Blight Sox: Embarrassment to baseball, sports, and now all humanity
Ozzie Guillen, the biggest jerk in sports, has now tossed out a
homophobic slur at a reporter because he didn't like what the reporter wrote.
The article contains a nice run-down of Ozzie's recent thuggish, ignorant, classless, and Sox-like behavior.
Quality of Life
Updates have been as rare as rain of late, and surprisingly it’s not entirely due to laziness.
I could parcel out spoonfuls of blame to Mrs. Frogurt, toddler Frogurt, my soul-crushing job, and my epic to-do list, …but most of the cause is a lack of inspiration.
Sure, the Brewers are bailing just enough water to stay afloat and the Packers new tradition of mismanagement continues to show signs of a slow-motion disaster that will hit rock bottom somewhere around October with sniping and back-biting and Kurt Schottenheimer idiocy and a coach with no control over the players and an offense with one receiver, no #1 RB, and a patchwork offensive line for the second straight year, …but none of that really needs pointing out.
Intellectually, I feel like I’m going nowhere and have nothing to say. And I don’t know if that’s caused by domestication or old age or lack of beer, …but I’m certain that something is happening and I intend to stop it.
As friends of frogurt already know, I can be a bit odd sometimes, and it’s due to
this.
My case is mild. And while it can overtake me at times, I know that I’m capable of overpowering it enough to get by. Unfortunately, I cannot overpower it enough to be considered “socialable” for any meaningful length of time.
I went out with some friends recently and I just felt stuck, like I was horribly bogged down in mud. Ahead of me was pain and panic and behind me was retreat. Not wanting either, I just stayed put and wrestled with it, never able to get the upper hand. It was like arm-wrestling with someone stronger than you and not being able to bend their wrist. All you can do is push and push and hope to keep your arm off the table.
I’ve decided to combat this by engaging in better mental preparation prior to my next social excursion, and by making my forays into the outside world more frequent. By doing this I hope to expand my comfort zone again, so that I’m able to enjoy myself and not stress out or puzzle my friends.
I got an early test last week.
Mrs. Frogurt got a job recently working for a Japanese doctor in the area. The doctor and his lawyer wife decided to welcome my wife to the medical office by taking us out for dinner and a night at the symphony.
When she told me about this dinner date, I went into a cycle of depression for a week. My mind kept repeating “I don’t want to go I don’t want to go I don’t want to go”. I felt sick, and worse yet, I felt worried that I would feel sick on the night in question. And that made me feel sick. I stressed about the food, the conversation, the drinks, and most of all, the symphony.
Over the week, I slowly corralled all the stray horses of anxiety in my head. I reminded myself of all of the trickier and more stressful situations I’ve been in and survived, …and even prospered.
By the time the night came, the nerves were of the very normal “butterfly” variety, and not the usual equine stampede.
And I did well. We talked, ate, laughed, compared parenthood stories, and most of all, …no awkward moments (a rarity for me).
About an hour into the dinner, it all hit me. My heart beat disappeared, my hearing dimmed, the room went out of focus, and all I could taste was cold, sweaty, panic. I felt like a weak, pale, nauseous shell.
Before the panic really soaked in, I had to stop it. So, I said something, I don’t even remember what, something normal. Something that our dinner companions would respond to, like “how often do you take in the symphony?” They spoke and I just focused on their words. Complete focus. I wrapped my entire mind around the letters and words and sentences, and followed them like a life line. I let no other thoughts in.
And just as the panic began to fade, I grabbed my beer and took a long pull as if to say, “take that, bitch!”
And it was gone. And my chest was warm. And though the panic had wounded me (I had lost my appetite and worried that more food might upset my stomach causing another round of panic), I held it at bay for the rest of the dinner.
Symphony time came and we moved on to our seats in the center of the second row. Whenever I go anywhere, I always have to sit on the aisle so it’s easy for me to escape if need be. But I didn’t stress out about it. I found a
hot first-chair violinist and sat back to enjoy the show.
My bladder got quite a workout while waiting for the intermission, but I survived. And guess who I bumped into while leaving the bar where we shared an after-performance drink?
Yep. Oh to be single again.
Dinners and shows and evenings out are supposed to be relaxing and fun, …but this is what they do me. I guess it’s no wonder why I often opt to stay in. But retreat is a self-fulfilling thing.
So, you’ll all see me a little more often while I try to get that part of my life back.
Oh, and
this was the article that got me thinking about all this in the first place.
