An ex-coworker and friend of Lynda's is in town for a few days and staying at a hotel in downtown St. John's. We used the excuse that it was a Tuesday night to ensure he wasn't trapped in his hotel room watching a Miami Vice marathon and having to endure the shouts and curses of the prostitutes peddling themselves. The hooker and john show takes place every evening at a corner or two in the east end of our fair city. To those of you with your heads in the sand, St. John's has it's vices too.
Off we went to a local pub, where we know that live music can be heard seven days a week. There were just enough people in there to give the Water Street watering hole a nice vibe, but not too many that we couldn't get a decent table. It turned out that a popular musician, who is also a friend of mine, plays there every Tuesday from 7 to 10 p.m. A round of drinks arrived and we ordered the large plate of grub that has everything on it that one would expect from a Newfie-Irish pub. Exactly what those things are is anyone's guess, as it all wears the same batter and gets bathed in the same hot oil. Some good though!
With drinks in hand, Lynda took that moment to propose a toast - "To Jim and to his latest retirement." Earlier that day, I tendered my resignation for the provincial government job that I held for four weeks and two days. I didn't worry about giving the standard two weeks notice and I'm not sure if I was supposed to or not. It would seem kind of bazaar to stick around for that long, given that I occupied a desk there for less than a calendar month. I wonder if they'll pay me for the two weeks anyway in lieu of the notice? I'll have to get the union rep to check that out. I have to get something out of those union dues that I paid for the first time in my working life.
Lynda has actually been extremely understanding. Not that she truly understands what goes through my head, but nonetheless, understanding in the way that I need her to be. I'm now, once again, fully employed in a much more meaningful way. I like having my old title back - dad, chauffeur, coach, chef, dog walker, and writer. I'll stick with this job for a while. I'll probably always be searching, looking for that career that epitomizes the statement "do what you love and love what you do".
My musician friend finishes for the evening and is probably heading home to his wife and young children. Music was once his life, but I can tell that now it is more of a passion. He plays not because he has to but because he wants to. Having a passion, a zest for something in life, is really what it is all about. I love witnessing that in people.
It's after 11 and we need to get home to our kids and let mom get to bed. We drop our friend back at his hotel and we don't see too much Sodom and Gomorrah type activity on the Duckworth Street corners. It's still early by the business hours of those people and it is a pretty nice September night by St. John's standards, so I have no doubt that program will rerun this night, as it has for generations. We live in suburbia, so this type of entertainment is not available to us by merely looking out of our windows. It's okay though because the boob tube will help me wind down from the excitement of my retirement party and from the lump in my stomach caused by the kitchen sink stuff I ate. I can channel surf until I find detectives Crockett and Tubbs kicking bad guy butt in Miami. I can be patient. I have all night.... I'm retired, again.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
Baseball, Sombreros and Feelings
I had a rough morning at work. Actually, this morning's episode was the culmination of several weeks of letting my mind wander out to left field. For you non baseball aficionados, left field is where the weakest player usually ends up. That player has the shortest throws to 3rd base and the shortstop, usually the best athlete on the team, is able to get to the balls that are heading to the short left field area. The left fielder can often be seen picking clovers or admiring the shapes being made by the passing clouds. Thus, being out in left field is synonymous with someone who just doesn't have his or her head in the game - they often are in an alternate reality.
Sounds like any of us could be in the major leagues, but even the left fielder has to come to bat at some time during the game. There's nowhere to hide when you're at the plate and the pitcher is winding up. Being a good hitter is as much about confidence and mental preparation as it is about strength, coordination and technique. Perhaps the attributes required of a 300 hitter are the same as for the enjoyment of life. In many respects, like baseball, life is a game. The more we are able to keep things in perspective and realize that we control how we feel about ourselves and our lives, then the better we will be at playing that most important of all games - life. (That's a small l, although my kids really love Life, the board game too. Grown ups run for cover whenever it comes out of the cupboard, either because it takes too long to play or because it reminds of us too much of paths not taken.)
I retired from the RCMP a year ago in order to preserve my mental health or, more accurately, what was left of it. At the end of my career I felt like a baseball player who had already struck out three times in a single game and was stepping to the plate for the forth time against a flame throwing southpaw. Every day, as I headed into the office, I believed the prospects of a fourth strike out, thereby earning the inglorious golden sombrero, loomed large. Negative experience after negative experience clouded out anything that was good about being a cop. I became afraid to make a mistake. I found it tedious to even think about taking the bat off of my shoulder. I became a left fielder who couldn't hit. There was no place for me to hide or be hidden. I went to the bench and warmed it for a while. I evened tried pinch hitting, but the magic never returned. I considered myself washed up. My contract was bought out. I was only too happy to go.
