I don’t know the real Jackée but out of respect I should probably change the bride’s name. (It’s Erin)

Three years ago I was invited by someone I knew in A.A. (I’m an alcoholic – thankfully sober) who was starting a group called The Experiment. The structure was very simple. Meet in a room once a week and tell the truth about what’s really going on in your life. The good and the bad. This is a safe place to bring your shit.

Participating in this group for nearly four years has taught me two things:

1. The hardest yet most important thing when I have shame is to talk about it to others who love me.
2. When feelings come up, pay attention and get curious. Then, stay with them and try not to judge them as “good” or “bad.” Also, don’t run.

I’ve learned that telling the hard truths about myself in life connects me to others who do the same. Even though I didn’t know these people when I started, I now have been present for the most important parts of them.

I remember when  Jackée  Harry went on her first date with the future husband. At the time she had been struggling with finding a boyfriend. She didn’t feel that she was worthy of a great man in her life. It always shocks me to hear people talk about how little they think of themselves, when the people that love them think the opposite.

Quick suggestion – If all the people around you love you and you think you’re a piece of shit, you’re wrong. Stop listening to yourself and surrender to their judgement.

When  Jackée and her now-husband started to develop a relationship she cried in group because he left the house early one morning, drove over to her apartment and brought her coffee. She couldn’t believe a man would do that for her. I was there and witnessed this vulnerable admission.

The day my wife called me up (pretty much out of the blue) and announced she had filed for divorce I jumped on my bike and head to The Experiment. I have cried in there, accessed anger, talked about shame, pushed through fear, and assisted others. They’ve been there for me during my toughest moments.

To watch Jackée and Lester (the only other 227 cast member I could remember)  take their vows tonight was an honor. If I hadn’t showed up three years ago to some weird group, I wouldn’t have been there tonight to see her happiest moment. Such a great reminder that it’s never too late to make lifelong friends. The trick is to have the courage to tell the truth with people who want to do the same. You will be bonded through these intimate moments.

I need to remember that I cannot do much by myself. Well, farting. I can do that.

This will be my first speaking event where I address bloggers. I’m grateful to have been asked and over the past few months have tried to create a worthwhile presentation/discussion for attendees. My topic is about taking risks with your writing and trusting in your abilities.

When I was at BlogHer I was in a half-day seminar with thirty women. During one exercise we lined up on spectrum where one end represented “confusion” and the other end “clarity.” We were asked where we believe we are with our blog content. I just assumed everyone was confident about their writing and so I made my way over to the “clarity” side. Well, it was just me and two other women. The rest of the group was at the “confusion” side.

I felt like an egotistical dick. Who was I to feel confident about my crap? But I did feel confident – not egotistical, but comfortable. I’m not a good writer. I know this. I need to learn more about writing. But, I am clear about what I want this blog to be, and I feel damned competent.  My blog has always been about three things – humor, honesty, and vulnerability. While it started out as humor-only site I quickly realized I was not going to be able to hit joke  home runs  every day. I needed to expand my offering if I was to create any regular content. Jokes take too long to perfectly craft.  Over time I started to add in stuff (non-funny, mostly) about my day.

When I started experimenting with non-funny content, I was in the middle of a divorce. I had many feelings, mostly sadness and anger, that were  constant.  I wrote about these experiences. Even though I would pepper each post with jokes, it was primarily a confessional of what was going on in my life.

Growing up I thought if I was funny people would think I was cool. And yes, if you’re funny, people like you. Girls will dig you. But I thought if I shared my pain and sadness and anger, you’d see I was a big screw up and run away. Ironically, making a lot of jokes will almost guarantee that people will not feel close to you. I have best friends with whom I never shared anything  substantive. It took a lot of years to face pain that I’ve avoided myself. By learning how to courageously tell my loved ones about my struggle, they have felt closer to me and we have connected at a deeper level. The same has happened with my readers. So now when I write I always start with one question.

Do I have the courage today to write about what’s really going on?

Then, a second question.

What is really going on?

I realized the other day that I never have written about fear. I rant constantly about anger, sadness and shame, but never about fear. And the truth is that I’m terrified of many things. Scared that my girlfriend will leave me (like my wife did). Scared that I won’t ever make the money I want to make at my day job (or get fired). Scared that my readers will leave over time.

Fear is the hardest thing for me to address. Ironically, fear is a deep, connecting experiences. When I have exposed my shadows, this has done more to increase readership than the dad dick stories I’ve penned. I am insanely proud of those stories, by the way. I do have a mom vagina story that I need to write, too, but it’s not about my mom’s vagina. It’s about vagina advice my mother gave me. Oh yes. It’s good.

