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Old Trafford

June 28, 2011 · by Oliver Gray

I don’t play soccer anymore.

10 years ago, if you had asked me who I was, I would have succinctly said, “Oliver Gray: soccer player”.

Soccer was life, was family, was me. A rolling ball was at the forefront of my brain at almost all times; I played what I loved, and loved what I played. Leather cleats danced across freshly mowed pitches, my music a cacophony of whistles, cheers, and trash-talking. Equilibrium was achieved when foot met ball, and ball met net.

For years and years my identity was tied to speed and fouls and goals and tournaments. My social life was dominated by soccer; the girls I dated were players themselves, the guys I hung out with keepers and strikers alike. I wanted nothing more than to be another Giggs or Cantona or Scholes; I talked of playing abroad, dreamt of scoring goals in stadiums I had only seen on TV.

In my mind, it was all I was good at, and it defined my worth. Every goal I scored bolstered my confidence, every crushing loss left me dejected and empty. I could not mentally separate myself from being on or off the field; it was often hard to tell where the boy began and the player ended.

Despite a very disruptive injury, I kept playing, even past when I probably should have. I hung onto the game I loved, to who I was, and all I knew about myself. I’ve spent the past 5 years trying to convince myself that I am still a soccer player, partly in personal lamentation, partly in starry-eyed nostalgia. I tried and tried to be who I once was, and play the game I thought I was supposed to play.

But I don’t play soccer anymore.

If you ask me who I am now I would – not so succinctly – say, “Oliver Gray: writer, IT enthusiast, mandolinist, runner, fiancé, homeowner, gamer, even at times, dancer.”

Soccer isn’t practical anymore. My knees aren’t what they used to be, limping around work is hardly professional, and the circle of friends I used to play with is no longer emotionally or physically proximate. My heart, whether crushed from watching my dream die, or wizened with age, just isn’t in it anymore. I’ve become very aware that I am no longer a soccer player, but still find myself claiming I am in certain situations.

I’m sure, if a ball rolled to my feet, I would still know what to do with it. I could probably still put it into the back of a net with impressive speed and decent accuracy. I’m probably even fit enough to pull off a 90 minute game, should it ever prove necessary. As Toby Keith said, “I’m not as good as I once was, but I’m as good once as I ever was.”

But just because I can, doesn’t mean I should, and doesn’t mean I want to. As I’ve grown, I’ve found similar fun in other avenues; some far more cerebral than the young soccer player in me would have ever expected. I enjoy reading and learning and becoming a better person in ways that don’t involve the World’s Game.

My mind is now open to a world outside of a 110 yd X 75 yd patch of grass. My goals are no longer confined between three white, metallic posts. My legs can take me to see the world, instead of just pursue a ball.

Because I don’t play soccer anymore.

10 years from now, if you ask me who I am, I will confidently say, “Oliver Gray: husband, father, author, friend, brother, son, bandmate, manager, tutor, wizard and whatever else I want to be.”

Soccer has served as a framework for growth. Scoring a goal was just training for getting what I want out of life. Score enough goals, you win the game. Play hard enough, work with your team, and you’ll win the championship. If you lead your team by playing fast and hard, they’ll learn from your example and return it in kind.

It taught me to listen to my body, to eat right, and drink inhuman amounts of water. It taught me to respect fitness and never be ashamed of sweat caused by hard work. It hardened me to take any slide-tackle life can throw at me, and “rub some dirt on it” if I do happen to fall. Most importantly it taught me to keep a cool head, as a red card does no one any favors.

I am who I am because I played, not because I was a player. I love the game, and always will, but I can finally accept that I don’t play soccer anymore, and that’s OK.

Fixer Upper

June 21, 2011 · by Oliver Gray

For whatever reason, 25 has been a very introspective year. I’ve discovered more things about myself, my behavior, my actions, and my emotions in the past 7 months than in the past 7 years. Perhaps it stems from months and months of pain and frustration, perhaps it is just part of the natural process of maturing.

I started a new job, and am very excited at the prospect of meeting new people and exploring new challenges. I truly feel like I’m in an environment that values growth; both vocational and personal. It is a perfect time for me to grow; after stagnating for so long at my previous job, I’m brimming with ideas, concepts, and energy that can and should be directed upwards.