Time is the supposed healer of all. I think this is often true, especially for illnesses of the mind. In some cases though, healing appears to have occurred, but in reality it is only because the passage of time plays tricks on our memories. It is the human tendency to see the past while wearing rose coloured glasses. That would explain why so may athletes attempt comebacks long after the sun has set on their careers. A few months or years removed from the routine and rigors that permeated their lives for decades makes them believe that they can run just as fast as ever, that they are smarter than before, and that they can still catch up to the 95 mile per hour fastball. In reality, few, if any, ever get back the ability or the glory. Despite this fact, every year, there are those amongst us who make the attempt.
I was (am) one of these hopefuls. Four weeks ago I began a temporary job with the province doing regulatory enforcement for the financial services industry, which is comprised of those companies and individuals who are involved in real estate, insurance, and securities. In my mind it was sort of a "cop lite" situation, similar but calorie reduced, so it would be better for me. It would have a similar flavour as policing, but would likely not have the same degree of stressors that gave me such a bad taste at the end of my career. In any event, my term would expire at the end of March and I could then walk away knowing I had fulfilled my obligation.
The first four weeks have been like baseball's spring training. I have slowly been working the cobwebs out and have shaken the rust from the part of my investigator's brain that has been dormant for many months. It has been good to get back into the field and once again toss the ball around with my teammates at my new office. There has been no pressure to put up numbers. For four weeks I have been the Babe Ruth of batting practice, as I easily handled everything thrown my way. As you know, batting practice fastballs are not fast at all. Even chasing down fly balls in left field is easy when it's not in a game situation.
Today was opening day. This morning, I was to commence an investigation involving some possible wrong doing by people in the financial services sector. It was to be my first plate appearance in my first real game since I started on the come back trail. I froze. Worse than that.... the bat was shaking so much in my hands that I could not hold it, let alone think about taking a swing and making contact. The not-so-good memories of my time as a cop returned with a vengeance. I was not ready for the negative emotion that came along with the memories. These feelings are powerful and oh so real. For the last number of years when I was a police officer, I had a recurring dream that I was in a dangerous situation and needed to fire my gun at a bad guy. No matter how hard I tried, I could never muster the strength of actually pull the trigger. The dream would always focus in on my hand and my gun and I would be left wondering why I couldn't do something so simple and that I was so good at in practice. My dream never went any further to explore what happened to me or the bad guy. I never really find out if I'm shooting my gun to save only myself or someone else as well. When I left the RCMP last year, that dream stopped. As I reflect to write this story, I realize that it returned last night.
I've been told by a person, who should know, that dreams don't mean anything. I've also been told by a person, who does know, that I must first deal with the feelings that I am experiencing because of my new job and that dealing with the specifics of the job are secondary to that. Well, where do I start? I have feelings of here we go again, disappointing my family, of anger towards people at my new office, of being trapped in a job that I hate, uncertainty about what my career future will be or should be, guilt for seeming not to have made any progress in my self-understanding during the past three years, and about contributing and bringing enough money home so my family's quality of life is not adversely affected. I want my life to be filled with happiness and worth. I think(?) I need a job that has those qualities as well and is not simply a place where I go for 40 hours a week or is used as a means to an end. Is that unrealistic? Perhaps I'm dreaming. Maybe I've spent way too much time in left field. Maybe I like the view from there.
Sounds like any of us could be in the major leagues, but even the left fielder has to come to bat at some time during the game. There's nowhere to hide when you're at the plate and the pitcher is winding up. Being a good hitter is as much about confidence and mental preparation as it is about strength, coordination and technique. Perhaps the attributes required of a 300 hitter are the same as for the enjoyment of life. In many respects, like baseball, life is a game. The more we are able to keep things in perspective and realize that we control how we feel about ourselves and our lives, then the better we will be at playing that most important of all games - life. (That's a small l, although my kids really love Life, the board game too. Grown ups run for cover whenever it comes out of the cupboard, either because it takes too long to play or because it reminds of us too much of paths not taken.)
