A Beautiful Set of Clavicles

Lately I've started to notice and appreciate the beauty of my left clavicle. How smooth and strong it is, lying just under the skin, curving ever so slightly from my neck up to the bony pinnacle on top of my shoulder. That bony knob is the focal point of the shoulder, the bow on top of the gift. How could I have gone 37 years without ever taking notice of what a beautiful shoulder I have?

Because it's always been thus, and so I never thought to appreciate it. Like hundreds of other parts of my body that have worked perfectly my entire life, I took it for granted.

That is, until I broke my right clavicle. Now when I look at my right shoulder in the mirror, I see deformity. The bone just under my neck, extending from my sternum to the middle of my shoulder, bulges out. On the top end of this bulge is the little nubbin where the broken part of the clavicle sticks up. The rest of the clavicle, the part that broke off, is hidden under the skin. So is the bony knob that's supposed to be the focal point of my right shoulder. The droopy shoulder no longer draws attention to it. Also, the muscles and tendons on the right side of my neck seem to flex and stick out more to compensate for the odd shape of the bone.

It's probably not nearly as noticeable or ugly as I describe here. I notice it because of the hours I've spent in front of the mirror comparing my two shoulders. I keep looking for signs that the broken clavicle is moving back to its original position.

Although I don't have a copy of my x-ray, this one I found on the web resembles my own. You can see how the two parts of the bone no longer even touch each other. What I don't understand from this is how it's supposed to heal in two pieces like that.

The moment that I broke it, exactly four weeks ago, I knew something was seriously wrong. Something in my shoulder felt out of place. I thought it was dislocated. What I've come to realize, though, is that I wasn't reacting to a dislocation, but relocation. My clavicle is permanently repositioned. Healing does not mean it will look like it did before, but that all the bones and muscles learn how to live in their new positions. And I learn how to live with a deformed shoulder.

Since my accident I've talked to a lot of people who have broken a clavicle at some point in their lives. I'm actually surprised at how common it is. They talk about the little bump on their shoulder that goes unnoticed unless they point it out to others. They live a perfectly normal life that doesn't involve hiding in the bell tower of Notre Dame.

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It's actually feeling much better. Every day I have more range of motion and can lift heavier things with less pain. There have even been times when I've forgotten about my fracture, and I move in a way it doesn't like. It's always there to remind me, though, with a sharp stabbing pain.

Yesterday I helped a friend move into her new house. Being the friend who helps people move, it killed me that I wasn't able to help with any of the heavy lifting. But I was able to carry anything that would fit into my left hand, including a set of cinder blocks. So I made myself useful and had fun.

This was the first week of the new semester, so work was crazy. On Monday I wore my sling so people would know to handle me with care. There was a big Welcome Back breakfast and speech by the college president, so the entire college staff was in one place. I saw a lot of people I hadn't seen all summer. After explaining what had happened to my "arm" 10 times, I was tired of it and was re-thinking my whole "sling strategy."

A few days later I forgot to put my sling on as I rushed out the door in the morning. When people saw me without my sling, they mentioned that I was back to normal. No, I just forgot to wear my sling. My collar bone is still just as broken as it was yesterday. It's like a magic trick with kids: put on the sling: I have a broken clavicle. Take it off: I'm healed!

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I was watching How I Met Your Mother the other day and there was a scene where Neil Patrick Harris is naked in a bathroom.

There is lots of reasons for someone like me to envy Neil. He's attractive, famous, rich, charming, funny, and has a nice body.

But when I saw this picture of him, what I thought was, "Goddam, look at that beautiful set of clavicles!"

Six Degrees of Snark

Main Characters:

GF1: My first girlfriend (dated for two years from 23-25)
GF2: My second girlfriend (dated for two years from 26-28)
GF3: My third girlfriend (dated for 8 months, 31)
SnarkEx: My ex-wife (dated and married, 32-36)
AG: My fifth girlfriend (dated for 4 months, 37)

Supporting Characters:

J: Friend of mine who worked with SnarkEx
CL: Librarian that I worked with in library school
DD: SnarkEx's boyfriend before she met me

February, 2008: GF3 sends an email to SnarkEx. The two have never met. Someone at the college employment office had recommended that GF3 talk to SnarkEx because she is interested in a similar career path. GF3 visits SnarkEx in her office for an hour and gets career advice. Neither one ever acknowledges the fact that they have shared the same guy (me.)

March, 2008: SnarkEx leaves me and I start hanging out with J, a guy I met through SnarkEx's office parties. Previous to working in the same office as SnarkEx, he was a grad student. In the same department as GF3. His desk was right next to hers.

Last Monday: I plan a trip to my old college town to visit a friend. While I'm there, I plan to have brunch with GF2. I have to cancel because I'm worried about my clavicle.

Last Friday, 3:00 pm: I meet up with GF1, who is visiting my town for an orientation at the library school. She's already a librarian, but she's planning to take some classes and get a teacher certification. Since she's never seen the campus, I offer to give her a tour. When we meet up, she tells me that she thinks she saw SnarkEx at the orientation. She recognizes her name tag and her face from our wedding website. Oh, right, SnarkEx just quit her job to go back to library school. They don't talk-- SnarkEx would have no way of knowing who GF1 was.

