Stacey blogged about coffee. A bad night’s sleep, she wrote, and then straight to the coffee pot. We met on WordPress when I was addicted, each of us describing the pull of the brew. An elixir, she calls it. By definition, elixirs are magical or medicinal. For me, coffee is both. Was.
My therapist, when I saw a therapist, told me that my desire to hone an identity disrupted my holistic self. My need to define myself by narrow categories, she said—alternating between a runner, a cyclist, a drinker, a writer, a caffeine addict, et cetera—didn’t allow me to be a whole person. She told me to knock it off. I’ve worked on that ever since.
I quite caffeine six months ago. Alcohol eight years ago. Pot when I met Susan (so long ago we still called it pot). I’m out of vices, straight-edge forty years too late. Well, there’s still meat, because when I went vegetarian, my iron levels crashed, and I lived my life dizzily. My doctor prescribed Burger King as a remedy.
Yesterday, I bought a pair of bike gloves—those sleek, nylon gloves with shorn fingers and padded palms. I threw away my last pair in 1994. In the first weeks of my four-month bicycle ride across America, I noticed that my gloves gave my hands an unsightly tan line. On an impulse, I ditched my gloves. I’ve prided myself for riding glove-free for thirty years. I judged myself minimalist. Sure, I still wore a helmet, cycling shorts and cleated shoes, but gloves were an unnecessary luxury. During that period, I made plenty of derogatory comments about ‘wusses’ and their silly bike gloves. Another identity, a cyclist too cool and too tough for gloves.
A year ago, I had surgery to correct carpal tunnel syndrome. For a year before that, my thumb, from its tip to the center of my hand, was numb. When I say numb, I mean the numbness sat below a layer of skin. The skin itself was hypersensitive, every poke or prod hurt. The surgery went smoothly but the numbness never went away.
As they always do, the surgeon recommended physical therapy. The therapist demanded that I stop doing any activity that put pressure on my hand—cycling, yoga and weightlifting. I asked her for how long, and she said three or four months, then we could reassess. This was on top of the two-month break I already took post-surgery. I quit physical therapy, and I’ve lived with a numb hand ever since.
My friend Tom, an orthopedic surgeon and an avid cyclist, suggested bike gloves would help. He said I should minimize the pressure on the heal of my hand. I immediately dismissed this idea as ridiculous. No way was I becoming one of those people. But I have, or I will. For the past few weeks, the numbness has worsened. It seems to be spreading to my index finger. The first time I’ll wear my new gloves is in a spin class tonight. People in spin class don’t wear bike gloves. I’m going to feel like an idiot. I will be judged. I’ll judge myself. I want to wear a sign on my back that reads Hand Injury, MYOFB. Another identity shattered. But does it even matter?
My therapist got her wish. I no longer have defining traits to boast, identities I want to embrace. For better or worse, all those things I thought made me special seem to have disappeared. Or more likely, I no longer see them as identifiers. Yes, I still run, and cycle, and write. I’ve added yoga into the mix. I’m a nondrinker and caffeine free. These are all identities I could latch onto, but I no longer feel the need to do that anymore.
In the final scene of the movie Goodfellas, the main character Henry Hill delivers a monologue. He talks about his tumble from being an a-list New York City gangster to an everyday middle-class Joe in witness protection. He sums it up like this:
Today, everything is different. There’s no action. I have to wait around like everyone else. Can’t even get decent food. Right after I got here, I ordered some spaghetti with marinara sauce, and I got egg noodles and ketchup. I’m an average nobody. I get to live the rest of my life like a schnook.
Me too, Henry, me too. Schnook is the destination I’ve been aiming towards for years. I think I’ve arrived.
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Previously Published on jefftcann.com and is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
