Wishful Thinking

Wishful Thinking
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

"The only cure for vanity is laughter, and the only fault that is laughable is vanity."
Henri Bergson


November 14, 2008, New York City:

Wishful Thinking

Until very recently, just last week in fact, I thought I was immortal.

Well, perhaps I didn’t feel I could beat death, but rather, somehow, often hubris got the best of me and I felt that I aged better—less rapidly—than others.

Thus, until now, I mocked my mortality.

Any time that I noticed a sign that my years were numbered—a grey hair, ailing bones, tired muscles, weight gain due to ABD, withering eyesight—I merely accepted the inevitable and laughed my worries away.

That is, until now.

For last week I nonchalantly and naively went to get a haircut.

I thought nothing of it. I had a very long day ahead of me for I was managing both a 4-hour senior managers meeting for 80 people in the morning and our department’s annual holiday party for 400 people at night, so I got up at 5 and was at the barber shop by 7.

I told him, “Just give me a trim.” I didn’t need to say much more because Edie, a Russian Jew from Israel, had been cutting my hair for almost nine years now, the same amount of time I’d been working at the Company right around the corner.

Together we’ve been through two divorces, a second marriage, and four kids.

After he held up the mirror to show me how the back looked, I smiled and asked him to give me some hair gel.

He immediately responded, “No, no leave it like it is, your hair is getting thinner.”

“…my hair is getting thinner?” I thought to myself, both momentarily shocked and immediately thrown into a vertigo-of-explanation.

“What do you mean, my hair’s getting thinner? Really, my hair’s getting thinner?” I asked. And after spinning woozily through all the possible explanations—I didn't gel it this morning, knowing I was getting it cut, so it felt soft to him; I've been using a lot more conditioner lately, thus its lithe texture; it hadn't been too long since I got my last haircut—I finally accepted that my barber, the guy who knows my hair better than anyone in the world, was telling me my hair’s getting thinner.

He knew I was suddenly taken aback and somewhat in shock and tried to console me by lying, “Yeah, yeah, you know the gel can do that to your hair.”

I wasn’t satisfied by his ruse though and probed, to my dissatisfaction, even further. “Really, my hair’s getting thinner?” I grimaced, dazed and confused.

Tight-lipped, he raised his brow and conceded, “Yeah, it is getting thinner on top.”

Handing him his money, I smirked back and tried not to blame the messenger .

*

The rest of the day I worked literally nonstop from 7:30 AM until 9 PM, so that I had little-to-no time to ponder this startling revelation.

For the most part I shrugged it off, half in disbelief, half banking on 40 years of good looks and being told I had great hair.

I’ve been told numerous times by barbers and girlfriends alike, “Mexicans have great hair.” And they do. And I am.

But what I’m not, apparently, is immortal. Because, just like everyone else, Mexicans lose their hair too.

Thus on Saturday evening, when Chelsea and I were attending Anna’s art opening with the kids, I told Enzo that he must milk the recent compliments about his golden locks of curly jet black hair while he can.

Apparently, since his mother finally conceded to my pleading to let his hair grow out, women now constantly tell him, “I love your hair!”

Enzo received one such compliment after I introduced him to Sharon at the opening. His reaction was a nonchalant and unamused “Thanks,” walking away as if he had heard those same words a million times before.

*

Apart from this moment of paternal wit, I had successfully ignored the issue for a couple of days, focusing more on the shock of hair, a goatee, that I was growing and grooming on my chinny-chin-chin, than that which apparently had stopped growing atop my head.

That is, until later that same Saturday night.

Chelsea and I had just left the kids behind with the babysitter and we were walking briskly across 62nd Street to the Empire Hotel for Jennifer’s birthday party. It was snowing and bitter cold, so to warm us up I decided to share the funny anecdote about how Sweeny Todd, the demon barber of 28th Street, had told me my hair’s getting thinner.

I fully expected Chelsea to simply laugh with me as I mockingly made fun of my age, my diminishing sense of manhood, and my realization that I was on a journey of no return, but instead she said, “Yeah, that’s one of the first things I noticed about you when we started dating (a year ago).”

“What?,” I reacted, startled more than ever.

“You must be kidding,” I honestly questioned in disbelief.

“No, you're losing hair on the top of your head,” she said, without a losing a beat, without any thought that I might not handle this news very well.