Last Friday, 3:30 pm: I take GF1 on a tour of the college library. We're about to leave, but it starts raining. In order to avoid walking in the rain, I give her a more extensive tour and we go to the old department where I used to work. I visit with two people I used to work with. I haven't seen them in several years. So I introduce GF1, someone I haven't seen in 9 years, to CL, someone I haven't seen in 2 years. When I worked with her, I had a vibe that CL had a thing for me, but I never pursued it, because she reminded me a little too much of GF2 (my crazy German ex.)

Last Friday, 3:40 pm: Our tour over, GF1 and I are ready to exit the library. As we're walking down the hall, a door opens and out comes...AG! Oh, shit! I totally forgot that she works in the library. In the office that we were walking past! I have not seen her since we broke up, almost two months ago. I've made two attemps at contact and she's ignored both. She clearly doesn't want to see me. Trying to avoid an awkward moment, I duck into the men's room. I think that AG will just walk down the hall and then I can come out, but instead she stands there and has a conversation on her cell. Right in front of GF1, who has no idea why I'm hiding behind the door of the men's room.

Last Friday, 3:41 pm: Okay, this is not going to work, so I bite the bullet and come out of the men's room. I walk briskly by AG and motion for GF1 to follow me. From a distance I wave to AG, determined to be mature about this. She avoids looking at me. Finally, she looks up and gives me a halfhearted wave.

Last Friday, 3:42 pm: GF1 and I go down the stairs and I have to explain to her, in hushed tones, what the hell just happened. What did just happen? I ran into my last ex-girlfriend while hanging out with my first ex-girlfriend, who had just spent the day around my ex-wife. What a crazy nostalgic mindfuck.

Last Friday, 3:45 pm: GF1 and I enter another building on campus. We walk past another face I recognize: DD, the guy SnarkEx dated before me. Not really as remarkable as all the other stuff, but on top of everything else it was a nice little aftershock.

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Writing this has made me realize how many exes I have. Over the past 14 years I have spent 8.5 years in relationships with 5 women. For a short nervous geeky guy who at one point thought he'd die a virgin, I've had a pretty good run.

On the other hand, it makes me wonder why I have so many failed relationships behind me. There doesn't seem to be any clear pattern except that they all ended. About a third of them have dumped me, a third of them I've dumped, and about a third were mutual. (I know you can't really get 1/3 out of five, but I'm basing it on percentages. Sometimes it's not so cut and dry who dumped who.)

It reminds me of the Demotivators poster: The only consistent feature in all of your dissatisfying relationships is you.

Balance

Most people need a certain amount of balance in their lives.

But I don't think that the average person lives on the tightrope of social needs that I do.

Since my divorce I have become both an extrovert and an introvert-- I'm a bitrovert. I need to be around people until I get sick of them, and then I need to be alone until I get sick of myself.

This has been a very eventful week in terms of socializing. On Tuesday, for example, I had four separate social outings. In one day I saw two movies at the theater and ate both lunch and dinner out with people. Except for a few hours in the afternoon, I was out doing stuff from 9 am to 11:30 pm.

I enjoyed it, but only because I had had a lonely evening in the night before, and the following day I spent a solitary day at home (blogging, writing emails, watching TV, hanging with the kitties on a rainy day.) My fun social Tuesday was balanced by a perfect Wednesday of solitude.

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It was a crazy week for old and new friends. For reminiscing, re-acquainting, and getting-to-knowing. And for picking up the check.

Some of the highlights:

• I met up with my best friend from 5th grade. We hadn't seen each other in 23 years, but recently got in contact through Facebook. He lives in the same city as another friend I was visiting, so we met for breakfast.
  
• I took my nephew to a movie and then out to lunch for the first time. I also saw my niece in a flag corps (band) performance, and went to my other niece's cross country meet. For this week at least, I was a Good Uncle.
  
• I went to an atheist meeting for the first time in 6 months. I actually enjoyed the conversation this time and met another injured tennis player, so we talked about the game and how much we miss playing. (He's originally from Russia, just like AG, my most recent ex-girlfriend. He's the third Russian that I've met this year. Weird.)
  
• I finally took my brother's family out to dinner to thank them for helping with the move. We'd been trying to arrange this for almost two months, and I was finally able to make it happen. We went to the Indian place that replaced the Indian place that SnarkEx and I used to go to.
  
• I saw my (first) ex-girlfriend for the first time in 9 years. She was visiting my town for a school thing so I showed her around. We spent five hours together. She has three kids and is separating from her husband. We talked about marital woes. She looks great, but I am still not interested in dating anyone. (Just to quell any reunion rumors that may show up in the tabloids tomorrow.) Besides, I couldn't bring myself to break her heart again. But since I'm all about friendships right now, I am eager to get to know her again.
  
