Stacey blogged about coffee. A bad night’s sleep, she wrote, and then straight to the coffee pot. We met on WordPress when I was addicted, each of us describing the pull of the brew. An elixir, she calls it. By definition, elixirs are magical or medicinal. For me, coffee is both. Was.
I commented on her post: I’m still straight to the coffee pot in the morning even though there’s no caffeine, just like I’m straight to a hazy IPA after I run even though there’s no alcohol. Don’t get me started on dairy-free Ben and Jerry’s. Gasp, I’m living a lie.
My therapist, when I saw a therapist, told me that my desire to hone an identity disrupted my holistic self. My need to define myself by narrow categories, she said—alternating between a runner, a cyclist, a drinker, a writer, a caffeine addict, et cetera—didn’t allow me to be a whole person. She told me to knock it off. I’ve worked on that ever since.
I quite caffeine six months ago. Alcohol eight years ago. Pot when I met Susan (so long ago we still called it pot). I’m out of vices, straight-edge forty years too late. Well, there’s still meat, because when I went vegetarian, my iron levels crashed, and I lived my life dizzily. My doctor prescribed Burger King as a remedy.
Yesterday, I bought a pair of bike gloves—those sleek, nylon gloves with shorn fingers and padded palms. I threw away my last pair in 1994. In the first weeks of my four-month bicycle ride across America, I noticed that my gloves gave my hands an unsightly tan line. On an impulse, I ditched my gloves. I’ve prided myself for riding glove-free for thirty years. I judged myself minimalist. Sure, I still wore a helmet, cycling shorts and cleated shoes, but gloves were an unnecessary luxury. During that period, I made plenty of derogatory comments about ‘wusses’ and their silly bike gloves. Another identity, a cyclist too cool and too tough for gloves.
A year ago, I had surgery to correct carpal tunnel syndrome. For a year before that, my thumb, from its tip to the center of my hand, was numb. When I say numb, I mean the numbness sat below a layer of skin. The skin itself was hypersensitive, every poke or prod hurt. The surgery went smoothly but the numbness never went away.
As they always do, the surgeon recommended physical therapy. The therapist demanded that I stop doing any activity that put pressure on my hand—cycling, yoga and weightlifting. I asked her for how long, and she said three or four months, then we could reassess. This was on top of the two-month break I already took post-surgery. I quit physical therapy, and I’ve lived with a numb hand ever since.
My friend Tom, an orthopedic surgeon and an avid cyclist, suggested bike gloves would help. He said I should minimize the pressure on the heal of my hand. I immediately dismissed this idea as ridiculous. No way was I becoming one of those people. But I have, or I will. For the past few weeks, the numbness has worsened. It seems to be spreading to my index finger. The first time I’ll wear my new gloves is in a spin class tonight. People in spin class don’t wear bike gloves. I’m going to feel like an idiot. I will be judged. I’ll judge myself. I want to wear a sign on my back that reads Hand Injury, MYOFB. Another identity shattered. But does it even matter?
My therapist got her wish. I no longer have defining traits to boast, identities I want to embrace. For better or worse, all those things I thought made me special seem to have disappeared. Or more likely, I no longer see them as identifiers. Yes, I still run, and cycle, and write. I’ve added yoga into the mix. I’m a nondrinker and caffeine free. These are all identities I could latch onto, but I no longer feel the need to do that anymore.
In the final scene of the movie Goodfellas, the main character Henry Hill delivers a monologue. He talks about his tumble from being an a-list New York City gangster to an everyday middle-class Joe in witness protection. He sums it up like this:
Today, everything is different. There’s no action. I have to wait around like everyone else. Can’t even get decent food. Right after I got here, I ordered some spaghetti with marinara sauce, and I got egg noodles and ketchup. I’m an average nobody. I get to live the rest of my life like a schnook.
Me too, Henry, me too. Schnook is the destination I’ve been aiming towards for years. I think I’ve arrived.
Photo by Munbaik Cycling Clothing on pexels.com
The Other Stuff 
Goodfellas! … another one of my fave movies (there’s just so many). btw, gloves are cool– all kinds of them 🙂 . P.S. i’m blogging again
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No one commented, and I actually sort of appreciated how my hands weren’t so wet on my handlebars. I’m going to own the gloves.
