The fear of my first date—the trauma of divorce’s final decree.

My first glove; my first set of steel spikes. Adam and Tide. Bobby Kennedy. Fred Wendel, ( manager of the White Sox when we won the World Championship in 1960), and Bessie Zane, Stuart’s live-in grandmother….

My hairline…my virginity…Sam Kinison. Fartik!

Murray Galan and Claire. Irv and Celia. And now, Albert and Elaine.

The most life-like person I ever knew, my Dad…but on August 9, 1985 it was what it was. And WHEN it was, there wasn’t one word left unspoken between us. We had known that time was a gift, and that nothing should be taken for granted…including our ability to share it.

Woody and Bo. Cleveland Municipal Stadium. Rabbi Cohen.

And the chance to slide head-first into a folded paper bag with stones on it…third base on the diamond at Rowland School. Or sliding traditionally, and then calling time to step off the bag and dust myself off like they did on TV. (The bastards paved over the field in the 90’s. Pity the South Euclid kids that waited too long to take a bow to their imaginary crowd).

Truth be known, I began as an outfielder, moved to second base, then third. At the hot corner you’re encouraged to take everything possible to your left, cutting precious seconds off balls otherwise fielded deeper at short.
Time…. Time… Time…
Came the time THAT I was just waiving as the balls went by. Wieder spoke aloud what my heart knew inside: I was now a catcher.

All things must pass.

When I was younger I used to think: Never do today what you can put off tomorrow. That there would be a better time…’twasn’t always so.

Oh, once in a while we got it right. Michael and Jamie saw Lem Barker’s perfect game ball in Cooperstown before he did. And 5 year old Stacy puzzled window shoppers, standing frozen in a storefront window at Tower City. Moments were seized.

If today is really the only day I have for certain I want to make it the best day I can. If there is something I can do today, maybe I should. Maybe I will.

I woke up today—G/d’s gift to me. What I do with this 24 hours is my gift back.

Today? This too will pass.

To everything – turn, turn, turn
There is a season – turn, turn, turn
And a time for every purpose under heaven

A time of war, a time of peace
A time of love, a time of hate
A time you may embrace
A time to refrain from embracing
A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones
A time to gather stones together

A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time to love, a time to hate
A time of peace, I swear it’s not too late!

(Adapted from Book Of Eccliastes)

Boy, I kicked ass yesterdayI From sunrise to sunset I was in the “zone.”

Woke up to “Morning Joe”, drove a friend somewhere, then breakfast at Corky’s with Dennis. Michael J came by with great news: we don’t have to eat at Jack’s Saturday.

The half hour flew by as Burnside and I laughed at the dysfunction around us (we’re so balanced). Upon leaving, he stood adjacent to me as we paid at the register. I was starting to ask the cashier some random question (just for play) when he interrupted:

“Michelle, let me ask you a question…” I began.
“Don’t even start!” His sixth sense tells him when my nonsense is beginning.

I did stop. We laughed again and then it was on to the real world.

The sun was shining. It was only 8:00 AM. The flag was UP!

Business as usual—downtown Cleveland followed by a trek to Chardon. Even had major trial victory in Geauga. Coming home the hills were alive with the sound of Bare Naked Ladies. Both ipod and owner were juiced.

And not only was the sun was still shining, but…get this…: no court appearances the rest of the week, and no appointments. And, (tympany ….) No compulsory shopping at Marc’s.

Friday on my mind!

Mid-May was the last time I entered a weekend without commitments. Play rehearsals and tech and then three weeks of Fri/Sat/Sun performances chewed up my down-time. Fathers Day was well-spent on the coast.

And now I’m home. With no plans.

It’s times like these… when there is a pause in the action… that I truly miss having a hand to hold. My life rocks—work, recovery, family keep me fulfilled. Still, I can’t help but think I’m wired to be with someone.

I’m not needy; I’m not lonely. And I AM truly happy. But still….

Seinfeld says that only 5% of people are “dateable.” That’s not a good start.
Factor in my personal deal-breakers, to wit: no druggies, republicans or redheads. Factor out those ladies that run a D & B on you before they date you…and the ones that left their smiles in the 70’s…

I’m dying to see “The Hangover.” How can I go alone and also sit without popcorn? And Sacha Baron Cohen’s new movie opens soon…where will I find someone age-appropriate to take?

I’m not complaining—just sharing. If G/d wanted me to be with someone I would be. Not on my time, but in his time.