Some of that energy, I expend on myself (I wish it was more, admittedly); mainly in deep thought about where I stand or why I stand. Long gone are my days of depressing existential philosophical loops; I am starting to see purpose in things beyond the corporeal, and am slowly warming to the fact that life, despite my preconceptions, is not polar.

Aside from discovering a lot about my developing psychology, realigning my sense of place and being, and generally reevaluating what defines my personal satisfaction, I have discovered the root causes of a lot of my behavior. All those hours of playing Lego, solving puzzles, playing games, and playing un-trained handy-man, were far more impactful than I ever consciously acknowledged.

I love to fix things. An oversimplification, probably, but I get no greater satisfaction than knowing I have repaired, mended, or righted a problem. I approach challenges with a mindset of, “what do I need to do to this” instead of “what might stop me from doing this.” Fixing things – any things – has become a defining aspect of the adult Oliver.

It is why I am an IT guy. It is why I am an editor. It is why I enjoy, rather than loathe, home improvement tasks. It is why I don’t say “no” when someone asks for help. It is why I keep coming to work, and why I tend not to anger easily. It is why I spend hours trying to fix a tiny problem. If I can fix it (however abstract “it” might be) all is right in my world.

I even go as far as to fix problems that aren’t even mine. I’ll submit error tickets for coworkers because I’m not happy that something of theirs is broken. I’ll suggest revisions to language, even in emails, simply because I want their language to be fixed. If a problem is made apparent to me, my mind will not rest until I’ve either solved it, or completely exhausted my current ability to solve it.

I am not satisfied walking away from any problem, as I’ve develop a mindset that I am capable of fixing anything. All a solution requires is tools and knowledge; the prior I can buy or acquire, the latter is readily available for anyone interested enough to do a little research. I stand by the fact that given enough preparation time and an unlimited budget for tools or supplies, I can do anything. Seriously, anything.

As I’ve grown past the initial shock and depression of my injury, I’ve finally begun to view it as a problem that needs to be fixed. It’s a particularly vexing problem, as my typical “Philips or flat-head” approach doesn’t work on bones and ligaments. It does however provide me with a daily challenge, something to constantly work on, that I know I won’t be content with until it is fixed. This arm will straighten eventually, after a lot of hard work and different approaches to fixing it.

The psychology behind my mentality is surprisingly simple, but generally overlooked. From observation, I’ve found that most people set a bar of what they can or cannot achieve based on their most glorious failure; they can function up to that point, but then are apprehensive to even try anything beyond, as it could lead to another crushing failure. Their past dictates their future, and limits their potential.

These are the people that never have the energy to do anything, because they remember that they last time they tried, they were exhausted by the end. These are the people who are not motivated to start a project because in the past they never finished others. These are the people who do not try new things, because one random new thing that they tried didn’t work out perfectly. These are the people who have no personal accountability, and often blame odd, abstract things (like gods, completely unrelated people, cosmic powers) for their own inability to do something, rather than taking responsibility.

Cyclical, fatalistic, defeatist, voluntarily self-restrictive nonsense!

I have a much more optimistic approach. Instead of setting an imaginary bar of where my maximum comfort zone hovers, I instead build confidence based on past experience. My failures aren’t benchmarks for how high I can go before I fall, but conversely my previous achievements are support for everything I can do. I don’t have a ceiling of how high I can go based on unlucky or uncontrollable failures, but instead have the confidence to look at all the good I’ve done as inspiration to undertake any challenge. TL;DR version: Strength from accomplishment, not limitation from failure.

I tend to look back and say, “Well if I can do that, in that period of time, with no training, I can definitely do this.” I put things into perspective, and analyze what I need to do whatever it is I need to do. It is way more effective than saying, “I think I can do this, but last time I tried it I failed at life, so I should probably just not do it.” I never confront a problem with an attitude that allows me to consider not fixing or completing it.

This is why I never stumble when I have a problem to fix. Every new problem I fix fuels my ability to fix things. Every success builds my database of solutions, giving me more and more resources to resolve potential issues. I find the more I achieve, the more I can achieve. I don’t believe in learning from one’s failures, I believe in never letting failure dictate what one can do. Once you can see how capable you are, you’ll find that failure is no longer a dark, scary, lurking monster, but something you look back fondly on, and laugh.

