The Raging Elitist

Sitting atop the roof at Folly Beach’s Catch 23, formerly Snapper Jack’s of bridal massacre fame, my college roommate Dan and I discussed the nature of unexpected joy, those fleeting moments in which the miraculousness of one’s existence is suddenly a palpable thing, when the light coming in the window or the thought of a loved one fills a person with gratitude at simply being alive. We also pondered the flipside of that wonderful feeling, the sense of being trapped in one’s own personal hell, the panicked self-loathing that might follow the realization of one’s shameful, petty ego. We decided that the prevalence of psychotropic prescription drugs for anxiety and depression might be explained by the balance of these two sensations being skewed too far to the negative side among the broader population, and we talked about the actions available to a person who wants to tip the scales more toward appreciation and contentment. Then, we embarked upon an evening of considerable and varied consumption that saw us end up outside Bert’s after two a.m. eating chicken sandwiches and waiting for an Uber.

Before our substance-aided happiness binge, I explained to Dan that for me, the acts of reading and writing are medicine for my soul. They keep me paying attention so that life doesn’t take on a stale texture. I like to always be working on a piece and to be in the middle of a book, because it helps me to see the world through a fresh set of eyes and not to get so easily wrapped up in whatever little slight my fragile ego might have recently suffered. The benefits are that my mind stays sharper; I sleep better; I’m generally nicer to other people and give myself fewer reasons to feel ashamed; and of course, I get to enjoy more often that almost tangible sense of appreciation for the miracle that is my very small, completely unearned life.

I like to be around kids too. People say it “keeps you young.” I remember in particular an older guy with whom I once coached using that line when I was in my twenties. I thought it was nothing but an empty cliché, but now that I’m forty, enamored of the company of my own children, and still unable to pry myself away from coaching competitive youth swimming, I see the guy was right. Being around kids does “keep you young.” Like writing or reading a book, it helps you continually see the world through a fresh set of eyes. Kids are new to life; they haven’t yet become numb to its infinite wonders and curiosities, and spending time with them reminds one what it’s like to be encountering the world for the first time, and, no less importantly, to laugh.

Cartter and Scotty had a great laugh on the way to school this morning. On the way there, I steered the conversation toward the topic of Cartter’s least favorite teacher. When I suggested that perhaps the reason for her disagreeable temperament was a large, pointy stick lodged deeply inside her ass, I noticed Scotty’s face flicker with a kind of resigned delight in the rearview mirror. Unfamiliar with the idiomatic description of someone “having a stick up their butt,” Scotty let out a reflexive, almost imperceptible little snort as the car continued up the steep slope of the Cooper River Bridge. Encouraged by his amusement, for the rest of the drive I practiced impersonating some of the boys’ nastier, more self-righteous teachers so that by the time we pulled up to the drop-off spot, the two of them were in complete hysterics.

Someone once told me that he likes to always be doing at least one thing in his life that he isn’t good at, something that is new to him, because that way he always maintains a beginner’s mindset. If he were a kid, he wouldn’t have to make such an effort. Kids are encountering new things everywhere. Last weekend, we took Cartter and Scotty to a Friday night movie for the first time in their lives. It was the premier of Dog Man, a film adaptation of one of their favorite comic series. The boys love comics. They spread the Sunday comics out on the floor around the kitchen table and lie on their bellies with their heads pressed together scouring every panel. We must have at least sixty graphic novels in our home, and the boys have read them all, most of them more than once. You’d have thought I told them they’d won the lottery when they found out we were taking them to the Dog Man premier. After an eruption of glee, they insisted on skipping concessions and going straight to our seats to claim their prize. On the way into the theater, they walked briskly ahead of us, and I asked Danyelle, “When was the last time they were this excited to go to a movie? Never?”

Visibility into new life is one of parenthood’s chief advantages; it stokes the memories of one’s own youth, and brings the fear and wonder of the beginner’s mindset to the fore. Cartter twittled his thumbs and searched my face for answers when I asked him if he liked the movie, apparently scared I might not have approved. His apprehension melted away when I told him, “I loved it!” (although both boys were quick to point out that the books are better). Recently, Cartter learned Texas hold ‘em, and when I merrily won all the change he piled up on the table, he stared at me like he’d seen a ghost, shocked that the cards and his father could conspire against him so cruelly. A few days later, he beat me at chess for the first time. He made a series of strong moves in the middle of the game, and I steered him away from self-destruction toward the end. After he checkmated me, he avoided eye contact as he rocked back into the couch with a barely contained smirk on his lips, absolutely tickled to have won. Hardly anything seems trivial to a kid, least of all a parent’s esteem; the stakes are always high, and for the caregiver, recognizing this point of view in the child illuminates life’s small joys and creates opportunities for compassion.

A good book, a writing project, a coaching job, parenthood – all terrific disciplines for the person trying to wring a little extra sweetness out of life, but no discussion of home remedies for mood regulation would be complete without a dog story; a good dog is like nature’s Prozac. After spilling out of the Uber at around three a.m., Dan required an escort to the guest bedroom, and once he was safely deposited therein, I took advantage of the lingering effects of the night’s consumption and the late hour to spend some quality outside time with Sammy. No need for a leash after three in the morning. We took a slow stroll to the end of our street and back, pausing frequently for deep sniffs of grass and sky, linked by the steady stream of praise issuing from my mouth, completely unbothered by even the slightest desire to bolt. At the house I played Sammy her favorite song on the piano in the den, and she howled along softly in accompaniment. It’s a wonderful feeling to care for a dog, like the mood lift that the morning sun brings on a winter’s day or the relief of a midsummer afternoon shower. Like a child’s laughter, it’s quite simply a little bit of heaven on earth.