So I’ll be grateful for the sunshine, the friends, the family and the opportunities.
And what will be will be.

(If only G/d wanted me to have buttered popcorn)!

WARNING TO MY SIX READERS: THIS ENTRY IS ONE OF THOSE GOOD NEWS/BAD NEWS THINGS. THE GOOD NEWS IS THAT IT IS NOT MY TYPICAL SUBMISSION; THE BAD NEWS IS THAT I HAD TOO MUCH TIME ON MY HANDS……AND THESE ARE TODAY’S OBTUSE THOUGHTS: Dateline:  June 19, 2009, Great Neck, NewYork.

I would never want to be President. The hours are bad; there’s too much stress….and you have to smile at a lot of Republicans. Still, I can’t help but think how differently I would have handled the recent nomination to the Supreme Court.

Character, they say, is how one acts when no one is looking. Why then, would anyone nominate a person whose career can be shredded and twisted through a paper trail? It can only lead to pulling things out of context and character assassination.

I, therefore, would nominate persons with acceptable political philosophy, unquestioned integrity, and minimal documented opinions. If the good guys truly win in the end, why then would I want to give the bad guys anything to think about? Let them google my ass!

I therefore submit this, my “short list” for the next vacancy:

1. My sister-in-law Margie: In her 50’s, she has been a life-long educator and home-maker. A moderate Democrat, her strength is her reverence for the First Amendment.
She not only fosters her daughter’s ardent blogging, but embraces it. Accordingly, she is a daily reader of things she may not wish to read. Margie has never quite been the star of the family, but (like most good character actors), the show could not go on without her. She would serve well.

2. My friend Terry. She is the “no nonsense” clinical director of an alternative housing facility. Passionate, yet anything but P.C., she “gets it.” Terry would survive well in the “old boy network” of the Supremes; no, she would thrive.

Easter season we found ourselves seated elbow to elbow in the 6 and 7 seats at a Hold ‘Em table in West Virginia. As Queen blared over the p.a. system, some redneck in the 4 seat casually commented that it was ironic they’d be playing that music “today.” Clearly this was a shot at Freddy Mercury’s orientation. Terry, stunningly heterosexual, didn’t let it pass. “What do you mean?,” she subtly inquired, feigning naivety. The guy just grumbled. (In one fell swoop she had not only struck a blow for individual rights, but also clearly created another anti-Semite).

No, she wouldn’t get pushed around by the clowns on the right. Consider:

A bit later, that same day, the guy next to the dealer accused her of showing me her hand. The dealer questioned her and she denied it. It could have ended there, but NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

“Get a video,” she demanded, compelling the dealer to summon the pit boss.
He arrived, tuxedoed and all.
”This asshole called me a cheater,” she declared. “Get the video please.”
“Hey,” the accuser exclaimed, “She can’t call me that!”
Terry wasn’t done. Calmly, politely, she looked right back at him, with one eye still to the pit boss and retorted:
“Yeah I can, because you ARE an asshole. Please get the video.” Then she asked to be moved to another table.
A half hour later the tuxedo returned and confirmed that there had been no impropriety.
Better yet, the schmuck that started the thing had been so unnerved that he’d gone on tilt. I left the table shortly thereafter, when they paused so he could re-buy chips.

3. Robert F. Kennedy. Senator from New York. This candidate is so strong that even his untimely death shouldn’t preclude him. His values are timeless.

In this millennium, when computers can have on-line baseball games between the 1927 Yankees and the Big Red Machine of the 70’s….when a microchip can visually recreate a boxing match between Ali and Marciano—one that never occurred…..why couldn’t the cyberworld issue decisions that RFK would have opined?

I recall jamming into a chartered bus traipsing from OSU’s campus to what was then Port Columbus —just to greet him during the 1968 primary season. I can’t think of one politician today that I would even take a limo to meet.

The best thing about each of the above is that they pass political muster. Two women and an icon. Two Jews and a Catholic. The first two come without baggage; the third is a Kennedy.

This country can little afford more “politics as usual.” Comes a time one has to think outside the box.

I stand by my candidates.

May and June bring Mothers Day and Fathers Day. And memories.

And obligations. It was time again to accompany Aunt Helen to the family resting place to commune with her Mom and Dad—our paternal grandparents.

Quietly, visibly sobbing over the twin graves she shook her head. “I think of both of them every day…still…I can’t get used to it….”