QLC

June 14, 2011 · by Oliver Gray

I experienced a” Quarter life Crisis”. No shit, I really did. For a long while I was embarrassed about it, seeing as it’s a fundamentally dumb thing to experience. But now I’ve moved past it, I feel comfortable sharing my thoughts on what I think afflicts a large part of our young population.

It’s something like the already established and dreaded “Midlife Crisis”, but instead of buying a sports car, you wallow in a mire of self-doubt. The principles are the same; you are physically and emotionally acting out because you don’t understand your place or point in life, they just happen at different times. Prior to us Snowflakers, the “Quarter Life crisis” didn’t exist. We created a whole goddamn psychological event, that’s how entitled and spoiled we collectively are. For brevity’s sake, I’m going to go all government contractor on this and dumb this down into an acronym from here out: QLC.

For a somewhat long period after graduating college and landing my first “real” job, I felt the full weight of adult responsibility settle of my shoulders while I meanwhile struggled with a general dissatisfaction with how things had turned out. My life, unbeknownst to me, was amazing; I was financially sound, had great friends and family, perfect health, and an otherwise oft envied life.

But I would find it hard to rise from bed, dwelling on questions like, “is this it?” and repeating misguided mantra like, “there’s gotta be something more”, before I had even let the ink on my diploma dry. I found myself questioning whether I was “cut out” to do certain tasks and activities, and beat myself up over the fact that “other people seemed happy with the same lot in life”. Seriously, I’m not making this up.

It wasn’t until I had a conversation with my friend Justin, did I start to reverse my entire attitude and realign my thinking. He is an advocate of personal transformation to overcome problems, but it was something tiny he said (that he probably doesn’t remember that he said), separate from any major soul exploration, that changed everything for me. Three words, randomly dropped into the middle of a conversation: “There is more”.

Stupidly powerful. Of course there is, says that astute, educated, well-balanced reader, mocking my ineptitude and scoffing and my imaginary plight. And now I’m free of that negative bubble of thought, I mock me too. The old me of course; don’t dare mock the new me, the new me is awesome and will punch you in an uncomfortable location.

There really is more, more to everything, and more to thinking if there is more. The more already exists around you in some capacity, and it takes a simple realignment of how you view your world to start appreciating things as you should. My QLC ended as abruptly as it began, as I began to embrace and even seek opportunity for responsibility, acknowledging that life as an adult was, albeit shockingly, nothing like anything I had imagined.

Unfortunately, my growth created tension with those I still associated with, who were either in the middle of their own QLC or had yet to acknowledge their QLC. They saw my turn towards adulthood with pride as a challenge to their mental situation, and in turn alienated me. Instead of seeing (or asking if) I had experienced the same, they decided to be vitreous with envy, poisoning what had otherwise been a mutually symbiotic and fun relationship. 4 different “friends” did this to me, because they were so overcome by the “struggles” of their QLC. I hope they eventually got passed it, and if not, I hope they enjoy being perpetually stuck wishing they were still little kids.

Our parents and teachers tried to create a world for us; one free of mindless violence, debilitating failure, and other emotionally scary things. They sought to create an emotional sandbox for us, a place where we could dig, play, and ultimately build ourselves perfect little castles. They failed to mention that sand is a shitty construction tool, something as weak and common as rain eventually destroys anything you build, and everyone once in a while, a cat takes a dump in your sandbox.

The cat turd is metaphorical. It’s not all philosophical cat turds, but there are plenty out there, waiting for you to shovel up and build them into your castle walls.

I’ll save the real fecal humor for another time. My point is, the world our elders created does not exist. It exists in parts, here and there, and at times you can find perfect solace or happiness in a person or activity. But to assume your whole life will be that way is self-destructive folly. It is this disillusionment that fuels most QLCs; the lofty dreams you’ve been pining after over for 4, long, gruelling years are finally about to be realized…at $32,000 a year.

I think that most QLCs stem from one of two reasons: people lying to themselves about who they are and what they want, and people expecting more of themselves than reasonable. Out of college you aren’t worth very much. You’re thrown into a pool of other possible applicants hundreds of thousands deep. There is barely any water for you to swim in and you’re too concerned with not drowning to consider getting out of the pool. So you flail about stupidly, hoping someone moves from their position creating a slightly better situation for you, or something eventually reaches down to grab your arm and free you from the fleshy, watery tomb.