I retired from the RCMP a year ago in order to preserve my mental health or, more accurately, what was left of it. At the end of my career I felt like a baseball player who had already struck out three times in a single game and was stepping to the plate for the forth time against a flame throwing southpaw. Every day, as I headed into the office, I believed the prospects of a fourth strike out, thereby earning the inglorious golden sombrero, loomed large. Negative experience after negative experience clouded out anything that was good about being a cop. I became afraid to make a mistake. I found it tedious to even think about taking the bat off of my shoulder. I became a left fielder who couldn't hit. There was no place for me to hide or be hidden. I went to the bench and warmed it for a while. I evened tried pinch hitting, but the magic never returned. I considered myself washed up. My contract was bought out. I was only too happy to go.
Time is the supposed healer of all. I think this is often true, especially for illnesses of the mind. In some cases though, healing appears to have occurred, but in reality it is only because the passage of time plays tricks on our memories. It is the human tendency to see the past while wearing rose coloured glasses. That would explain why so may athletes attempt comebacks long after the sun has set on their careers. A few months or years removed from the routine and rigors that permeated their lives for decades makes them believe that they can run just as fast as ever, that they are smarter than before, and that they can still catch up to the 95 mile per hour fastball. In reality, few, if any, ever get back the ability or the glory. Despite this fact, every year, there are those amongst us who make the attempt.
I was (am) one of these hopefuls. Four weeks ago I began a temporary job with the province doing regulatory enforcement for the financial services industry, which is comprised of those companies and individuals who are involved in real estate, insurance, and securities. In my mind it was sort of a "cop lite" situation, similar but calorie reduced, so it would be better for me. It would have a similar flavour as policing, but would likely not have the same degree of stressors that gave me such a bad taste at the end of my career. In any event, my term would expire at the end of March and I could then walk away knowing I had fulfilled my obligation.
The first four weeks have been like baseball's spring training. I have slowly been working the cobwebs out and have shaken the rust from the part of my investigator's brain that has been dormant for many months. It has been good to get back into the field and once again toss the ball around with my teammates at my new office. There has been no pressure to put up numbers. For four weeks I have been the Babe Ruth of batting practice, as I easily handled everything thrown my way. As you know, batting practice fastballs are not fast at all. Even chasing down fly balls in left field is easy when it's not in a game situation.
Today was opening day. This morning, I was to commence an investigation involving some possible wrong doing by people in the financial services sector. It was to be my first plate appearance in my first real game since I started on the come back trail. I froze. Worse than that.... the bat was shaking so much in my hands that I could not hold it, let alone think about taking a swing and making contact. The not-so-good memories of my time as a cop returned with a vengeance. I was not ready for the negative emotion that came along with the memories. These feelings are powerful and oh so real. For the last number of years when I was a police officer, I had a recurring dream that I was in a dangerous situation and needed to fire my gun at a bad guy. No matter how hard I tried, I could never muster the strength of actually pull the trigger. The dream would always focus in on my hand and my gun and I would be left wondering why I couldn't do something so simple and that I was so good at in practice. My dream never went any further to explore what happened to me or the bad guy. I never really find out if I'm shooting my gun to save only myself or someone else as well. When I left the RCMP last year, that dream stopped. As I reflect to write this story, I realize that it returned last night.
I've been told by a person, who should know, that dreams don't mean anything. I've also been told by a person, who does know, that I must first deal with the feelings that I am experiencing because of my new job and that dealing with the specifics of the job are secondary to that. Well, where do I start? I have feelings of here we go again, disappointing my family, of anger towards people at my new office, of being trapped in a job that I hate, uncertainty about what my career future will be or should be, guilt for seeming not to have made any progress in my self-understanding during the past three years, and about contributing and bringing enough money home so my family's quality of life is not adversely affected. I want my life to be filled with happiness and worth. I think(?) I need a job that has those qualities as well and is not simply a place where I go for 40 hours a week or is used as a means to an end. Is that unrealistic? Perhaps I'm dreaming. Maybe I've spent way too much time in left field. Maybe I like the view from there.