He died in 1954 and she in 1990. Nearly 75 years between them. My sense is, though, that while it may be productive to look at the past, it cannot be healthy to continually stare at it. I was dying to share this wisdom with my aunt but the woman may have asked me about John Elway and “The Drive” and I’m not ready to talk about it. (And by the way, Karlis’s kick in overtime was absolutely wide to his left).

We recited Kaddish.

Then, in prolonged silence my brother and I each held one of her hands, navigated through the fairways of the cemetery, and escorted her to my car. (He had brought her; I would return her….OUR CODE).

“Do you still miss your mother?” she asked me as I exited the grounds.
An interesting query (I thought, considering Mom died in April).

“Yes, but in a positive way.”
“Well that’s ridiculous,” she shot back.

My turn: “Then why did you ask me?” And then I stopped. On a dime. Extending the dialogue at that point would have been frustrating and fruitless. Further, it ALWAYS ends the same way: I say “You’re right,” then walk her up her steps. (Recovery taught me long ago that it is better to be happy than right).

Still, heading back up Cedar with Her Pleasantness safely out of my car, I couldn’t help but muse on what I wanted to say. Sort of like Dennis The Menace, being punished, sitting, thinking on a stool in the corner: “I shouldda told her…….”

That I do miss people in a good way—by taking lessons from their lives.

That there was, to be sure, a synchronicity between my parents and in fact, my in-laws…that each had demonstrated his own level of acceptance with life; that, frankly, but for my mother’s days in the Old Folks Home, each of the quartet seemed relatively content, relatively at peace. I never heard them ask for themselves. Ever. If anything, the actions of each demonstrated an ability to take life on life’s terms and be grateful for what was.

It’s a lesson I learned later than necessary but one that many never digest.

My dad was amazed in the early 70’s: His best friend’s daughter was house hunting, but had turned down several right-priced homes in her area of choice; it seemed she needed a minimum of two full baths. He couldn’t fathom it. Two baths for two people? Couldn’t they take turns, he asked. Incredulously, he described her then as he would from time to time depict me: “She’s crying with a loaf of bread under each arm.”

Nuff said.

My mother-in-law could be tough, but it was always tough love. She would quell the escalating heat of a disagreement with one succinct observation: “….That’s why G/d made chocolate and vanilla….” It was OK to disagree.

She was disabled too soon, but zealously mobilized herself. I missed the last years of her life but I remember the pride and dignity with which she embraced her situation…and kept on truckin’.

Acceptance.

My sponsor tells me that I need to accept Aunt Helen as she is. Sometimes I handle that assignment better than others.

He says I don’t HAVE to take her shopping, but I GET to take her shopping.
He says that I don’t have to understand her to accept her…with all her mishigos…He says that I am learning patience, and that is a blessing.

He says I am but a work in progress.

Last Sunday went well, but smooth sailing is not guaranteed. The right behavior (for me) remains a One Day At A Time thing.

But I’m trying. Hard.

So this weekend, when I take her shopping I have a game plan: Inevitably she will criticize. She will find fault in either the route I take, or perhaps the parking space I choose. Or, AND BANK ON THIS ONE: she will groan and chastise my choice of check-out line. And sulk.

Whatever it is, whatever she says, not matter how much she questions me…this week I will stay “on message.” I have the response. I’m waiting for her. Just waiting.

“Aunt, Helen,” I’ll say, “That’s why G/d made chocolate and vanilla.”

She may not understand the analogy, but it will matter not. I will know that it is a lesson learned from missing someone in a good way.

And I will be, at least for one moment in time, both happy and right.