“There is nothing so agonizing to the fine skin of vanity as the application of a rough truth” Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton


Thus, once again, within a matter of days, I was injected with a painful dose of reality—as wise as I may be, the price is determined by the rising costs of age; no comps or free passes here, no Pass Go and Collect $200, no exceptions to the rule this time.

Thus, for the rest of the night I had to allay my growing fears with self-deprecating humor.

Thus, began my obsession in earnest.

Thus, I had to come to terms with my hair-o-noia, the fact that my hair is thinning—i.e. it is falling out, I am going bald, I am getting older, and I’m not half the man that I used to be.

*

I kind of wish that I had learned this lesson before I blew out my candles a few weeks before for my 41st birthday.

Alas, that is only wishful thinking.

Nonetheless and allthemore, I think I’m over my crisis now. Writing about it has always been a great and reliable catharsis for me.

Besides, I have much to grateful for and a gradual loss of hair should be the least of my worries. For there are many-many-millions of people out there without jobs, without homes and without any hair right now.

Moreover, Chelsea said she’d still love me no matter what, with or without hair. So, I’ve got that going for me.

I love you too Chelsea.

Lorenzo

“The surest cure for vanity is loneliness.” Thomas Wolfe


Related Stories:

Stubble Trouble
It’s Not Easy Being a Baldwin…(I’ve got ABD)
Seeing, Into The Future
The Exuberance of Enervation
I am beginning…
But a Number
Aging and Anonymity
It was a good 40 years
Almost 40

*

Check Out My Bookstore:
www.blurb.com/user/store/lorenzodom

It was a good 40 years…

I did it my way...
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

I’m dying…

Which is merely to say, acknowledge, accept—that I’ve likely entered the latter half of my life.

After all, even The Chairman of the Board, Ol’ Blue Eyes, the once-immortal Mr. Frank Sinatra eventually had to die too, at the ripe-old age of 82. Both my grandparents lived into eighties as well. And my maternal grandmother passed away at 94—so I’m not really worried…

Although, I did wake up with a sore throat this morning.

In the past, usually I’ve thought a sore throat was just a sore throat, and nothing more to fret about. However, lately, I’ve worried a little more about how, for the last 16 years, I’ve tried to make up for the first 24 years of being relatively straight-and-narrow.

In particular, I’m referring to the regular-irregular indulgence of-in tetrahydrocannabinol.

Hence, I’m slightly more paranoid than usual about my “sore throat.”

Of course, it doesn’t help that I’m dating a doctor who tells me about her dying patients, almost daily.

In fact, in the last 40 days I’ve heard the word “metastasis” 10 times more than I’ve heard it during my first forty years.

Hence, I woke up this morning a bit more worried than usual. Hence, I thought, “Regardless, nonetheless and allthemore—it’s been a good 40 years.”

I’m satisfied that if I were to die today, that I’ve left behind a legacy for my boys, which readily conveys how happy and how exuberant I’ve felt about living. And that, hopefully, will likewise inspire my children and others to feel the same about this wonderful life.

Hopefully, I will live another 40 happy, healthy and fruitful years, if only to enjoy my night on earth just a little longer.

Thus, I’ll think positively, and, for the moment, believe that I will survive my sore throat—especially since it went away an hour after I woke up…

(Although, I’ve still got that certain dull heaviness in my chest that seemingly makes it hard to breath every once in a while—the metastasis pressing against my lungs and all…)


And now, the end is near,
And so I face the final curtain.
My friends, I'll say it clear;
I'll state my case of which I'm certain.

I've lived a life that's full -
I've traveled each and every highway.
And more, much more than this,
I did it my way.

Regrets? I've had a few,
But then again, too few to mention.
I did what I had to do
And saw it through without exemption.

I planned each charted course -
Each careful step along the byway,
And more, much more than this,
I did it my way.

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew,
When I bit off more than I could chew,
But through it all, when there was doubt,
I ate it up and spit it out.
I faced it all and I stood tall
And did it my way.

I've loved, I've laughed and cried,
I've had my fill - my share of losing.
But now, as tears subside,
I find it all so amusing.

To think I did all that,
And may I say, not in a shy way -
Oh no. Oh no, not me.
I did it my way.

For what is a man? What has he got?
If not himself - Then he has naught.
To say the things he truly feels
And not the words of one who kneels.
The record shows I took the blows
And did it my way.

Yes, it was my way.