When I address everyone this Friday, even though I’m doing twenty-five minutes, I can really sum it up in two sentences.

Write the truth like you wouldn’t notice if your entire audience left. And, if they do leave, keep writing as a new audience will funnel in for the second show.

photo credit: Garrett Crawford via photopin cc

Now while this sounds like  shtick  masquerading  as filler since I don’t have any ideas of what to write tonight, I will tell you that is correct. Plus, I just got out of the bath and was nude already. The only thing I’m wearing is the laptop on my thighs and a wet dog around my shins. She had her bath at the same time. With me. Totally sexed out, ladies?

Okay – this just hit me. Where do I feel the most insecure and naked? I don’t mean emotionally or figuratively. I mean, where do I actually feel naked physically?

It’s not when I’m actually naked. I don’t shut my blinds and I live alone so walking around from the shower to the kitchen is no big deal. I’m not an animal – I make sure my neighbors aren’t hanging out on the porch first.

I’m pretty comfortable with my body. Except when I dance.

Not kidding at all when I say I feel the most naked dancing at weddings. It’s terrifying for me. And it makes no sense since I have fantastic rhythm, I play in a band, and I understand how to count to four. When I took a dance class in college (with my sister), she said I was one of the best dancers there.

And, oh yeah, ten years ago I worked for a beer company and took a truck that opened up into a fully functioning nightclub all over the country. I danced my fanny off for nine months.

Thinking about it, why am I worried now about dancing? Well, first, I have no moves. So, it’s a loss of control thing. I don’t know what to do. I’m not joking when I say I have no moves. I literally don’t know what to do with my feet.

Before I got married, my now ex-wife and I did eight lessons at Evelyn Wood and perfected a several minute routine for our wedding. Not to be one of those douchey couples trying to impress everyone – we just needed to know what to do with our feet.

I see my friends at weddings jumping all around the dance floor having fun and they don’t know fat dick about dancing. But they haven’t a care so it works. I have absolutely no fun dancing. It’s scary and I can’t wait for it to stop. Even the slow dances with my girlfriend are uncomfortable. I feel like I can’t even do that right.

I’m aware that nobody at a wedding is watching me. I also know I have rhythm and can at least fake it. I just want to be able to let go and have a good time like everyone else. But I’m not sure how.

This is about me needing to control how I’m perceived. I place myself in situations where I can manipulate the variables to the outcomes I desire. Since I have no dance moves, I have no control and I don’t think I’m “looking good.” Therefore, I’m exposed and vulnerable. And that is scary, and scary is bad.

I honestly believe that my well-being can be measured in my ability to dance at weddings in front of my friends. My goal in life is to learn to let go of that control and trust in my vulnerability. While I can’t do it on the dance floor, I often do it here.

Every time I’ve shared a hard truth on the blog, I’ve been rewarded with kindness. I’m glad that you are here to soothe me when I reveal something difficult.

Bottom line – I need to get out to more weddings. Here’s what I want from you:

Invite me to a shitload of weddings. I don’t care if it’s a second cousin or that creepy chick with the adult braces from accounting. Hook me up with a date and time. I own a  cumber bun so I’m all set.

I’ll probably start out with that electric slide garbage, since it’s easy, move up to a  Viennese  waltz, and then, over time showcase some serious popping and locking.

Note to self – buy book on popping and locking.

For example you most likely haven’t talked about conditioning your private hair with your father. Or confessed that during phone conversations with loved ones  you do inappropriate personal activity. Also, you probably don’t ride a bike to work with a dog in a backpack. Your first, middle, and last names probably aren’t as unusual as mine (plus I’m a “third”) for a pale while boy with blonde hair.

One of the things I’ve always done to feel important is to see myself as different. When I’m different I matter. I’m somebody. People can marvel at my distinctions and be impressed. They will love me because I’m so unique.

What that got me was a lot of non-intimate friendships and people feeling (I’m guessing) that I wasn’t allowing them to see my vulnerability and pain. Which was true.

I’m not so much that way anymore. As I spend time in connection with other people the more I realize my friends are pretty much that same as me. The pal who has a better financial situation than I do, he has fear about paying for his child’s college in sixteen years. The guy that has the perfect marriage feels that he has taken a backseat in importance to their children. Oh, and everbody’s worried about losing their jobs. Lastly, apparently wives aren’t always giving their husbands enough sex.

A few weeks ago while I was biking (this is my fourth year riding to work) I noticed a slight pain in my right knee. I just thought I must be leaning on it too much during my morning commute.

Now, when I get up after sitting on the ground, which, strangely I do a lot, I can feel that same slight pain. It’s a 1/10 and I don’t notice it other than occasionally riding. If I never rode a bike I bet I would have never felt it.