Fifty years ago June 10 Rocky Colavito went deep four times in one game. We watched it in black and white, but I remember it in living color.
The man owned Cleveland back then. No matter how the Indians struggled our mantra remained: “Don’t Knock The Rock.”
He was my first sports hero, but not my last.
Jack Nicklaus. Jerry Lucas. Jim Brown.
The ultimate was Ali. The Clay title fight from Miami Beach wasn’t even broadcast in Cleveland. Radio reported it only in intervals. They interrupted intermittently with updates—wire reports at each round’s end. When Liston didn’t answer the bell for round seven I rejoiced, but had no one to call. It was late—and a school night.
So we had our heroes. I even met a few.
When the PGA had the Cleveland Open at Highland Golf Course we hitchhiked down Green Road to sneak in. Palmer, Player, “Champagne Tony Lema”….. Adorning the perimeter of Sunday’s 18th green, wearing that nerdy madras hat, I made eye contact with all the pros as they doffed their caps and headed to the scorer’s tent.
But I’ve only known—truly known—one superstar.
And I caught him in the autumn of his years when sports (to him) were again just a game.
When what really mattered…mattered.
He would often talked sports, but rarely about his career.
He had clearly experienced much, seen it all, and knew there was more to life than the bounce of a ball.
His name was Ben Selzer and he was my father-in-law. He was also, in every sense of the word, the best sport I ever knew.
I met him in 1970, thirty-five plus years after the walk-on from New Jersey made All-America at Iowa. Laughingly he noted that back in those days of center jumps after each basket…they just didn’t give Jewish kids from the east coast scholarships. Not right away anyway.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
He used to stand at the concrete foul line of his driveway’s pavement and knock down the free throws….methodically….rhythmically, like he’d never left campus.
Oh, he’d talk about current sports—sometimes passionately. But it was no longer HIS passion. He loved it, but knew it for what it was—just a game.
I wish I had a dollar for every time he told me he hated the Celtics, or hated Bobby Knight, ….or that….Red Auerbach…”He’s a BUM.!!!”
But it just wasn’t his priority.
We’d sit in the den and watch—me on the couch and he in his “field box” on an ottoman, two feet in front of the set.
Sure I watched him scream when someone holed out to beat Greg Norman….and I laughed in the late 70’s when he’d cringe with each Yankee victory. He loved to watch, and did, but he knew— and his actions demonstrated that he understood that it really, really didn’t matter.
He knew then what I am only beginning to learn now.
He was quiet, unassuming, and (in his house for certain), clearly not the floor leader. He had had his day in the sun.
These were different times—a different game in a better conference.
And in a league where family mattered most, he was still a team player.
He never seemed to want details, but always wanted to just know that things were OK. If his people were fine, he was fine.
He had it down.
Even his heroes were in the family. In those first years of our relationship…when I wanted to hear about his exploits, when I wanted him to share about Nat Leibowitz, Auerbach, and the giants of his day, he demurred.
“Uncle Ernie,” he would tell me, “Knows everything there is to know about everything! He can do anything. The man’s a genius.”
OR
“Lil’s family….every one of them can cook!”
The man lived ten minutes from New York City, the greatest city in the world. Screw the bright lights. Been there; done that. He treasured the intangibles.
We used to sit at his dining room table playing pinochle—the three of us. We never once played for money but the conversation was rich, and never-ending. His wife would call from the bedroom, urging him to call it a night.
She knew better. His kid and her husband were in from Ohio. This wasn’t just a card game, Jeez…it was quality time.
He had it down.
And he knew right from wrong. He was the only man other than my father that with just one look could stop me in my tracks. Never once did he scold me, but often did I get a message.
Think Paul Warfield. Ben Selzer didn’t have to spike the ball in the endzone to score his points.
Yeah….he had it down.
In the mid-80’s, with young Michael in tow, we drove out west to revisit his beloved Iowa. Ben didn’t fly so we did the long trek across Interstate 80. I still laugh as I remember the final approach into town.
“Where’s the pool hall?” he remarked, noting that one of his favorite hangouts was no longer.
(It had been fifty years).
Pool halls come and pool halls go.
The all Americans never lose it.
We took a walk to Carver Arena, the current Hawkeye basketball home. We ambled down the steps to the court so that Grandfather and Grandson could have a little shoot-around.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It was 1935 again and hunched over, taking his set shots was Ben Selzer, All-American. More fell in than not.
A half century later…like he never left campus.
It was a magic moment for me, and maybe for him.
He was and is one of my heroes.
On and off the court he was always hitting nothing but net.
And I remember him, too, in living color.

