It’s Okay, To Be Okay

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Clay Routledge dropping wisdom in “Stop Pathologizing Ordinary Life”.

Routledge starts with one of the more vexing conundrums of our times—Americans are focused on mental health more than ever before, and yet, our mental health appears to be getting worse.

His thesis:

“This broadening of what we think counts as a disorder — known as concept creep — encourages us to pathologize ordinary life and see ourselves as mentally unhealthy.

Then there’s our perception of how widespread mental illness is. By broadening what counts as a disorder, we begin to see it everywhere, including in ourselves.” 

Of course our pocket computers don’t help:

“. . . research suggests that people who rely on social media for information about mental illnesses tend to have less accurate knowledge about them.

But the problem isn’t just that many people give themselves incorrect diagnoses. It’s also that these misperceptions can put people on the path to developing poor mental health — a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy.” 

An example:

“. . . consider anxiety. A certain amount is useful; it helps keep us alert and motivated to reach our goals. But start viewing anxiety as a disorder and you can become hypervigilant about avoiding anxiety-provoking situations — which, in turn, can increase the risk of developing an actual anxiety disorder.”

Routledge wraps by suggesting specific fixes and then summarizes more generally:

“. . . we should . . . try to spend less time stuck in our heads and more time out in the world, pursuing the kinds of activities that support mental health without making us so obsessed with it.”

During and after the ‘rona, I began addressing my students’ mental health directly, in an effort to support them given their obvious struggles. I’d begin with the maxim, “It’s okay, to not be okay.” But I’d always add, fairly quickly, that “It’s also okay, to be okay.” Routledge would heartily endorse that message.

Trump’s Greatest Accomplishment

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It’s not redecorating the White House, demolishing the East Wing, turning the Washington Memorial pool American flag blue, or even building the Arch de Trump if that someday materializes. All of those deserve serious consideration though.

It’s shooting 70 in the Club Championship at Bedminister at age 80. For the uninitiated, very few golfers every shoot their age, maybe 1-2%. Let’s say you’re a 75 year old “stick” and catch fire on the greens at an easy and short local muni course and you shoot two over, 74. When I do that it will be free drinks for everyone.

To shoot 10 shots under your age is a staggering athletic accomplishment that in my book makes Trump the greatest President of all time, except for maybe Lincoln.

The most remarkable thing about his Championship winning performance is I’m sure he didn’t take any mulligans, never improved his lie, and putted everything out. How do I know? What has he ever lied about before?

The only logical move at this point is to resign the Presidency, join the Senior Tour, and whoop ass on the 50+ crowd. PLEASE.

How To Grieve?

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Trick question, of course, because there’s no right answer. The most common one is that there’s as many ways to grieve as there are people grieving. Because it’s imminently idiosyncratic.

Some turn to “talk therapy”. Others to nature. Others to literature about the impermanence of things. Others to Buddhism or Christian scriptures and prayer or meditation. Still others to varied combinations of those and other forms. What do you do?

Sporadically, waves of sadness born of layered losses hit me. Instrumental music, especially the soundtrack I created for Lynn’s final months, routinely melts my heart. As does cycling by my daughter’s cottage.

This morning, a friend said maybe I should try grieving more deliberately. What, like set a regular day and time aside for it? That’s crazy talk. Kidding of course. I liked the idea, and thought to myself, why not start today.

My go to, beyond music, are photos and videos of Lynn, almost all pre-MSA. Almost all the short videos are of her taking her glasses off and entering mountain lakes or the Salish Sea. Celebrating. Smiling. Absolute peak happiness.

While deliberately leaning in today, an epiphany of sorts. I wonder how Lynn’s legion of friends are dealing with their loss? I’ve been so overwhelmed by mine, I haven’t thought about theirs nearly enough.

Layer Me Baby

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The University of Chicago Law School for the win. It’s dean and new AI strategy more specifically which might be described as “both/and”. Becky Supiano explains in The Chronicle of Higher Education.