— My Way, Frank Sinatra —


Note: Because I believe it is important to give credit where credit is due, here is the story behind this seminal song in Sinatra’s repertoire, according to the writer of the song, Paul Anka, as relayed on his website:

Paul first heard the French song, Comme D’habitude (written by J. Revaux, G. Thibault, C. Frankois), in the summer of 1967 when he was in Europe. Although it had different lyrics and a much different feel, Paul instantly connected with the melody. After running into Frank Sinatra, in Florida, who mentioned retiring sometime soon, he asked Paul when was he going to write something for him...so Paul, determined to do just that, returned to New York, sat down at the piano at 1 a.m. and wrote the song. Five hours later, this seminal composition was finished and was sent to Sinatra. After hearing the song, retiring became a distant memory— ‘My Way,’ went on to become Frank Sinatra’s signature song, and one of the most recognizable songs in the world.

I am beginning...

I am beginning...
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

A few days ago my estranged wife handed me a photo of me and hizoner, the honorable David Dinkins, former mayor of New York City, which she had come across while sorting through papers.

It was taken 15 years ago when we were in grad school together at Columbia, immediately after I had interviewed him on stage as part of an event that I had organized for my colleagues. I didn’t give the picture much of a second thought, putting it aside, inside my current read, The Divorce Process: Empowerment Through Knowledge, to use as a book marker.

At least, I didn’t think twice about it until Dom started reading the book that I had left on the couch, and upon finding the photo again, asked, “Is he dead yet?” or maybe she asked, “Is he still alive?” I’m not really sure, to be honest, how she asked exactly, but I do know that she essentially insinuated either way that she thought he wasn’t around anymore.

I think he still is, I answered.

Subsequently, this prompted me to ponder my own existence. As I am turning 40 in about 10 days, on Thanksgiving. Contemplating her question, I was somewhat shocked into consciousness about my own age, something that I am not usually all-too self-conscious about.

However, as I took a look at the photo again, it suddenly occurred to me that this was me 15 years ago, the thought resounding within me, echoing and piquing me to assess how time has exacted its toll upon me.

I suppose I’ve survived its wrath fairly well—I still have all my teeth, I haven’t started using a cane, and I’m still riled by desire practically every day.

However, I have gained some weight, keeping it off is an ongoing endeavor, the application of which fluctuates with the tide of life’s demands.

I don’t run as much as I used to, but I think that is primarily because I’ve picked up a number of vices over the last 15 years.

And occasionally I have problems that I have to deal with that slow me down and get me bickering more than I care to admit—heel spurs, back aches, asthma.

Nonetheless and allthemore, I am still alive, and perhaps, a bit wiser than I was 15 years ago.

I am beginning to understand the differences between the thrashing exuberance of youth and the calmer take on life that comes with age and experience.

I am beginning to see the follies of maturity as well, in turn embracing and being inspired by the courage and curiosity of my children.

I am beginning to envision the end and in turn thinking about how I should begin preparing for it—Do I want to fall or roll downward? And if I choose the latter, am I willing to pull back on the reins of the frantic fears of my middle age?

I am beginning to realize what matters most to me is what has long mattered most to me: it is immaterial and will not be considered an asset when it comes time to file for divorce.

I am beginning to learn that I shouldn’t work so hard at those things that will prove irrelevant in the end and to work smarter at those endeavors that will.

I am beginning to know how to let go, especially as things and plans and people unexpectedly perish and no longer take part in our lives.

I am beginning to face adversity with a smile and a grin, more often than with a furrowed brow, tightened fists and chagrin—for life is only as hard as you want it to be.

I am beginning to feel calm among the storms, each one becoming slightly easier to weather, knowing I’ve been through it all before.

I am beginning to understand others more and more; thus, increasingly wanting to know less and less—subsequently, solitude and I are becoming best of friends.

And, I find, that truly, I am beginning to enjoy my life more than ever before.

*

Oh, and by the way, I checked: David Dinkins still lives. He turned twice my age (i.e. 80) this last July.

Thank you Triborough for sharing the photo above of Bill McCreary, David Dinkins, and John Roland taken in March of this year.

He reports that according to the Gothamist, Dinkins just had his appendix removed a few weeks ago.

Guess I’m doomed, considering I had mine removed long before him, at the age of 32, on Valentine’s Day 1999.


*


Forthcoming! 25 Lessons: The Art of Living, to be published by Cyan Books in February 2008.

Until then, I’m happy to share with you the original 25 musings.