Even in this millennium people tend to think of one’s biological clock as the barometer of available time to reasonably birth a child. Timekeeping however, is clearly a matter of perspective. This year, as my friends parade to 60, I am acutely aware that my own clock is ticking. Biologically, pathologically, methodically.
I’m not sure what the ending of a decade means. It may not even signify the loss of any unique opportunity; it may in fact identify GREATER opportunity. I just know that declaring I’m “…in my fifties…” will only be the truth for a few more months. That, as my father would say, “…Is not good for the Jews.”
Turning 20 was great. We were at Ohio State and it culminated what was to be (for many years) the best year of my life. Longert threw me a surprise party populated by a myriad of people. The cast of characters hasn’t changed much over the years, but only grown.
Walt, Wieder, Fenton, Snyder—all the OSU scholars….My brother and his freshmen pals were down there…and Linda had a bunch of new friends from Taylor Tower. I can’t quite remember if the ultimate mother of my children was there—we had met just two weeks earlier. But I do know that birthdays were fun then, and that age was a much anticipated rite of passage.
Even turning 30 was good. The world was my oyster. We were new parents
making new friends. Jerry Rubin was wrong; life was just beginning.
And then life happened. I gave myself a 40th birthday present—a bullet to the foot. Shot it there myself there in the late 80’s and continued to fire for nearly a decade….it was the “Gift that kept giving.”
Until I got sober.
Turning 50 was an evolution. Single again, I was faced with asking myself “Would I go out with someone in her fifties?” or (G/d forbid) ”Could I really go out with a grandmother?” (It never occurred to me to look in the mirror and that A) I was an unattractive heart attack-waiting-to-happen or B) The only thing thin on me was my wallet. A half century and still…reality and Bruce were just ships passing in the night.
Fact is, even if I had the money, I couldn’t buy a date. A friend, trying to be funny, gifted me with one of the then relatively new little blue pills. Like I had a use for it! Truth be known , by the time I found a date I lost the tab.
So here I am in 2009…teasing 60. They say it doesn’t matter, but it does.
The economy is in turmoil. If I haven’t achieved my security yet, can I ever? And if my ego isn’t ready for an AARP card now could I even consider a Golden Buckeye discount?
The hell with the economy—consider the social world. As the broadcast networks and tabloids focus on cougar women, can I? I’m going to be sixty f’–ing years old. A cougar to me would be someone…..77?
(Do I really want to go cruising at Montefiore?)
Satchell Paige, who first made Major League Baseball at 42, was fond of asking “How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?” That sounded good….sounded profound…. For him.
Problem is I know how old I am.

No one enjoys asking a random question more than me. I love to “fire for effect.” As such I perceived Dennis’s February question to me at Corky’s to be just a passing inquiry.
“Who would you hit,” he asked, “If you could have one free punch at anyone in the world?”
I thought long and hard before answering “No one.”
“I’ll bet you’ve never hit someone, have you?”
“No.”
He was in awe.
Brother Dennis is as loyal a friend as they come. Further, he has often offered to prove it.
A few years ago facts revealed that a purported friend of mine was intimate with my soon-to-be ex-girlfriend. Breakfast with Dennis went like this:
“Can I beat him up for you?”
“Don’t be an ass!”
“What’s wrong with you? The guy’s doing this to you…just let me beat the crap out of him!”
“C’mon. He’s a schmuck; let it go.”
“OK, but if it were me I’d handle it differently.
“It’s not.”
Fast forward a year and a half and while intellectually I know fighting is wrong, I’m beginning to think I may be in the minority.
Consider this: I have a friend of long standing that has over time abused not only our relationship, but has burned bridges all around him. Indeed, this writer may be the last man standing. Most of his peers have given up on him. (Editors note: my son says I put faith in the wrong people; he may be right.)
Last week I decided that enough was enough and opted to write him a note relating my disappointment and setting boundaries. My personal comfort level mandated the act; I did so reluctantly, but it was time.
The guy has been to my house for Seder; he has been a roommate; he has been almost family. But as we say, “Dayeinu!”
I read the letter to a sober friend before its release. And to another.
They both felt it was well-written and should be sent. One thought it was too soft.
He received the letter on Friday and called. Intentionally I let it slide to voice mail. His message concisely stated that I was wrong, and that I should call him. I wasn’t, so I didn’t.
Several hours later he found me sitting on the patio at a coffeehouse.
Signaling me from the parking lot, he asked if we could speak. Assenting, I got up and walked over to him.
“Bruce,” he whined, “After all the years I‘ve known you, I didn’t deserve the way you treated me.”
I was in no mood for the conversation; my play was opening in two hours and I preferred the respite of the iced tea and sun.
“__________, I don’t have time for this.” Turning to leave I used the exit line I learned from Terry:
“We’ll talk later.”
It was just two steps later that I heard the screaming: “You’re a son of a bitch, you X!!!Z!#*!”
AND THEN, FROM BEHIND, HE PUNCHED ME!
FULL FISTED. ON THE BACK OF MY SHOULDER. HARD!
I couldn’t believe it. I turned, stared, and stared, and then walked away.
The population on the patio stared.
One lady asked “Is he for real?”
“He’s sick,” I offered. “Can you believe that? The last time I got hit was when Alan Wieder hit me in the 8th grade at Hebrew School.”
He yelled some more and then fled in haste, leaving his sunglasses behind as a memento of his madness. A handful of women were having coffee so I hung around and laughed it off with them.
Soon it was time to put down the script. I left and did the show.
I killed!
Saturday morning my friend called to apologize. He was somewhat contrite, qualified his apology by reminding me that he still disagreed with my letter but that he was sorry for the incident at the coffeehouse. He asked what he could do to make it up to me.
“I know you’re angry, “he said. “Just tell me how I can make amends.”
“I’m not angry. You just need help.”
“No, I want to make amends….For me, tell me what I can do.”
My final response was immediate: Laughing, I said “Don’t hit me anymore.”
I shared the story with Dennis at Monday’s breakfast. He was incredulous.
“You still like the guy, don’t you?”
“I guess…he’s just a schmuck.”
Dennis looked at me with that “All for one— one for all” look.
Right out of “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”
“Can I hit him for you,” he begged…….PLEASE?”