“Its policies are meant to ensure that students learn how to use AI responsibly and how to think without depending on it. As newer AI models prove adept at many forms of legal work, it aims to prioritize distinctly human contributions.”

No AI in first year courses. Then a combo of hybrid courses and AI-specific ones. All the following excerpts are from Supiano’s interview with the law school’s Dean, Adam Chilton.

“The emphasis that we have is: How do we teach students to think both without AI and with AI? That second part is important.”

Chicago Law’s smart approach to assessing the first year AI ban and their curriculum more generally.

“We’ll have to see how faculty and students feel about it and how the quality of discussion is.

Our goal is to be willing to re-evaluate everything that we’re doing more thoughtfully. The technology and the students’ uses of it — and also the way the legal practice is evolving — seems to be changing very fast.”

More points for a smart writing add-on.

“I’ve heard many people say essays and research papers are done, we can’t do them anymore. We added, for our substantial research projects, an oral-exam component. That helps to at least preserve the possibility of still having meaningful writing assignments, because the students know they’re going to have to defend it. The skill of defending your arguments through oral exchanges is a skill that everybody needs, but certainly lawyers.”

Enlightened thinking about AI integration.

“We’ve adopted what we’re calling a layered approach. We’ll have some assignments that you do entirely without AI — some in class, some out of class — and other assignments where explicitly you’re told to use AI. You know: Here’s an AI work product. Mark it up.

Even in that first year of law school, it’s true that when you’re sitting in your torts class, you won’t be allowed to have Claude up to ask it questions in real time, but you still have another class where that’s integrated directly into the curriculum.”

What about assessing the new curriculum more broadly?

“The feedback I’ve gotten from employers has been universally and overwhelmingly positive. Employers are thinking they want to hire people — and maybe they’re going to hire fewer people or people that they want to have different skills — and they want to make sure those people learned something. And so what the employer worries about is that they might hire someone who just took an assignment, pasted it into Harvey, edited it for 30 minutes, and then passed it off as their own. And the lawyer is thinking, If that’s all you’re able to do, what’s your value add over what our clients could already do themselves?”

If I was applying to law schools, and yes I probably should because the world surely needs another lawyer of my caliber, I would have the University of Chicago at the top of my list. Also because I could see my favorite sissy, who lives in NW Indiana, any weekend I wanted.

Do Better

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Normally, I’m pretty chill. Just don’t survey me, or drive into me in downtown Olympia, or call me Slip twenty plus years after one fall and hella athletic recovery on wet grass.

Oh and one more thing. If you’re going to build a lap pool make it 25 or 50 yards or even better 25 or 50 meters. Don’t make it slightly less than any of these four standards unless you want me to turn completely chilly.

Today I found myself at the Skamania Lodge in Stevenson, WA. First things first, check out the pool and fitness center. Decent pool, but looks a little short. Pace it off, 23 golf steps times 3 feet equals 69 feet. Let’s call it 70. FIVE FEET SHORT of the bare minimum! Code Red! Blood pressure check!

Trying to contain my rage, I double check with the attendant, a middle aged woman who has no idea who she’s dealing with. “Do you know how long the pool is?” I inquire. “Yeah,” looking at her desktop computer for help, “60 feet? 64 feet?” Looking more intently at her monitor, she says more confidently, “It’s 84 degrees.” Which, of course, is too warm, but I digress.

There should be a severe penalty for anyone involved with building short pools. No trial by jury. Just me issuing a final judgement. Something less than life in prison, but not by much.

Getting Our Ass Kicked

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By Canada. British Columbia more specifically. Victoria’s Dallas Road Waterfront Trail even more specifically.

That was my thought this morning walking back from my dentist’s office through downtown Olympia. Specifically, at this point on the Fifth Street Bridge.

Rando bushes, three feet tall, growing out of the sidewalk curb. Next to chipped paint. Maybe I’m overreacting. Or maybe it’s symbolic and I’m not.