It’s a small example and certainly a lucky first experience with this, but my body is getting older and things will start to not work the same as they did.

This is hard for me to comprehend as I’ve never had a broken bone, major health issue, chronic condition, or even a back ache. My joints, hips, knees, and crotch all work flawlessly. Sorry for that. Cheap joke. Crotch = hilarious, though. Great word.

My parents don’t suffer from any physical ailments either which is unusual for people in their mid sixties. Maybe we’re just lucky. We’re certainly not pounding it out at the gym every day.

But yeah, over time stuff will stop working the way it did. The fact that I made it to thirty-six before I had any pain of any kind is remarkable. Again, just genes, I guess.

And oh yeah, over the past few years I learned that I can get fat like other people. That was disappointing too.

So, the truth is, that I am like you. I need approval, I have fear and sadness, my knee hurts, and I need to watch my calories. I’m still funnier and have better hair, but, hey – truth is truth.

Now, I’m going to go check out the glucosamine  aisle at the grocery. With all the old people.

photo credit: Bill Gracey via photo pin cc

Thankfully I’m in a relationship, and my girlfriend seems to accept this body defect.  I also have really big feet that she keeps talking about.  Not sure what the deal is there.

See what I did?  I’m a stinker.

Anyway, I had completely forgot that there is a solution to this problem.  In fact, I had already solved it a year ago.  And then promptly forgot.

Towards the end of last year, when it was still warm enough to do stuff outside, this girl I was dating encouraged me to run a 5k.  They gave this godawful shirt as a tchotchke.  The one nice this about it is made out of the fabric that whisks away the sweat and somehow drips it into the air or something.  I’m no engineer.  Anyway, it somehow makes it so that the sweat disappears into the ether.

I went online and bought three of these shirts from Champion (which I pronounce Cham-peen to sound like a New Yorker).  Then I put them in a drawer and never pulled them out.

Cut to this year where I wore my normal cotton tees like every prior year.  I’m sweating like crazy each day and then my dad says…

“Why don’t you get those shirts that breathe easy?”

Don’t follow.  Explain.

I have these golf shirts made out of something so that I don’t sweat?

No kidding!  How does that work?

I don’t know, but it does.

Wait – is that the same thing that runners wear?  Oh, wait, I bought like three of those.

—

Not the most exciting conversation, but this is how out of it I am.  Now, I don’t sweat while I’m on my bike jamming out to Kid Rock.  I just went out on a big limb admitting that to all you.  I hope you can appreciate the vulnerability there.

Actually, I paid, but it was her idea.

In my profession, which is managing Chicago real estate agents, I am constantly recruiting.

Many firms simply do a terrible job of supporting their realtors and leasing agents, and I am always reaching out asking if they would be interested to join our firm.

I try to schedule one to two interviews a day, spending an hour with each recruit.

This morning, halfway through my first meeting, the woman I was with asked, “Hey, I’ve never been to Manny’s Deli.   Want to do the rest of our interview there? ”

I’m lucky to be around the corner from the best deli in all of Chicago.   If you’ve eaten at Katz or Carnegie in New York, you know the value of an amazing Jewish deli.

Since it was only 10:45am, I wasn’t ready for pastrami or corned beef on rye.   I ordered matzo ball soup and she did the same plus a knish.

And then I forgot to eat the rest of the day.

I really just get so busy, I have a hard time remembering to eat at work.   If I don’t schedule it, I often times just don’t end up eating anything.

It’s not just forgetfulness, however.   There’s clearly a disconnection from my body going on.   I am working on this with my therapist.

I have protein bars in my desk, so it’s not like I eat nothing during the day, but it’s clearly not enough.

Today, aside from the soup I had at Manny’s, I only ate two protein bars.

And here’s what happens.

By the end of the day, I’m obviously wiped out.   But it’s more than that.

I start to get emotional.

You know that one friend who,   every time he gets drunk, turns into a sobering mess of, “I love you!   No, I mean I really love you!”

For my group of friends, this would be Brian.   We all make jokes about how many beers it will take until Brian starts crying and telling us we’re the greatest guys in the world.

Now, lest you think I am making fun of Brian, I am not.   Personally, I’m touched to hear this sort of thing.   I wish I had the courage to show such vulnerability.

But, since I don’t drink, and the Western world doesn’t generally associate emotion with masculinity, it’s difficult for me to share at this level.

That is, until I stop eating.

By the end of the day today, I was consumed with gratitude for some of my agents.   I even called a few and left voicemails telling them how thankful I was that they worked with us.   I was drunk on low blood sugar.

Now, the real work is to figure out how to get to these feelings without starving myself.   And then to have the courage to say them aloud.