• Because I came into some money (long story: I got huge check as a percentage of my realtor's commission on my house because I used a referral service), I was able to pick up the check all week whenever I ate with people: Dinner for the friend I visited, breakfast for my 5th grade friend, lunch for my nephew, and dinner for my brother's family. (I offered to pay for dinner with my ex, but she declined.) It feels good to lose the reputation as "the cheap one" that my friends gave me in college, back when I had no money because I was living on a student budget, working two jobs and paying for college myself.
  
• While I was out with my ex-girlfriend, I ran into the AG for the first time since we broke up. Weird. Weird and awkward. In fact, it's so weird it deserves its own post (coming soon.)
  
• I think I might have set a record for the number of blog posts in a week. Over the course of six days I had eight posts. (This is my ninth in eight days, and I have two more in the queue that I plan to write.) It's a good thing a broken clavicle doesn't affect my blogging.
  

Some Clavicles Never Mend

The orthopedist I saw Tuesday morning used the phrase "scar tissue" a lot. It's not a phrase that I like hearing in relation to my body.

They took new x-rays, but they don't look any better than the ones taken in the ER two weeks earlier. In fact, it looks like the bone is moving further away from its proper place. But because an x-ray is a picture of a three-dimensional object in two dimensions, it's hard for them to tell whether that's actually happening or not. It could just be the angle of the shot.

The doctor mentioned "surgery," a word I like even less than "scar tissue." He said that some clavicle fractures clearly don't need surgery, and others obviously do. Mine is in a gray area where it could go either way. I might benefit from surgery, but I also might not need it.

The benefits of surgery would be that they could put the bone back in the correct position. There'd be more support there which would give me more shoulder strength, which is important for tennis. Also, I worry that if I let it heal on its own, my shoulder will be deformed. I already feel like the right shoulder droops more than the left one, which makes sense because the bone is out of place.

But there are a lot more drawbacks to surgery. First of all, they would be cutting into me. There would be scars. They would put a metal plate into my shoulder to hold things in place. "Metal plate" quickly became my least favorite phrase from the conversation, eclipsing both "surgery" and "scar tissue." The metal plate sometimes causes irritation once it's in there, but you can't really take it out, because they drill holes into the bone to attach it. If you remove it, your bone has a bunch of holes in it, which make it less stable and more likely to break.

Metal plate? Really? In 2009 they don't have any other space-aged material, like cubic zirbonia, that at least sounds better? I don't want to set off airport security sensors the rest of my life with a piece of metal sewn into my shoulder.

While I was mulling over a lifetime of having metal inside my person, the doctor offered this helpful fact: Some clavicle breaks never heal on their own. This usually happens in older people, and they just learn to live with a broken collarbone. Obviously, your days of riding the jet-ski would be over in that scenario.

It's funny how quickly your priorities change. When I very first broke my clavicle, I hadn't even stopped rolling on the hard court before I thought, "Oh shit, I'm going to miss that tournament this weekend." A few hours later, in the emergency room, they said I'd be out of tennis 4-6 weeks. Now my worry is that I'll never be able to play tennis again, or at least not at the level I played before. Surgery may be the only way to get back to tennis.

The doctor was waiting for an answer, so for a few tense moments, I had to weigh whether or not I wanted to go under the knife. And that's a very scary decision to have to make on your own. I couldn't imagine having to go through surgery without anyone primary in my life. This is one of those situations in my life where I feel most vulnerable as a single person. Where I feel most alone.

I asked the doctor if we could wait to see if it heals on its own before we make the surgery decision. He said yeah, we could do that. I decided to go with that.

Since the doctor's appointment, though, the clavicle has been feeling a lot better. I think it might have heard the word "metal plate" and it's been scared straight. That's my hope, anyway.

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POSTSCRIPT:

One health mystery that has accompanied my broken bone is my weight. In the past, when I've gone even a few days without tennis, I would gain weight. I haven't played tennis in almost three weeks and I've lost a pound. WTF?

Two theories

1. Maybe I'm losing muscle weight because I'm not using that shoulder.
   
2. My body may be using up a lot of energy in the healing process.

The human body is a puzzle wrapped in a mystery supported with a metal plate.

Fucked-Up and Shit

I've been having a lot of fun with the phrase "all fucked up and shit" lately. (I originally heard it in an Onion article: "I Hope My Baby Doesn't Come Out All Fucked-Up And Shit.")

It's how I've been describing my inability to date since the divorce. Here's how I explained it last week:

When I was at the ALA conference last month I ran into an old library school friend. I told him that I had just broken up with my girlfriend. I was trying to explain what happened and I said, "Yeah, I guess I'm still all fucked up and shit from the divorce." He laughed and said that I should put that in my online dating profile. I thought that was a great idea. My headline could read, "All Fucked Up 'N Shit."

Speaking of online personals, I tried browsing some ads recently, and I really have no stomach for it. None of the women appeal to me. They're all the same and they're all boring. It's amazing how uninterested I am in dating right now.

So it's become one of those standard jokes that I tell everyone: "I ended things with my girlfriend. I guess I'm still all fucked up and shit from the divorce."

It's a nice and tidy line, but I wonder how true it is. Did the divorce mess me up, or was I already messed up before that? Maybe I got divorced because I'm fucked up.