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I enjoy your writing! I giggled and nodded. Hmm. Made me think about my identity. Schmook? I can’t remember the last sentence so I can identify as someone with a bad memory right now. Wow to the bike across America! Way to go! Boo to no coffee (seriously, good for you~ but just how did you accomplish that?!?…I can’t imagine…). Gloves are always cool~ tell anyone judging that “all the cool kids wear ’em!” Sorry about that numbness….ugh!!
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I have tourette syndrome. When I went off my medicine, my tics (sounds and movements) went nuts. I had to cut out caffeine for some peace. As it turns out, I wasn’t really hard at all, and I don’t miss it much. The hardest part is when I want a cola. It’s really hard to find caffeine free cola at restaurants and gas stations. I’m glad you liked my piece.
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I can’t imagine, Jeff, having Tourette syndrome. Way to go for all you’re doing. I have been off of caffeine before after surgery~ I bet I could do it too if I put my mind to it! My mantra~ “I can do hard things!” lol
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I love how you moved in this one, Jeff, and laughed out loud at this line: “I’ll judge myself.” (. . .having just arrived at my reading-glasses era, I find myself squinting at my phone if I am without them, and when my daughter suggests, “Why don’t you just make the font bigger?” I am swift to reply, “Oh, no! I couldn’t!” having laughed too hard (lovingly) at my dad’s readable-across-the-room texts. I am also laughing at the Henry monologue. What a gem. I continue to be amazed at your cold-turkey decaf self. Cheering!
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Thanks Stacey. I love it when a comment I make prompts a post, so thank you for providing the inspiration. Hearing aids at 53 was a tough nut to swallow. Aging milestones since then have been easier by comparison.
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there’s Identify
and there is Character too
then there’s Mister C
🧤 👍
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😊
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Hmm, I think that I would have driven your former therapist crazy. I think that my “narrow categories,” such as an old broad, writer, sister, aunt, and schnook, are what creates the whole me—what fully defines me. It is all of them—not just one thing. Or maybe that is what your therapist meant. Oh well, I may be crazy. Great post!
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Yes, that’s exactly what my therapist meant. Stop trying to define myself and just be who I am, which I’ve happily defined as Schnook. And yes, at this point, old dude is also one of my categories.
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I guess there’s a freedom in schnookdom. There’s liberation in being undefined. Just being. I guess that should be enough.
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You seem disappointed and unconvinced.
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Your post arrived at a time when I’m struggling with formulating an identity as a “retired” person. On the one hand, I think my most productive years as a ——(what?) lie ahead. On the other hand, I think, why don’t I just try to enjoying “being,” without having to “be” anything in particular? I worry that by the time I get the ——(what?) figured out, it will be too late and my life will be over. I worry that just “being” will turn out to have been a trick, and there I’ll be. I worry. That, apparently, is my main job.
Your post had a dramatic effect on me. That means that it is good, insightful writing.
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I understand this. I often think about what I’ll do with myself after I retire. But you’re about 60, right? You still have 20 or 30 years ahead of you. In that time, you’ll probably “be” 3 or 4 more things. I have no experience with this, but my guess is the best way to move forward is to just start ‘doing’. And please leave the TV off. That seems to be the biggest trap of retirement. Retirement is something I yearn for and fear. I think that’s normal.
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I hope you’re right about the 20 to 30 years. I have no reason to think you are wrong. I have so many things I want to accomplish. And you’re right about the TV. And about retirement being scary–but so appealing at same time.
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Sorry about the hand situation, I hope that improves. As I get older, I care less and less about what people think of me. I’ve been taking the dogs for walks around the block in my pajamas with crazy bed head. It’s freeing and makes me laugh when I do it. I am about to retire and am curious to see how life and my identity evolves.
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Retire? Aren’t you like 42 y.o.? I’m *almost* ready to start working on my hand again. It seems to be getting worse even with the gloves. Really painful after a run the other day… go figure.
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Ha! I wish. I just turned 59 this month. No time for work. Lol. I actually may work part time, but not sure what that means. Gloves have helped me in the past when I’ve used em. I haven’t biked much this summer. The river has been calling my name more this year.
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