Contradicted

She whispered silkily in my ear, “Relax. You’re safe here.”

“Yes, I can be safe here. Relax,” my mind nodded agreement.

Yet my muscles tightened; my breath shortened.

My mind betrayed, I walked out, never to return.

. . . . .

Barely Enough

I am a good pilot.  I am a safe pilot.  And, as of this past week, I am a commercial pilot.

So why aren’t I crowing and cheering?  This is, self admittedly, a big accomplishment.  But I don’t feel like celebrating.

I passed the written test and the oral test without much trouble.  The practical test… actually getting in the airplane with the examiner and flying specific maneuvers… was, to me, horrendous.  To the examiner?  I passed.  

Why horrendous?  Well, there was the obvious and expected nervousness.  But, then, the examiner was fussing at me about every little misstep.  It was not remotely a safety issue, those missteps.  Rather, it was a procedure issue.  How I was doing the maneuvers was, in the mind of that examiner, insufficient or wrong— “Why are you doing that?”, “Why are you doing that that way?”, “Why didn’t you do it this way?”

Now, the examiner’s guidelines do call for him to try and distract me; to see if he can take my mind off task and do something really stupid and unsafe.  While I didn’t do that, I did let his questions bother me.

I am not one of those people who have to be perfect all the time.  But, likewise, I’m also not the kind of person who thinks that it’s good enough getting a 71% when 70% is a passing score.  And, at the end of the flight, I felt like I had gotten a 71%.  On getting out of the airplane, the examiner compounded that already downtrodden opinion of myself by saying, “Good enough.”  Crap.

One year from now… one month from now… hell, next week… I can go apply for a job as a commercial pilot and they will not care how grandly or barely I passed my test.  They will look at my pilot certificate and note I have a commercial pilot license. 

And, like any license, it is actually a license to learn and improve.  I take solace… and a bit of pride… in recognizing that.  I know I still have to stay on top of my game, learning, practicing, improving… (and, an aside, it scares me that there are some of the pilot egos out there that DON’T recognize that).

I am a safe pilot.  I am a good pilot.  I am a commercial pilot.

…and soon I will feel up to celebrating this wonderful accomplishment…

The Boy’s Cookie

Having been a bit intense recently, i felt the need, for the moment, to indulge in the whimsical- - -

Seeing my nephew playing in a swimming pool recently brought back a memory and a smile.  We were on a visit up to a cottage on a lake.  The Boy was only three at the time and, not having yet learned to swim, was being suited up in his ‘swimming armor’* - - a pint sized life jacket and those inflatable arm flotation things**.

The kind old neighbor lady stopped by just then to offer some cookies to the kids (What?  None for me? [pout]).  TheBoy’s eyes grew wide in anticipation of sugar-enhanced culinary bliss.  Neighbor lady handed one to The Boy who immediately swung the cookie to his gaping and drooling maw… only to be stopped inches from his quivering lips by the air pillow of the already-inflated arm floats. 

Mild chuckles soon become outright laughter as we watched him try and find a way to get that cookie within reach of his mouth.***

In the mood for laughing, but not in the mood for further child abuse, I released him from his arm floats and watched with still bemused joy at his enjoyment of the cookie.

…maybe those arm floats can be sold as diet aids…

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*For those of you mentally picturing me putting iron underwear on The Boy and throwing him into the water - - Shame on you!  (And shame on me for thinking the same thing [chuckle].

**When did we become so paranoid?  Do you remember having to be armored up to swim?  I don’t.  I considered myself lucky to just have someone within 50 feet of me whether they were watching me or not.

***It is likely becoming readily apparent to some of you, based on this and prior posts, that one of the primary reasons for having kids—besides the outright fun of having lots of sex to make the little moppets—is to provide me with an endless source of humor.

Waxing

He spiritedly ransacked his life,

Throwing memories willy-nilly over his shoulder,

Searching for the happiness he was sure he’d left somewhere.

“Someone will have to pick that up,” he said distractedly

To the detritus of his life strewn about the floor.

Aware that the responsibility was his alone,

He still issued this subtle plea for help

To the no ones in the room.

Dismayed that the elusive goal remained undiscovered,

He turned a weary, wary eye to an unopened closet in his soul.

The fears and mistakes locked within scratched at the door,

Mewling softly for release to lay siege once more

To his battered and bereft heart.

A hesitant hand reached for the door knob

As he knew in that life-scarred heart

That happiness was hiding amidst those fears.

And those fears must be cast aside,

One by one,

To find it.

My Sister

I am emotionally detached from my sister. She seems more like a distant third aunt twice removed, than a sister. Some of that is because she was already a teenager when i showed up as an “oops” child. The rest of the reason? I’m not sure.

There are other things through my life which made me feel detached from her, but the defining moment in my relationship with sis was when my niece, my sister’s only child, got married a few years back. Two events lay etched in my mind—

The first event pissed me off more than it should have, so I’m admitting to some over-sensitivity. Having struggled with being overweight all my life… and at this point in time weighing the most I ever did… I was nonetheless shocked by what happened. After the wedding, when the eleventy-seven pictures were being taken, it was time for the pictures of the bride’s uncles and mom. My sister, always the fussy organizer, was trying to get my brother and me in just the right place for the photo. Just before the picture was taken, she looked at me again and said, none too quietly,

Sister: “Don’t worry, GnuKid, the photographer can photoshop out your double chins.”