I'm not the most stable person in the world, and I certainly had my issues, but I'm sure the divorce either a.) brought these issues to the forefront, or b.) made them worse. I mean, when your two greatest fears are feeling like a burden and being abandoned, and the one person in the world you thought you could count on leaves you because she thought you were making her unhappy, that's gotta do some serious damage, right?

In the past, when I was single and would see happy couples in a movie or laying together in the grass in the park, I would get all wistful and think, "Why can't that be me?"

Now when it happens I think, In a different part of my life that was me. I was lucky I got that opportunity. I lived that life. But it's behind me now.

I can't tell if that's a healthy response or a whiny defeatist one.

Divorce Sling

The clavicle brace that they gave me in the emergency room was so very lame.

This is the exact model that they gave me, right down to the ugly light blue padding that clahes with all of my shirts. [Man pictured is NOT the exact same model as Snarkbutt.] It was ugly, near impossible to put on, and really didn't do a whole lot to support my clavicle, according to the orthopedist I saw a few days later.

Most importantly, it looked just like backpack straps without the backpack on it, so it wasn't clear to people that I was injured at all. I looked like a major dork with no color coordination toting weird straps around his shoulders. Even though I've accepted my celibate fate until my clavicle heals, I'd like to at least look like someone would sleep with me.

The second sling, which the orthopedist gave me, is much easier to put on. It's the more traditional-looking kind that enables people to immediately recognize that there's something wrong with me.

It really doesn't do a whole lot for my comfort, and it does nothing to help in the healing process. In fact, there are times that it gets uncomfortable wearing it, because my elbow gets tight from not moving. Also, it's August and my right arm sweats like a sumbitch in it.

They told me I don't need to wear it when I'm sitting or lying down, just when I'm up moving. Well, then, when would I wear it? I wondered. While I'm cleaning out my gutters? I've got a fucking broken collarbone, when will I not be sitting or lying down? It turns out the only time I put it on is when I leave the house and go out among the people. It's really just cosmetic.

The sling is a message to the rest of the world: I'm injured, so handle me with care. Don't get impatient with me if I take a little bit longer to pick up my grocery bags. Don't slap me on the shoulder or jostle me or try to shake my right hand or touch me in any way. Stay away from me or you might catch what I have! (My sister visited me last weekend, and when she greeted me we hugged. The hug was kind of left-sided and awkward, because I was trying to protect my right shoulder. Forget about sex in this condition, how do I even get the slightest bit of human contact?)

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So I was telling a divorced friend of mine about the purpose of my sling and she said she wished there were a t-shirt that did the same thing for divorced people. Something that says, "Just got divorced. Handle with care." I thought that was a great idea. It would also clear up the whole public face problem: how & when to tell people I'm divorced.

So these ideas knocked around in my head for a while and I came up with the perfect solution: a divorce ring!

We have wedding rings to tell people we're married, so why not one that tells people that we're fragile, cautious, bitter, disillusioned, or just plain fucked up & shit?

Of course, we'd have to wear it on our middle finger.

Just Take Steps

Late last Friday I imagined that my clavicle seemed to be sticking out more than it was before. I started to freak out that it was moving the wrong direction; that the healing process was going awry. Unfortunately, it was a Friday night and the orthopedist wouldn't be open until Monday. I'd have to wait through the weekend to attend to this problem.

I decided to cancel half of a trip I was planning and come home on Monday to take care of it.

By the time I actually did see the doctor (on Tuesday) the problem didn't seem as bad as it had been on Friday. I could have been embarrassed by wasting the doctor's time, but I'm convinced that scheduling the appointment was what my clavicle needed.

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Last February I was in a really low mood and decided I needed to Take Steps to fix it. So I got a prescription for antidepressants. I took them for less than two weeks and then stopped because they were causing abdominal pains. But in those two weeks I met Homebuyer Girl and Awesome Girlfriend and played some of the best tennis of the spring season.

At the time I made the joke that those must have been some magic pills, but obviously they just coincided with some lucky circumstances. I didn't take them long enough for them to have worked on my brain chemistry. On paper, however, it seems that merely the decision to take the pills-- the act of seeking out help-- was all I needed to get out of my funk.

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This summer I was frustrated (yet again) with my level of play on the tennis court, so I decided it was time to take a lesson with a tennis pro. It was a Saturday morning when I scheduled the lesson for the following Friday-- a week away. In the time between scheduling the appointment and the actual lesson I won two league matches. I played my best tennis of the entire summer-- probably my whole life. (The first win was against the guy who ended up winning the entire league. He was 6-1 for the league and I was the only person to beat him.) In fact, it was the only time all summer that I won two matches in the same week.

I hadn't even had my lesson yet, but apparently all I had to do was to schedule a lesson to improve my tennis.

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Last week I was in a bad place after a week of too much solitude. I was freaking out about a situation with a friend. Although I wasn't scheduled to see my therapist for another week, I called him and made an emergency appointment.

After I made the appointment, I: a.) made a new online friend, b.) decided to attend another atheist meeting, c.) and got in touch with an old friend (okay, ex-girlfriend) who I haven't seen in 9 years. By the time I actually saw my therapist, I was feeling much better.