If you want to know the financial condition of a college or university ask about one thing—deferred maintenance. Financially strapped private arts liberal colleges are patching roofs because they can’t afford to replace them. Look for buckets in libraries on the proverbial rainy days and you will likely find them. Dead give-away.

The sidewalk “greenery” is symbolic of not being able to keep up with maintenance of public spaces. Is it possible that Canada’s higher tax rates translate into superior social infrastructure which consists of places were people are prone to gather and make friends? Positive social infrastructure, of course, depends upon comfortable, accessible, clean, physical infrastructure like you see all over the Dallas Road Riverfront Trail. In the form of clean bright yellow chaise lounges, tables and benches, drinking fountains, ubiquitous trash cans, dog parks, and groovy public art.

Which all combine to make the shore of the Strait of Juan de Fuca a magnet for walking, running, cycling, socializing. Sunday morning I couldn’t get my AirPods to connect to my watch for some reason so I did that most scary of things, ran with my own thoughts swirling around in my peabrain. So many smiley people said “hello” wonderfully oblivious to my citizenship. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that they were so cheerful.

Dig this video, especially from 1:42-1:50 where you can catch a glimpse of the yellow chaise lounges, and at the very end, some public garbage cans. On parts of the trail, there are large numbered garbage cans every 50-100 meters. Numbered, I suspect, because someone is keeping close track of their status.

Olympia’s sidewalk bushes are not numbered. They may very well turn into trees before my fellow citizens realize, often, you get what you don’t pay for.

Four Months On

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Last weekend, I returned to Victoria, British Columbia in Canada. A lot has changed in a third of the year.

Literally, one week after my last sad sack solo visit to Victoria, I went on a dinner date with Lara in Olympia. A week before that date, right before my solo sojourn to Vic, I complained while on a Saturday run with the Inner Circle that it was really a crying shame that I couldn’t leverage my bofo blog readership to maybe find a winning match. You know, put out a call to PressingPausers near and far . . . Knucklehead writer in search of . . .

Why couldn’t I do that? Because my daughters, one who visits here at least semi-regularly, were already very upset me with for having gone on another date well before they ever anticipated that happening. One said she felt abandoned by me. And that I broke her heart.

That’s a huge burden to bear.

We have three family therapy sessions lined up during August. We will repair and restart. We still love one another and the alternative is way too tough to ponder.

Back to the Inner Circle and my mid-March Olympia dinner date. A few hours after whining on that SatRun, I got a text from one of my running bros, who said his partner had a single girlfriend, and they thought we might hit it off. They provided Lara with a link to the humble blog, and against all odds, she liked what she read. Something about me seeming smart and funny. Score.

However, Lara said she (also) thought it was too early for me to start dating. When she told her friend she thought I should wait a year, her friend told her I wouldn’t be single in a year. I dunno, because humble blogging is such an obvy aphrodisiac?

Long story short, they were right, we did hit it off. Bigly. So bigly, Lara didn’t hesitate when I invited her to visit one of my fave places with me.

And so this visit couldn’t have been more different than the last. One contributing factor was idyllic weather. Sunny, not hot, just exquisite. We cruised the coast on the hotel bikes Friday night and Saturday morn. Serendipitously, Vic’s major summer art festival was happening, 50,000 peeps, including us, descending on Moss Street. 20k steps later, we were whipped.

A serious foodie, Lara really took to my ace hole-in-the-wall restaurant, Foo Asian Street Food. It was fun to introduce her to that and my other favorite spots in and around Vic. And I’m happy to report she takes way less bathroom counter space than I do, inadvertently making me feel High Maintenance by comparison.

Saturday, she made sure I took a little time to lift little weights. Sunday morning I went for a run along the coast. Afterwards, while caffeine loading in our room, she insisted I watch some of The Open Championship which she didn’t know existed a week earlier. She read outside while I pretended to be at Royal Birkdale, in Southport, England. Heavenly.