Friday, August 12, 2011
The Designer Caveman
I'll never be accused of dressing like George Clooney (or looking like him for that matter). It's not that I don't like nice clothes. When tastefully chosen and worn at the appropriate function, clothes can go along way to make a person feel comfortable, if not even somewhat special. Have you ever seen a guy in a tuxedo who did not think that he was, at that moment, the "cat's meow", the subject of every woman's desires? How about the well known expression that women find it hard to resist a man in uniform? Hollywood movie makers long ago understood the attractiveness of a leading man cloaked in a spiffy military uniform, or being one of the "boys in blue", or even wearing the rubber boots and britches of a fireman. Why do you think retail businesses, like Tim Horton's, McDonald's and KFC, require their employees to wear uniforms? The clothes send a message of cleanliness and professionalism and that helps to keep customers coming back.
As a former RCMP officer, I know all too well the symbolism of the uniform. The RCMP knows it too. In the early 1990's, the Force negotiated a deal with Disney to share in the profits generated by the sale of all of that Mountie memoriabilia. None of these items is more recognizable or more popular than the Mountie's red tunic,officially known as the Red Serge. It doesn't seem to matter if it is on a minature figurine of a person or a moose, those things sell.
The RCMP also uses the uniform like a carrot placed in front of an unwilling jackass. Upon arriving at the training centre in Regina, every recruit is issued several types of uniforms. Encompassed in these are the traditional, everyday working clothes and the vaunted formal Review Order dress that includes the Red Serge. The catch is that newbies in training are not allowed to wear the actual uniform of the RCMP. The Force has learned that it works very well if new Mounties learn that the priviledge of wearing the real uniform has to be earned. As a result, I started my training wearing tacky brown pants and sneakers. To make us look and feel even more unattractive, we were not allowed to walk whenever we had to go from one building to another. We had to jog and we had better not be observed touching any of the side walks while doing so either. Those were reserved for the more distinguishably dressed Mounties.
After a few months of sweat and toil, as well as numerous tongue lashings from those entrusted with making us respectable Mounties, most troops get to wear "their blues", which are the pants with the yellow stripe down the side of each leg. I admit that I was always proud to wear the uniform. Dressing in it made me feel different somehow. It is almost the same feeling as strapping on your helmet just before going onto the ice for a big game. The noise the helmet clasp makes and the sound my pistol made, as I secured it in its holster, both signified that I was ready for whatever lay ahead.
In my 21 year career, I probably only wore the actual uniform for a total of three or four years. I spent many years chasing drug dealers, which actually meant following them around secretly, as we waited to catch them red handed and make the big bust. Doing this while in uniform is possible, it is just that you'd never catch any of these wily bandits. The standard uniform of the narc is whatever everyone else happens to be wearing, necessitated by the fact that we need to blend in, not stand out. In my case, it was jeans and a t-shirt and that was fine with me. I never had the desire to own Gucci this or Gucci that. Thankfully, I am retired and don't have to investigate those many young kids who seem enamoured with the newer designer type drugs, such as ecstasy and methamphetamine. I'd have an extremely difficult time fitting into today's youth culture. I'd hate to have to try and put those large buttons in my earlobes. My genes are also against me, as my hairline no longer allows me to sport a Mohawk. What I have now-a-days is more like a natural reverse Mohawk. Perhaps in today's anything goes society, a plump, hairy eared, middle aged, jeans and t-shirt wearing undercover cop would still be effective. It's possible, but the brand of the jeans better be Guess and not Dickies from Walmart.
Sure, nice clothes say a lot about a person, but don't be fooled into thinking that you can tell everything you need to know about someone just by the materials hanging from their body. First and foremost, clothing has always been functional. They keep us warm, dry and protected from the sun. I doubt our cavemen ancestors cared if their fur underwear were from a sabre tooth tiger or a woolly mammoth, as long as it did what it was supposed to do. My attitude on clothes is fashioned after these cavemen. Like them, I have little idea about how to mix and match colours and styles. I have a wife for that and I believe that was probably the basis for the first union of man and woman. The females amongst us could no longer stand man's ineptitude for dressing themselves.
I doubt I will ever change. Yesterday, I attended a man's store because I'm starting a new office job on Monday. It seems that most of my older suits have shrunk while idling in my closet this last year or two. Who knew that inactivity could cause clothing to shrivel up! I purchased two suits, four shirts, and three ties in a total time of about eight minutes. I would have been out of there quicker, but the sales guy insisted that I actually try the stuff on. That visit confirmed that I am a fashion dinosaur. The sales guy gave me his business card (probably for when I need another suit in about ten years) and under his name was his title - Wardrobe Consultant. I can honestly admit that, before today, the word wardrobe was not in my vocabulary, nor of any of the guys that I know. The RCMP is a progressive organization, but I doubt I would have lasted even 21 days if, while in training, I had ever asked my thirty one male troop mates which wardrobe we would be wearing that day. It would have given a literal meaning to the expression "dressed to kill".