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What's the lesson from all of these anecdotes?

When I identify a problem in my life, the key to getting it fixed is not necessarily to get help, but to schedule it. To Take Steps. Once I've Taken Steps, good things happen. Things just seem to fall into place.

Clavicle Celibacy

Celibacy: It's not just for priests anymore.

I've encountered a few people over the past year who have made a conscious decision to be celibate. They feel that sex (and the pursuit of sex) has taken too much of their energy and they need to take a break from it. I'm probably oversimplifying their reasons, since I can't really explain why someone would choose to be celibate.

But that's because I've lived most of my adult life in de facto celibacy. I don't really choose celibacy-- it chooses me.

Someone suggested to me recently that I try to be celibate for the next year. My response was, "That's like telling someone who's malnourished to go on a diet." For people who are overfed, who can get all the sex they want, I totally get why you might want to cut back. But that's not me.

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Since the breakup with AG, I've been turned off by dating, but I've had this desire to sow my wild oats, to explore my whorish side-- something I wouldn't dare when I'm in (or looking for) a committed relationship. Yeah, I whine about having celibacy forced upon me, but the truth is I've never really tried to sleep around. Maybe I just have to put more effort into it.

So a few weeks ago I put an ad up on one of those Adult websites where people are looking for "casual encounters." I didn't really expect to find anything, but it was worth exploring. Maybe I could meet some new friends! (One site is actually called Adult Friend Finder.) The advice I always get from people is to get involved in activities you enjoy. Well, if sex is one of my hobbies, why not try to meet people with that interest?

Twelve hours after I put my ad up, I broke my clavicle.

Is that a sign?

Whether it's a sign or not, I can tell you what the result was: I pulled down my ad. Because, let me tell you, nothing is more of a turn-off than having a broken clavicle.

I have a very active imagination and I can imagine (and have imagined!) sex in a thousands of different scenarios. But I have never ever fantasized about broken collarbone sex. It's even harder for me to imagine it now that I have one. Sex for me is like swimming: there is much thrashing about with fully-extended limbs.

So circumstances have forced me into a vow of celibacy until my clavicle heals. Now that sex is off the table, I can put my energy into meeting people and making friends, and there's no pressure or expectation that anything sexual might happen.

Funny how these things work out.

Redacted

I did something this week that I've never done before. I redacted a blog post; erased it from public view.

Now, I've said a lot of stupid, embarrassing, rude, way-too-personal things on this here blog. But even when I regret what I've written, I'm against deleting it. If I was stupid enough to put something into the public record (albeit anonymously), I have to stand by that stupidity. My thoughts & actions are still part of who I am, no matter how fleeting or temporary they might be. This blog is a snapshot of me in all different kinds of states. I can't just pretend the ugly moments never existed.

That said, something I wrote last week went way beyond my limits of propriety. (Yes, I do have limits.) In my ranting I revealed too much about a friend, and no matter how much I lay my own soul bare in this blog, I don't want to gossip about other people's personal issues. (Unless it's SnarkEx, who I feel gave up all such rights when she gave up on our marriage.) I felt uncomfortable about having it out there, and realized that the only way to make amends was to take it down.

I don't know if the person I wrote about reads this blog. I'm pretty sure he doesn't, but I did once send him the link. So it's possible, however remotely, that he reads the blog but doesn't ever mention it to me.

If you didn't see the post from last week and you're thinking, WTF?, let me summarize what I said. After a week of too much solitude, I was in a very low mood (which happens on occasion.) In a typical little brother tantrum, I essentially said, No one ever contacts me to do stuff. Why do I always have to reach out? They don't like me.

I then proceeded to air a decade's worth of grievances toward a certain friend, and that is where the pissiness got way too personal.

Ironically, the post got much more feedback (both positive and negative) than I usually get. Some people called me on the bullshit, but other people were inspired by it. This just goes to show there's good and bad in everything.

Like so many of my rants, there might have been a kernal of truth to what I said. I do think that, right now in my life, I do have to reach out to the majority of people more than they reach out to me. In many ways I have to give more than I get.

Trying to make sense of this, I set up an emergency meeting with my shrink. I ranted at him about these issues. Why do I feel like I'm the only person who initiates plans with people? Why does it seem like no one has time for me? He said that he thinks this is a sociological problem in our culture. People are just too busy, they overbook their lives, and many of them are not very good at maintaining friendships. He brought up a good point: a lot of people don't realize that friendships take work. You have to make a conscious effort to maintain them or they die.

There could be an even simpler explanation: I just have more free time than almost everyone I know. That's not a statement of my worth, just a fact. And there have been times in my life when I was on the other side of this dilemma. When I didn't have enough time for other people.

And saying that no one contacts me is just hyperbole. There are certainly people who contact me. All the time. Just not at exactly the times when I want them to. When I rant like I did, it makes people think I don't appreciate the times when they are there for me. But I do. I really do. In my bad moods I often blow things out of proportion. Again: Whiny. Little. Brother.

According to my shrink, I also take things too personally. And I overthink them. I can't argue with him there.