MORAL OF THE STORY: THERE ARE NO SUCH THINGS AS RANDOM QUESTIONS.

There’s an old story about a guy whose home is threatened by flood. I don’t remember it exactly, but it went something like this:
A man’s home is at risk from flood. When a friend offers a raft the gent remains inside, going up to the second floor. The waters rise against the house and a neighbor shouts from outside the window that his friend should leap into a trampoline. The imperiled man demurs, fleeing to the attic. While looking out the attic window he sees a lifeboat go by, but again passes, waiting for the storm to subside.
It never does and the man drowns. Arriving at Heaven’s Gate he asked how G/d could have let him drown. God replied: “I sent you a friend, a trampoline and a lifeboat! What message didn’t you get?”
Recent events remind me of that story once again. Indeed there can be no coincidences. G/d continually puts people in my path.
Three years ago I lost 101 pounds battling food addiction. Then after achieving a new comfort level I took my eye off the ball. An unhealthy portion of my bad habit and weight has reemerged. I haven’t been happy with myself.
Two months ago I, OF ALL PEOPLE, stumbled onto Facebook and reconnected with an old director from community theater. He emailed me about an unforeseen opening in a show that frankly wasn’t what should have interested me. I wasn’t thinking about doing a show; I wasn’t looking to evaporate onto a stage for a month or two. The part wasn’t even something that was “Bruce/able.”
But I said yes. I know now that G/d knows why.
I joined an already assembled cast of (with one exception) strangers. A fish out of water…Although I’ve done some theater, I was never one of the too prevalent “wannabees” that actually think they have talent. I knew then as I know now that I was just a fat slob, comfortable in my own skin, and could get a laugh. No more, no less.
Still, there I was in Lake County with all these younger, talented people. Who in their right mind would have figured I’d be there? And then low and behold….I meet someone that I never would have met in the real world, and that has also traveled my road to recovery through the food program. (I didn’t know it at the time; we don’t wear badges).
COINCIDENTALLY (?), I mentioned to friend Bruce that I’d be missing a Tuesday AA meeting for a month of rehearsals; contemporaneously, I shared with him the names of some of the cast…..
COINCIDENTALLY, (?) Bruce knew my new actor friend from the food
program. (I hadn’t known this at the time, either).
Bruce made the connection. This opened the door to some incidental discussion between us.
For three weeks I continued to struggle with food. Nightly rehearsals teased 11 PM, and although I would hate myself each morning, each night I would reward myself with a midnight dinner. No flour; no sugar, but portions that would make a Jewish grandmother smile. I’d wake up nauseous, just like the “good old days.”
Finally, I suppose, I decided not to ignore the trampoline. The waters were climbing too high to ignore. I asked for help.
Last Thursday my actor friend graciously agreed to sponsor me as I surrendered once again to my food addiction. As we say at the poker tables, I’m “all in.”
I am to call him at 8:30 each morning, write down my food, etc….
I do surrender.
I will see the actor tonight—not at a rehearsal, but at a meeting.
I am smiling.
With the help of G/d and friends…maybe…one day at a time, I won’t get off-script.
No, Virginia, there are no coincidences.