What Happens If You Catch Me

I pulled into Temple Emanu–El yesterday and remembered walking out after the rally post October 7th in 2023.

The place was packed as tightly as a stadium hosting the Superbowl and the community was processing the horror of the Hamas attack. One of the dumbest men I have ever encountered asked me to step aside so that he could move in front of me along with a woman he had spent the entire time hitting on.

The lack of couth and self awareness on his part had me gritting my teeth for half the night. When he asked me to step aside I said no and wondered how fucking stupid you have to be to try to push through a crowd of people who were grief stricken.

I heard him call me an asshole and when I turned my head to confront him I made sure my face was inches from his.

“I heard you” spilled from between my lips in a guttural sound that I remembered from many years past as a sign that I was ready to use my fists.

He saw the 1000 mile stare, apologized and drew back. I was glad he did because for the first time in years I knew I was ready to unload upon someone.

This time around I was back to be a part of a community that was grieving but my role was support for a dear friend who’s father died a few days earlier.

I stood in the minyan, recited kaddish and listened to a few stories about a man I had met a few times, but hadn’t seen in decades.

Afterwards I hugged my friend and welcomed him to the club no one wants to join, the one of those of us who have lost one or more parents.

Walked around the room with him and saw a few people I hadn’t seen since his wedding 31 years ago. We made the same silly remarks about how we all look the same but older and laughed.

It was good to be there to offer my support and I am grateful to have had the opportunity. I am looking forward to seeing him when I head down to Houston again.

A New Fan

That’s my new friend Brian who chose to visit me online. He isn’t a big fan of Jews or Israel. When he came at me with some weak insults I told him I wasn’t bothered by a boy who can’t talk about the creation of Jordan in ’46, the ’47 partition plan or Oslo Accords.

He chose not to respond with anything substantive and called me a European clown. He couldn’t see me snort or laugh at insults that were unworthy of a 3rd grader but he did decide to visit my Instagram story.

I talked about how I started a Yoga program online and said it is kind of kicking my butt. He replied to my tale with this gem.

I am unclear as to what he thought when he wrote this. You can accuse me of putting too much thought into it, but if he really thinks we’re eating kids wouldn’t he be concerned about what engaging could mean for him.

The question of what happens if you catch me could have dire consequences. If it was nothing more than him trying to make a comment about me, well ok. That’s weird.

But given the lady on the subway in New York maybe he is serious, don’t know but had this been in person he wouldn’t have gotten a handful of my hair without being gifted with a chance to engage in physical therapy.

The silence from people regarding this nonsense is deafening. But after the last number of years I am not surprised by it.

I shouldn’t be disappointed that people think Graham Plattner is a good candidate. Shouldn’t be surprised that women on the left voted for a guy who clearly has issues with them because we saw it with the right and Trump.

Shouldn’t be surprised that people who would go nuts if a candidate on the right had an SS tattoo on his chest but ignored it because winning at any cost is more important than morality.

But I keep on going because there are no other options and I won’t take the easy road.

****

The guy on the television screen tells me my body hasn’t lost its flexibility forever and that if I engage in his dynamic stretching program I will relearn how to move like I did when I was a kid.

This is day three and I swear I am starting to feel some changes. I can picture the changes and I focus on lasting another minute.

I am turning back the clock, this is just part of it. When the guy on the screen says something about it hurting and being uncomfortable I growl at it being just like a broken heart.

Not sure where that came from, but it fits and I growl you have to just keep on keeping on and it gets better.

A couple of hours later I am in the gym listening to Toby Keith and Sting sing I’m So Happy I Can’t Stop Crying and I have to hold myself back on adding more weight to the bar.

The docs have some disagreement about how much of a load I can take on with both arms. Some of them say I am good now and some say I should wait until I am around five or six months.

I try to balance it out because if I tear it again and have to go through this nonsense again I will be seriously bent.

I can almost lift as much with my right arm as I could when when I was in my twenties. I can see the cuts again and am anxious to bring my left up to speed.

But the beauty of age is I have more patience in some areas than I did when I was younger. So I focus on a reasonable progressive overload on my left and picture the body I am working towards.

I am still on the hero’s journey I have been writing about for the last 2 years, more myself than ever and closer to who I am becoming.

One more infusion to go…