Postparty Impression

My house is sufficiently warmed.

Overall, the Meet My House party was a success. At its highest point, there were 14 people crammed into my living room, with a second row of chairs sitting behind the couch.

Only a few minor disappointments: some of the people who said they would come didn't, hardly any of the "maybes" showed; the party broke up pretty early (most everyone left by 10:00); and it seemed like hardly any of the food got eaten.

But these were minor, to be expected, and not really bad when I reflect on the alternatives.

Yesterday morning my stress level was so great that I told my brother, "I don't want to have a party." But after the party was over I realized that the things I really stressed about during the preparations were not so important. I don't think one person noticed or cared that I vacuumed, cleaned the bathroom, or bought the right kind of potato chips.

But these things did make me more comfortable about welcoming people into my home. As people showed up at different times, I got to give about half a dozen tours of my house. (The tour always ended in the bedroom, where I had put a sign on the door that said, "CAUTION: LIVE ANIMALS!!" The kitties were having their own party- I shut them in the bedroom with a special treat: a bowl of tuna.)

The neat thing about the party was how all these different people from different parts of my life were able to meet each other. Many characters from my blog were there: my brother and sister-in-law, TennisGrrrl, Homebuyer Girl, my friend J (of the broken clavicle adventure), the colleague I commute with, my roommate from last September, Asshat Guy (who I should really call by a different name-- he's really pretty harmless and means well.) Now that they all know each other, they can put a face with a name when I mention one of them to another.

The party was lively-- there were always several conversations going on at once and no one seemed bored or uncomfortable. I had my first beer in my new home. And my second. And third. It turns out that beer is very good for my clavicle.

There was a slight letdown after everyone left. I had bought waaay too much food, so I had to put all of that away by myself. (I could live on leftover beer, snack food, and cheese and crackers for next month.) I've put so much mental energy and anticipation into this event, and suddenly after three quick hours it was over. Back to my normal life.

Fortunately I'm going out of town today, so I don't have too much time to dwell on the postparty letdown.

And looking back, it was a success. I was able to show off my house, introduce people to each other, get to know some acquaintances better, and prove that I really can host a party.

And now my house is warmed.

Morning Person Musings

I woke up at 6:00 am this morning. On a Saturday. With no appointments to get up for. I lay in bed for an hour, but couldn't get back to sleep.

I wanted to sleep in today so I'd be well rested. It's the day of my party and I have a million details to deal with. My clavicle seems to be moving in the wrong direction at the worst possible time. If this were the middle of the weak, I would call the orthopedist. (They said I should call them if it does exactly what it's doing.) My party is today and tomorrow I leave to go out of town for two days.

But I'm also excited about the party and all the things stretched out ahead of me today. That's because I am a Morning Person. I'm (almost) always in good spirits in the morning. There's something about having the whole day ahead of me that makes me happy. The day is a blank canvas. Mornings are when I make my plans for the day. I like plans. I like beginnings.

I'm not so good at endings. I'm not as good at night time because I don't know how to end the day. Whatever plans I had in the morning have been altered (depending on what I accomplished) so that I often have to improvise by the time the evening rolls around. At the same time, all the energy and optimism I had in the morning has slowly seeped out of me, like air out of a bicycle tire.

I don't really have an ending to this line of thought. But I have a few other random beginnings of thoughts:

When I was at the ALA conference last month I ran into an old library school friend. I told him that I had just broken up with my girlfriend. I was trying to explain what happened and I said, "Yeah, I guess I'm still all fucked up and shit from the divorce." He laughed and said that I should put that in my online dating profile. I thought that was a great idea. My headline could read, "All Fucked Up 'n Shit."

Speaking of online personals, I tried browsing some ads recently, and I really have no stomach for it. None of the women appeal to me. They're all the same and they're all boring. It's amazing how uninterested I am in dating right now.

You Can't Hurry Grudge

I'm reading an entertaining little book titled Things I've Learned from Women Who've Dumped Me. It's 46 stories (called "Lessons") of heartbreak written by various men in the entertainment, comedy, and writing business.

It's not a self-help book. It's a fun read that I would describe as "leisure reading" to my students. I didn't really expect to gain any substantial insights from it, but Lesson #11 ("A Grudge Can Be Art") gave me an unexpected jolt of affirmation.

Andy Selsberg writes about an ex who cheated on him and then flaunted her new boyfriend in front of him. He says:

People rarely say, 'You know what you need to do? Carry a grudge. An old-fashioned, dense and righteous grudge.' Forgiveness and forgetfulness are prescribed so often that we're likely to forget the grudge is even an option. But I didn't feel like I had any other choice. The grudge picked me.

Later he describes a scene where he returns a scarf she crocheted for him:

I said it was the only scarf that made me feel colder when I put it on. Zing! I was hoping she would cry and be mad at me. She did! She was! I swear I had a grudgegasm.

Aside from the awesomeness of the word "grudgegasm", it's about time someone gave credence to the healing powers of the grudge. I'm tired of people trying to get me over my bitterness. I'm tired of trying to get myself over the bitterness. My wife left me. I'm pissed about it. Eventually, when I'm ready, the grudge will fade away.