As a former RCMP officer, I know all too well the symbolism of the uniform. The RCMP knows it too. In the early 1990's, the Force negotiated a deal with Disney to share in the profits generated by the sale of all of that Mountie memoriabilia. None of these items is more recognizable or more popular than the Mountie's red tunic,officially known as the Red Serge. It doesn't seem to matter if it is on a minature figurine of a person or a moose, those things sell.
The RCMP also uses the uniform like a carrot placed in front of an unwilling jackass. Upon arriving at the training centre in Regina, every recruit is issued several types of uniforms. Encompassed in these are the traditional, everyday working clothes and the vaunted formal Review Order dress that includes the Red Serge. The catch is that newbies in training are not allowed to wear the actual uniform of the RCMP. The Force has learned that it works very well if new Mounties learn that the priviledge of wearing the real uniform has to be earned. As a result, I started my training wearing tacky brown pants and sneakers. To make us look and feel even more unattractive, we were not allowed to walk whenever we had to go from one building to another. We had to jog and we had better not be observed touching any of the side walks while doing so either. Those were reserved for the more distinguishably dressed Mounties.
After a few months of sweat and toil, as well as numerous tongue lashings from those entrusted with making us respectable Mounties, most troops get to wear "their blues", which are the pants with the yellow stripe down the side of each leg. I admit that I was always proud to wear the uniform. Dressing in it made me feel different somehow. It is almost the same feeling as strapping on your helmet just before going onto the ice for a big game. The noise the helmet clasp makes and the sound my pistol made, as I secured it in its holster, both signified that I was ready for whatever lay ahead.
In my 21 year career, I probably only wore the actual uniform for a total of three or four years. I spent many years chasing drug dealers, which actually meant following them around secretly, as we waited to catch them red handed and make the big bust. Doing this while in uniform is possible, it is just that you'd never catch any of these wily bandits. The standard uniform of the narc is whatever everyone else happens to be wearing, necessitated by the fact that we need to blend in, not stand out. In my case, it was jeans and a t-shirt and that was fine with me. I never had the desire to own Gucci this or Gucci that. Thankfully, I am retired and don't have to investigate those many young kids who seem enamoured with the newer designer type drugs, such as ecstasy and methamphetamine. I'd have an extremely difficult time fitting into today's youth culture. I'd hate to have to try and put those large buttons in my earlobes. My genes are also against me, as my hairline no longer allows me to sport a Mohawk. What I have now-a-days is more like a natural reverse Mohawk. Perhaps in today's anything goes society, a plump, hairy eared, middle aged, jeans and t-shirt wearing undercover cop would still be effective. It's possible, but the brand of the jeans better be Guess and not Dickies from Walmart.
Sure, nice clothes say a lot about a person, but don't be fooled into thinking that you can tell everything you need to know about someone just by the materials hanging from their body. First and foremost, clothing has always been functional. They keep us warm, dry and protected from the sun. I doubt our cavemen ancestors cared if their fur underwear were from a sabre tooth tiger or a woolly mammoth, as long as it did what it was supposed to do. My attitude on clothes is fashioned after these cavemen. Like them, I have little idea about how to mix and match colours and styles. I have a wife for that and I believe that was probably the basis for the first union of man and woman. The females amongst us could no longer stand man's ineptitude for dressing themselves.
I doubt I will ever change. Yesterday, I attended a man's store because I'm starting a new office job on Monday. It seems that most of my older suits have shrunk while idling in my closet this last year or two. Who knew that inactivity could cause clothing to shrivel up! I purchased two suits, four shirts, and three ties in a total time of about eight minutes. I would have been out of there quicker, but the sales guy insisted that I actually try the stuff on. That visit confirmed that I am a fashion dinosaur. The sales guy gave me his business card (probably for when I need another suit in about ten years) and under his name was his title - Wardrobe Consultant. I can honestly admit that, before today, the word wardrobe was not in my vocabulary, nor of any of the guys that I know. The RCMP is a progressive organization, but I doubt I would have lasted even 21 days if, while in training, I had ever asked my thirty one male troop mates which wardrobe we would be wearing that day. It would have given a literal meaning to the expression "dressed to kill".
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