A DAY IN THE LIFE... A LIFE IN A DAY...

TACTICAL

I sit down often to make an entry in my journal, only to find myself struggling to piece together enough of an observation of life to write down.  This is not due to anything relating to my condition or anything that relating to my present state of being.  Most of the things that made up the fodder when I first started journaling no longer matters to me, as they scarcely occupy the furthest reaches of my thoughts.  For instance, in the past I would reassure readers that moving to Omaha was not based on the hopes for a relationship, and here it is, I find myself not only alone but without much to claim as a relationship with the person that I may have been moving here for.

A few days ago I fell while riding my bike to work.  It was a minor incident, as a hidden pothole made itself known suddenly, causing me to lose some control and crash into a low curbside and lose my balance in a slow sprawl over my handlebars.  One of the “hangers abouters” that frequent the area of Park Avenue and Dodge Street did ask if I was okay.  I reassured him that I was, and the only real damage that was sustained was by Madison, who lost a (since repaired) rear spoke.  Later, when I got done with work and readied for bed, I saw a couple of scratches and bruising on my left thigh.  In fact, the most notable part of the entire experience was not that it happened but that the FREQUENCY of such an event has decreased to where the significance of “losing my balance” has not been a cause for increased (though any such happening is always going to be noticeable to me)  concern.

When I envisioned myself being on my own, I always did so thinking about how I would fare being self-supporting, disabled cat.  Even my best hopes for me and Nebraska always had “the bell ringing” and the both of us being able to return back to our respective homes, with full and rich lives outside of our relationship.  To be honest, I took it as a positive coincidence that I was assigned residence where I currently live, as it is centrally located, when I account for my interests and objectives, and I have found it to be comfortable for me.  Living where I do has allowed me to feel secure, and most importantly, completely independent.  Though I have not encountered any real “DefCon 4” level situations since I have been in Omaha ( and really, who among us regularly deal with things of such a critical nature that frequently anywho? man, I would pity the fool that does.!!), I do feel that I could manage for a few months if necessary, to say nothing about recovery in the moment, should something unforeseen occur.

WHY WOULD I WANT TO CHANGE..?

Out enjoying a rare “Chocolate Thunder From Down Under” and some Aussie Cheese Fries at a local Outback Steakhouse, I think that I got hit on by a transgender person!  Anyone familiar with the restaurant knows that it has a “clean” look, meaning that you can easily see anyone from any seat in the restaurant.  The bar area is usually open seating, directly behind the hostess stand which is the right in front of the entrance.  When the hostess greeted me, I indicated that I was going to simply sit in the bar and she kindly smiled and waved me through.

As I took my seat in a booth, someone in the restaurant had notice me and began to make their way to where I was seated.  I don’t recall the order of salutations as instantly my “perimeter defence” sounded an alert.  While I have come to expect the occasion forward approach from a woman, there was something in level of observation just below consciousness that kept me from being fully engaged causally with my new guest.

After I invited her to sit down (because the exchange she initiated seemed to lead to that), I could not stop conducting surveillance of her.  She was tall, six feet or so, slender with no curves and from what I could tell, a pair of 34D’s for her breasts.  I thought that the dye job in her hair, some reddish-magenta and platinum blond, was not only bad, but oddly ostentatious.  But what convinced me that there was a higher probability that “all was not as it appears”, was the make-up job that she wore.  The “fail” could have been due to the heat, as it has been muggy and warm in the Midlands.  But there was something that said, “Mark, this isn’t a ‘muggy day-runny make-up’ job… this is just a BAD make up job.  The kind of make-up that a teenager whose “Mom-just-gave-her-a-tutorial-and-let-her-do-her-own-face-for-the-first-time” kind of job.  So that served as the first confirmation that something was up.

We made conversation.  She talked about keeping fit, and her long sinewy arms were testament to her attention to her conditioning.  While my physique is testament to how important working out is to me, I did have her note that my diet was pretty bad, as evidence by my decadent dessert-appetizer combo.  As the conversation continued, I continue to reconnoiter, trying to see if I could detect a verifiable “tell”, like an Adam’s Apple (which can be surgically removed), or spot hair follicles that would indicate where hair growth might have been present under her chin and nose.

As her presence stretched from an impromptu visit to now an imposition into overstaying in my comfort zone, had begun to make my inner self (after all, you did see that I came here alone, right?  That wasn’t by mistake… I came here to be LEFT ALONE) ready to take action. Instead, motioned to her companions, and wondered to her if they were ready to leave.  My guest glanced over her shoulder, and for a moment considered something (was it a reveal?  A possible “get-it-on” date set in motion?), and with resignation, she admitted that she should get back to her friends and said it was a pleasure to have met me.  Neither of us asked for any contact information, and she shook my hand as she excused herself.  I watched as her friends got up and met her in the dining room, and waved at her as they left the restaurant.  And this is one of the great things about Omaha… I did not feel like anyone was staring or thought anything was out of sorts from the sight of what may have been a white, “maybe tranny” trying to pick up a muscle-bound black cat!

The point of this story was to show how the precepts and rules that I have for making my way through the social sphere of life works. All of my mistakes, or nearly all of them, have been made when I have consciously blew through the warning signs of my unconscious mind.  I have never had reason not to trust myself, as I never overstate my abilities or expectations, and my thinking and philosophy, “The Eclectic Method”, accounts for both the known and unknown variables I may encounter (illustrated by the episode mentioned above) from day-to-day.

A concern of mine since I was diagnosed with a brain injury has been the misunderstanding of what it actually means and entails for me.  The story about the NFL player and his wife dealing with his post-career injury that I sampled for an entry, was an example of what I won’t ever have with someone… that they “knew” me and would be able to be empathetic and understanding of my being.  That… that seems unlikely to happen for me.  But I don’t mind, I don’t mind (shoplifters of the world, unite and take over..!)