To paraphrase the song, you can't hurry grudge.

Hard to Find a Friend

The worst time of the week for a single Snark is usually late Saturday afternoon. That's when I face the realization that any of the potential plans I had for the evening are not going to pan out, and I have to scramble to figure out what to do with my Saturday night. It's also right before dinner time and I'm hungry and trying to decide how to feed myself. Low blood sugar makes everything worse.

Once I get over those initial feelings of Saturday Night Loserdom, I can usually find some way to entertain myself til the next morning, when I wake up to a new day filled with hope, optimism and another list of Things To Do Today.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My latest goal is not to find a girlfriend or mate, but to increase my circle of friends. (I'm still free of the compulsion to find a girlfriend, which is liberating, but I wish I could find some, ahem, affection. I know there are tons of men and women who are good at finding someone to scratch that itch, but I'm not the kind of guy who attracts women looking for casual sex. If I'm not getting relationship sex, I'm not gettin' any.) But I'm realizing that finding a friend-- a good friend-- can be just as difficult as finding a lover. Even more difficult, because there are no online personals or other resources designed to streamline FriendFinding. At least not for single, childless, out-of-college 30-somethings.

I was kinda hoping that the Meet My House party I'm planning this weekend would help to increase my circle of friends-- get me on more friendly terms with some of my acquaintances. That's why I'm worried that only four people will come and it will highlight what a loser I am. (So far, I have a good core group of people coming, and many others who are are "maybes.")

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have a phone list that I print out once a year. It's a single sheet of paper, a Word document, of all the people who I would have occasion to call. Throughout the year I will add new names to it as I meet new people or get involved in new things. I will also delete names of people and institutions (my old landlord, for example) who I no longer call.

This week I updated my phone list. I counted five local friends on it. This is my social roster-- the people that I might be able to call on a Saturday night when I'm looking for things to do. That's not too bad. I also have about four out-of-town friends who I could visit, plus my huge family.

So there's a support system there. I just want to add to it. To minimize those awful Saturday late-afternoon no-plan low-blood-sugar crashes.

Party Politics

Now that I'm settled into my new home, I decided it's time to have a Meet My House party.

I picked a date, made sure a core group of people could be there, and then sent out a Facebook invite to about 30 people.

Right after I sent the invite I thought, OMG, what have I done? I don't throw parties! I hardly even go to them! I have no idea what I'm doing.

The seed for this housewarming party was planted by someone who probably has no idea she was the catalyst. She's a friend of a friend that I've hung out with at a few game nights hosted by my friend J (from previous post.) She and her husband friended me on Facebook, although in my paranoid moments I get the impression that they don't like me. When I posted on FB that I'd bought a house, she asked when I was going to have a housewarming party. Me? Really? Was she implying that if I had one, they would consider coming? Are The People clamoring for a party at my house? Parties are what normal people do. Could I really pull that off?

I have a checkered history with parties. There have been countless events, soirees, and get-togethers that I've attended or tried to organize over the years with less-than-optimum results. Like, two people sitting awkwardly together at a bar because no one else showed up. That always sucks, especially when it's your birthday.

One time in college, my best friend tried to throw me a going-away party before I left to study in Germany for a year. We worked with a bunch of other 20-something clerks at the public library, so there was a large pool of partiers to draw from. But one of the cool kids, way more popular than us, decided to throw his own party on the very same night. Our "party" ended up consisting of me, my friend and his live-in girlfriend. We played chess while the girlfriend watched. Woo-hoo!!

On the other hand, I have pictures of a party in my apartment during library school, which seems to have a lot of people there, which I take to mean it was a success. (I was drunk through most of library school) I also threw a few shindigs with (and for) SnarkEx that were well-attended.

This house party will be my first attempt at party-throwing since the divorce. My safety net was to ask a core group of people (who I knew I could count on) when they were available and plan the party around their schedules. So at the very least, I will have a small gathering (6-8) of friends and family in my house. That should be enough. Any other attendees will just be social gravy.

But I really like gravy.

I was nervous sending off the Facebook invites, as if asking people to take part in my social life would be a burden to them. Counting up the RSVPs feels like a referendum on my popularity, which I know is not necessarily a.) true, or b.) healthy. But it's what I do.

Half the people I invited, I don't really expect to come. Some live out of town and I just wanted them to feel included. Others I invited merely because they had invited me to something of theirs in the past. The Machiavellian world of party invitations is fraught with social land mines.

Remember Asshat Guy? I didn't include him in the Facebook invite, and felt a little bad about it, but I was pretty sure he doesn't even read my Facebook updates. (He never comments on them and was surprised when I told him I'd bought a house, something he would have known if he followed my updates.) But then he left a comment on my party update. Shit, he saw it. So now I'm thinking the polite thing would be to invite him, even though I don't really want to hang out with him. This has me thinking that I should probably invite other tennis acquaintances, so as to dilute his presence if he comes. Ah, party politics!