Now… smile for the picture, GnuKid. Good thing I’m an actor.

That event teed me up for the quickly following second, which my Boy Child shared with me after the pictures and just before the reception.

It was a small wedding which seemed to have many details left to the last. There were no ushers planned for, so my Boy Child was ‘volunteered’ for duty 10 minutes before the ceremony. A quick instruction was sufficient for him—seat the groom’s family on the right, the bride’s on the left, and ‘leave the first two rows for immediate family, including my sister’s siblings’. After all were seated (the Boy dutifully seating me in the second row), the last in were to be parents of the bride and groom. When my sister came to the door to be escorted in, there was a panicked exchange with Boy Child—

Sister: “What’s GnuKid doing sitting in the second row? That’s for immediate family! You have to re-seat him! Wait… [pause]… that’s right… he’s my brother… he’s my brother… he’s my brother…”.

Funny? Yeah, I can see the humor. But after a life of feeling so distant from her, this just sealed that feeling.

But, she’s family. Do I love her? Yeah… Do I like her? Well… no.

Call Sign Confusion

Always in poor weather and often otherwise, when I fly I will put myself in the hands of Air Traffic Control. This puts me on the same radio frequency as airlines and corporate flights.

When talking on the radio, most of us ‘regular’ pilots identify ourselves by the type of aircraft, followed by the plane’s full (or after contact, shortened) registration number. So when talking to Air Traffic Control, I may be “Cessna 7-3-Bravo” (more on the fun of the phonetic alphabet another time).

Airlines and corporate flights are almost the same, but they get to use more fun names in place of the type of aircraft. And the airlines use their flight number instead of their registration number.

Some airlines are proud of their name and heritage, so listening on the radio you’ll hear—“American 4-1-2-1” or “Aeromexico 2-0-7”

Other airlines, no less proud of their name, still use other identifiers for their flights—“Speedbird 2-7-9” (British Airways) or “Springbok 3-9-4” (South African Airways)

Corporate flights vary in the same way—“Ford 1-7-Foxtrot” (Ford Motor Company) or “Air Johnson 3-7-4” (for Johnson Air)

And some relate to individual people—“Shepherd 1” (that would be the Pope’s jet) or “Unicorn 1” (Prince of Wales)

So, on a flight a few years back, I was surprised to hear a call sign I’d not heard before. I had to listen closely to hear it again. Then asked my passenger to confirm what I’d heard. I later looked it up and could not find an official call sign, so the mystery deepened and continues.

So I ask you, gentle reader… who do you think is being flown in an airplane with the call sign identifier: “Cross Dresser”?

Worry Lobe

As part of opening up more, I first must take inventory of myself. Sort of like a baseline exercise.

“I am an old man and have known a great many troubles, but most of them never happened…” — Mark Twain

As you all know, different lobes of the brain control different things. I think my Worry Lobe is oversized… Actually, here’s what I think it looks like… that blue part up front.

I do take solace in knowing I’m not alone. Discussing this theory with a friend a few weeks ago, she immediately added her endorsement and proclaimed herself ‘Queen of Worry’*. She told me she has been known to snap at people attempting to help her by saying, “Do not confuse me with the facts, I’m busy worrying here.” Yep… me too.

Nonetheless, I, like Mr. Twain, often find myself letting my mind’s imagination wander to the strangest and most unlikely of events, particularly when I’m tired or overstressed. This results in added stress and exhaustion from such worry and is clearly not good for me. Anticipating events or evils that will visit me that are unlikely doesn’t help me plan for them. Rather, it makes me fuss more and plan less. And, regrettably, on some occasions I let that worry dictate how I treat people. People who are clueless (and likely innocent) of the untrue forgeries my Worry Lobe has applied to ‘what they’re doing to me’.

To them, I know an apology is in order (I apologize). To myself, I apologize as well and hope I get my own act together to live a less worried life.

Way too much of my time is wasted on stuff that

(a) I can’t do a damn thing about,

(b) isn’t likely true anyway,

(c) nope, still no ‘c’, or

(d) even if it were true and I could do something about it, it’s impact and hurt is likely far less in reality than in my worries.

Life is too short to waste on such. Time should be spent celebrating and enjoying life.

I know of no miracle cures. Temporary ones, for sure (a good roll in the hay comes to mind… hell, even a bad roll in the hay would work… I just need some rolling). It’s just a matter of getting over myself, staying in close reach of reality, and taking on the world a moment at a time. Each moment can be a joy. Stop worrying about the unlikely next moment and wallow in the one i’m in. [deep breath] Okay, let me at it…

“Don’t worry… Be happy.” — Bobby McFerin

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*Any of you out there who feel that you are the rightful owner of this title, let me know. I’d be very happy to set up a bikini-clad, baby-oiled wrestling match between the two of you to claim sole title.