You Mind Me Now, Boy

You know it’s the 21st century when your therapist is recommending a smartphone app to you as a logical extension of your work together.

It’s a series of recordings by a specialist in Mindfulness Meditation, meant to serve as a guide for me as I enter the meditative process. Now, before you picture me disrobing to nothing more than my shanti-om, just try to get a hold of yourself. It’s not like that. At least, I don’t think it’s like that. At least, it’s not going to be like that for me.

Mindfulness Meditation essentially just involves one sitting, focusing on one’s breath, and being mindful of noises, feelings, emotions, judgments, ideas, sensations. Not focusing on them, or ruminating on them, but acknowledging their presence, being mindful of them, and moving on.

This process has been suggested for me because of my definite inability to accept or tolerate or acknowledge… pretty much anything I do, or anyone else does, without passing swift and severe judgment. I rarely permit myself to have an opinion or a feeling or a thought without evaluating it. I can barely have a casual conversation with a friend or a coworker without delving into harsh analysis and, typically, body-slamming myself with a fierce critique of how I “performed” or what I said or what I was thinking.

I mentioned this to my therapist last week. He remarked that I seemed “quiet” during that session.

“Well,” I said, “I’m sitting here and I’m getting very frustrated with myself because I am not making the progress that I think I ought to be making (that was session 5, by the way). I feel like I’m not giving you enough of what you need for you to do your job—I feel like I should be having greater insights about my personality or about the way in which my mind works. I feel like what I say is couched in a genteel, overeducated rhetoric that retards my ability to talk about feelings. I feel like I’m not being forthcoming with information with you, like I am not progressing how I ought to be progressing because of some innate inability to truly articulate what I’m thinking or feeling, if I’m feeling anything at all. I feel like I’m not giving you the goods. I feel like I’m sitting here, judging everything I’m saying, evaluating everything I’m not saying, gauging every silence that sits between us and wondering what it means, for my progress, for my status, for my potential. That’s why I’m maybe being quiet today.”

Haha. He thought I was being quiet.

“Wow,” he said, his expertly-manicured eyebrows lilted in surprise, “that… that sounds… torturous.”

“Well,” I mitigated, “it’s frustrating.”

Not really, though. It’s torturous. I have a frightening inability to turn off that part of me, to squelch the white noise constantly emanating from that judging mind. And I suppose that this is where Mindfulness Meditation comes in—its aim, I think, is not to silence that part of my mind that casts judgment to and fro liberally and efficiently, but to make me mindful of what is going on in my mind throughout the day, and to perhaps accept that this is what I do—this is my judging mind, and it’s okay. There are birds chirping incessantly outside my window while I’m trying to mindfully meditate, and, instead of throwing up my hands in disgust and resignation and saying, “Fuck this, I can’t do this!” to acknowledge that the birds are out there, doing their birdie thing, and to allow my mind to wander to them, to not fight that, to let it happen and, when I’m ready, to bring myself back to my breath, back to whatever is to be through of next.

And that this, too, will be okay.

It’s a funny thing, working to change a part of your personality that may very well be a larger part of your personality than you ever believed it was. Part of me isn’t even sure I want to stop judging—the world, and myself—because it’s so ingrained, it’s just… what I do. It’s kind of my thing. Has it benefitted me? No, I don’t suppose it has. Has it detracted from pleasures I may have, at one point or another, experienced in my life up to this point? It’s distinctly possible that it has. And yet, I’m still a little scared to let go. And, as I read this paragraph, I realize that I’m talking like an addict. And I suppose, somehow, some way, we are all pretty addicted to our behaviors and our personalities, because they’re what we know—they’re as much of a friend to us as Captain Morgan or a line of coke. Not necessarily a good friend, but a friend nonetheless. And I hold onto friends pretty tightly, whether it makes sense or not.

I guess, in the end, either I’ll change or I won’t. In the meantime, I’ve got an app to download.