However, it wasn’t as if the much more outdoorsy, active, fun, near perfect trip wasn’t without its crises. Foremost among them, we did not have time for a halibut burger. Even more sad, sometime this spring, the Courtyard Cafe stopped making fruit smoothies. To say I’m hurt they didn’t include me in the decision, is a huge understatement. Is it possible I am not the Hotel Grand Pacific VIP I think I am?

Moss Street front yard, first place.

Miles, or kilometers, of smiles.

Sam Miller For The Win

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Sam Miller, a comedian from my hometown, Olympia, WA, has lived a few lives. As a comic, he has a lot of momentum, performing before increasingly large crowds.

Speaking of momentum, no family ever sits still. Families are organic, every single one always with some degree of momentum, either positive or negative, based upon the adults’ collective decisions. Often, the momentum is barely perceptible. In Sam Miller’s family’s case, it’s plain as day.

Today, online, he wrote this. I’m guessing he pounded it out, not overthinking it. But lo’ and behold, it couldn’t be more profound.

“One time my dad picked me up and threw me off a dock into the cold waters of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. There was no warning. Before I realized what was happening, I was airborne. I hit that water, and even though I was a good swimmer, it was hard to peel my elbows from my side. I wanted to stay curled up in a ball but I also wanted to breathe and so I swam back to the dock. My dad’s hand came down and pulled me out. I don’t remember what time of year it was, but I just looked it up. Temperatures in the strait of Juan de Fuca hover between 41 and 54°.

He told me he did it because we spent a lot of time fishing the Straits. He wanted me to know what it would be like to fall off the boat or off the dock. That way I would know what that water felt like and I wouldn’t panic.

I thought I did something wrong. I thought he was angry. He told me he wasn’t. I believed him then. I don’t believe it now. I think he got angry and he lost control and he threw me off that dock because my dad was really bad at dealing with his emotions.

I bring this up because I just spent 8 days with my kids and my mom on a vacation/comedy tour. There were multiple moments where I became incredibly frustrated. There was a couple moments where I was just downright angry. I feel like I had really good reason to be angry a couple times.

I’m really proud to report that I did not yell or scream or pick anybody up and throw them.

I know it’s not true, but I used to think me and my family was cursed. My dad died when I was a kid. I don’t know too much about how he grew up because he didn’t talk about it that much but I know my grandma on my dad’s side had schizophrenia. When my dad and his brother were kids, she drove them to Long Beach, California from Salem, Oregon and just dropped them off in the middle of nowhere. My dad had to hitchhike back while taking care of his kid brother. Pretty sure my dad was 12 or 13 when that happened.

What I’m getting at is this…

I have such an opportunity today to do better and I’m so grateful that I have the tools to keep trying.

I’m a pretty good dad, I’m a pretty good husband, and I’m even a pretty good son now. It’s hard but it feels really good. There are times I wish I could throw people off docks.

but…

I don’t think I ever would. It’s not fair to them and it’s not fair to me. Whatever curse my family had, I’m going to try to keep doing the work to make it stop with me. I owe it to the people that I love and most of all I owe it to myself.”

“I’m going to try to keep doing the work to make it stop with me.” Amen, brother.

The Gerontocracy

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Why do constituents vote for such elderly incumbents? Full disclosure, I’m complicit and maybe I should reword the question to why did I recently vote for such elderly incumbents, Washington State’s current senators, Patty Murray and Maria Cantwell, 75 and 67 respectively?

Maybe the answer is there weren’t similarly appealing younger candidates from which to choose. Which, of course, begs the question, why not? Why aren’t young, socially conscious, vital candidates fairing better? Is it because a larger proportion of elderly people vote and they’re more likely to vote for their peers? I dunno.

But I do know it’s time for a constitutional amendment to add an upper age limit to the lower ones. I propose Congressional and Presidential candidates must be under age 70. The likelihood of that getting approved anytime soon is about the same as the U.S. Men’s National Team winning the 2030 World Cup.