I also invited AG and sent her a separate email to see how she was doing. She didn't respond to the email and RSVPed "no" to the party invite. I just finished reading a book that she had loaned me and asked her if she wanted it back. I thought that after a month she might be receptive to hanging out, or at least email contact, but I guess she's not ready yet.

See how throwing a party brings out the best of my neuroses? Why am I doing this again?

Oh, yeah, because a friend of a friend made a comment on Facebook.

Clavicle! Oh Clavicle!

I was facing a long and lonely weekend for the first time in a while. Most of my moving-in tasks were done, and I was ready to resume my social life again.

I had an urge to go out to lunch with someone. But no one was available. My favorite going-out-to-lunch friend (J) had just had his wisdom teeth removed last week, and was helping his wife recover from her own wisdomectomy this weekend. Plus I'd already invited him to lunch three weeks in a row and he hadn't been available. He knew I was up for doing something-- I'd let him contact me when he was ready.

Meanwhile I was feeling sorry for myself for not having enough friends. What do I have to do to get a lunch date around here? Break a leg?

No, just my clavicle.

Saturday morning I took a spill on a hard concrete tennis court and broke my clavicle. (It's a collarbone, but "clavicle" sounds much funnier.) I thought I had dislocated my shoulder, because I could feel a bone sticking out where it shouldn't be, so I had a tennis friend (TF) drive me to the emergency room. In the ER, I felt bad about making TF wait, and I didn't know how long it would be, so after about 15 minutes I told him he could go and that I'd find another way home. I thanked him for his help.

I was in a lot of pain, scared, and lonely. My brother & family were out of town. I didn't know what was wrong with my shoulder. I was hoping it was just dislocated and they'd pop it back into place and I'd be good as new. (I'd heard stories like that.) I tried calling my brother but got his voice mail. Same thing for my mom. I called J and got his wife, who was recovering herself from having her wisdom teeth pulled. I asked her about her procedure, and while we were talking the nurse came to check me in. So I had to cut off J's wife and explain the situation. She immediately asked if I needed a ride.

Thank god for you, I thought.

A very nice lady took my x-rays. She could tell I was in a lot of pain and was very delicate with me. After the x-rays she took me to a room with a bed. She asked, "Is anyone in the waiting room for you?" I almost cried when I said, "No."

While I sat on the bed, waiting to hear the results of the x-rays, a cute nurse came by and said, "What have you done to yourself, my dear?" She was so sweet I would have hugged her if I could have lifted my arm. I told her that I fell playing tennis, but that I won the point. (I fell on the court after running for a wide ball, and although I didn't see my shot land, my opponents told me later that I won the point.) "Was it worth it?" she asked.

If I had had my wits about me, I could have responded, "Well, I got to meet you because of it." But I am nowhere near that smoov.

Later, the doctor walked in and said, "You broke you clavicle." Well, fuck me! There's not much they can do for a broken clavicle. It's like a broken toe. It heals on its own. The doctor even said that the bone sticking out will correct itself, although I might always have a small bump there. All they can do is give me painkillers and a clavicle sling (looks like a backpack without the pack on it.) I'll be out of tennis for four to six weeks.

My friend J called to ask what was up. I told him I broke my clavicle. He was appropriately sympathetic. "Oh, fuck, man!" He said he'd be there to pick me up soon.

Another nurse came and gave me the sling. As he was showing me how to put it on, he said, "It's fastens in the back, so if you have someone who can help you with it..." Even with two healthy arms, the thing looks impossible to put on by yourself. I live alone, I thought. How am I going to do this?

After much waiting and more instructions from the cute nurse, they finally sent me off with a prescription for Vicodin. J was there in the waiting room to pick me up. It was about lunch time, so he asked me if I wanted to get lunch. Yay, I got my lunch date!

We put in the order for my prescription and then went to get some food. Lunch was a great time-- the only hitch being that my shoulder hurt when I laughed. I told J that I still owed him a lunch for helping me move, but he wouldn't let me pay. He said he would feel bad letting me pay under these circumstances.

J took me back to my car (which was still at the tennis courts) and followed me home to make sure I could drive it. I could-- using my left hand.

So, like everything in life, there are things about this situation that suck and things that have brought out the best in people. I could feel sorry for myself for not having anyone primary in my life, but I'm also thankful for the help I did get: from TF, from J, from the kind nurses and doctor. From my family who will be properly sympathetic and listen to me go on and on about the state my clavicle the next four to six weeks.

So here are the good things:

• Although I can't raise my right arm without extreme pain, I can still type and operate a mouse.
  
• I can drive with my left hand. I'm learning to do a lot of things with my left hand.
• Going without tennis for a month+ will suck, but lately I've been feeling less enthusiastic about tennis. Maybe taking a break from it will be a good thing-- renew my love for it.
• While I was playing tennis yesterday, I had a form for a tournament I was going to play in next week. I meant to turn it in that afternoon. By injuring myself before I signed up, I saved myself $10.
  
• My August vacation starts next week. I only have four more days of work and then two weeks off. So it's pretty good timing.
  
• I just finished moving everything in, so there's no more heavy lifting to do for a while. If I had done this right before the move, that would really have sucked.
  
• I'm getting in touch with my clavicle.