I'll Take That as a Condiment

I was judged last night.

I know, you have every right to be blanched, facially speaking. I was, too, aghast and/or agog. What will no doubt stun you into a shocked silence is the additional fact that the source of this judging was none other than... (dun dun DUN...) my wife.

Yes, it's true, darling. Now, close your mouth before a reindeer poops into it. There's a good girl.

It is surprising, I acknowledge, to learn that even the stalwart Mrs. Apron has unfortunate tendencies that range from the sporadic flatulence to the felonious-equivalent of judging her husband, which I'm pretty sure she swore before a judge and jury at our wedding that she would not do.

"I will obey him with Christ-like reverence until such time as he sees fit to either reveal himself as fallible or ascend to Heaven at the wheel of a chassis-off-frame restored 1963 Volkswagen Beetle."

At least, I think that's what she said. It's been four years, you know. Who can remember all that shit? That's why I, in my infinite wisdom, invented the blogosphere.

In any event, in order to faithfully recreate the circumstances in which I was judged by my wife, I need to take you back a couple of weeks. My wife was invited to participate in a girl's night out, in celebration of a local female blogger who recently began a blog about the charming foibles of raising a child. It was an evening of estrogen-laden jollity, no doubt, featuring said blogger, her mother, grandmother, friends, and readers of her blog. They all met at a restaurant that opened recently several towns away and the gimmick of this particular haunt is that everything is centered around peanut butter-- peanut butter sandwiches with or without bacon, or avocado or what-have-you, peanut-butter-centered desserts, and, well, straight-up peanut butter-- in Bell jars. Homestyle, crunchy, smooth, or hazelnut.

Come and get it, while the peanuts are still fresh and the novelty's still quaint.

This event was not without its attendant embedded social awkwardness, however, for my wife, the venue was nothing short of perfect. She is of the opinion that people who have severe peanut allergies ruin the fun for everybody else and, thus, ought to be sterilized. And you thought I was crazy!

So, Mrs. Apron went to this shindig and returned with a glass jar filled with "Homestyle" peanut butter-- which is just that. No sugar. No partially-hydrogenated horseshit. Now, I don't like peanut butter-- I never have. Back in elementary school, when most of my peers were bringing peanut butter and/or jelly sandwiches on white bread for lunch, I was packing corned beef, high-end mustard, deli swiss on a challah roll. Why didn't I have friends again? Oh, and they called me "Paul Pfeiffer."

"I know you're annoying and you hate everything, but, seriously, you've got to try this shit," my wife said, in the enticing language I prefer best.

And I did. And it was awesomesauce.

It was so devine, in fact, that the very next weekend, I drove us out to this silly little place, with its peanut-shaped tables, and bought another jar to replenish our supply.

Last night, my wife and I were sschnuggled up on the couch together after a lovely, non-breastmilk-related engorgement of Indian food, I turned to Mrs. Apron and said, "You want something sweet, don't you?"

"Peanut butter bar, please," she said, referring to a homemade creation of ours. I returned with a bar for her and a jar for me. After I had inserted the fourth heaping spoonful of Homestyle peanut butter into my mouth, she turned to me and said,

"You are absolutely disgusting, do you know that?"

"Momndfpf?" I replied.

"That, sir, is a condiment-- meant to be used with something, like an apple, or Oreos, or celery. I looked at her, and reinserted my spoon into the jar, being sure to scoop some of the peanut schnork off the beveled sides of the jar.

"It's a condiment, like ketchup, or mustard, salad dressing, mayonnaise, or relish."

"So," I said, holding the spoon up to my mouth, "you're equating this practice with tipping my head back and spraying a heaping blork of Ranch dressing to my mouth?"

"Yes. I am," Mrs. Apron said.

As I relieved the spoon of any trace of peanut butter, I said, "Feeefaabmogcomminon."

Which, in non-peanut-butter-speak translates to, "I feel a blog coming on."