I’m here to tell you, as countless self-help books, and people who don’t suck also will: No one is coming. It’s on you. Not a single person is coming that will help you get where you want to go. Sure, people, your parents, your friends, might come help you towel off or give you some floaties, but eventually it’s back in that pool for you. Even if someone you know gives you a job, you’re still nowhere, as you’ve achieved nothing of note, and still need to perform to keep or advance in said job. Until you start actually trying to swin and moving along through that pool, you won’t be satisfied, and won’t achieve anything worth bragging about at the 5 year high school reunion which is totally coming up so you should like, lose some weight.

If and when you do manage to doggy paddle to the deep end, you’ll find it’s much less crowded, as all the other people either decided that swimming sucks and gave up, or just straight up drowned. If you’re anything like me, you’ll be better for the hard work, and you might even get a few minutes to casually backstroke around in your new found freedom.

I’m Overcoming Adversity!

November 3, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

Now that I have been released from my fiberglass prison, I am ready to undertake the seemingly arduous adventure of joint recovery. Everyone, from doctors to random acquaintances, claim it will be a difficult and painful journey. They suggest I may mature and grow spiritually from the experience. But most of all, they emphasize the fact that my near future will be indescribably hard.

I think not.

I have heard people loosely throw around the phrase captured in the title of this post, in regards to myriad life complications including injuries, disabilities, diseases, and social intolerance. It is used in a praising context, suggesting that a person is strong and brave in their triumph over adversity. My angle on the entire phenomenon is very different, and I feel that the people who cower and fail in the face of adversity are just quitters.

I realize that cancer and other wholly debilitating diseases make my broken arm (and other historical injuries) look like a frivolous walk in the park. Regardless of that, my injury was about as catastrophic as a physical bone-related injury can get. I stand by the fact that I would embrace this philosophy in the face of ANY challenge; be in physical, emotional, spiritual or supernatural. Life remains too amazing and full of potential to be defeated so easily by a corporeal malady. Bones will break, cells will degrade, people will be assholes, and life will remain a general bitch as long as you draw breath.

The solution comes in attitude. If you roll over and die after some tragedy befalls you, accepting your fate, then you deserve said fate. I do not see the act of overcoming a challenge as something one should be commended for, but something that is a natural part of human life. Giving up is a failure, while kicking the situation’s metaphysical ass is a success, and should be expected. By all means, express your amazement or admiration for someone’s ability to overcome something that by all means should be difficult, but do not exalt it to some superhuman status.

According to the general public, I am currently “overcoming adversity”. It really doesn’t feel that way. I feel like I should be striving to return to a healthy state of being for myself, my family, my vocation and my ever-present sense of self-satisfaction. I suggest we start helping those people who are struggling with their difficult, unfortunate situations, instead of wasting our energy telling people who just so happen to get on with their lives how proud we are of them. The people who overcome need the least support; start helping the people who can’t seem to get themselves out of the quagmire of desperation that often accompanies a life changing event.

If you go into a situation assuming it will be difficult, your self-defeating prophecy may just come true. If you go into a situation with a, “ok, sweet, what’s next!” attitude, you may just come out OK. Optimism is difficult when everyone reminds you that you may never be able to reach your head with your left hand again. I recognize this. To those people, I say, “fuck you!”. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but seriously, sod off. Being realistic is important to keep someone grounded, but it can also cause a spiral of despair some people are not ready to handle.

To my fellow Adversity Overcomers; do not fret! Well, you can fret your guitar if it will help with physical therapy, but do not fear! Doctors have to be pragmatists by the nature of their profession and the general litigiousness of the field. Take nothing at face value. It was once suggested by a very reputable orthopedist that I may never play soccer again after a serious leg break. I was running and playing 10 months later. Nothing is impossible, and impossible is nothing.

I am prepared to make this recovery my bitch. Sure there may be some pain, and yea, I may never be able to beat Rafael Nadal one-on-one. Some things you have to live with. I will despair for cathartic purposes, but will not let it consume me. The human body is capable of amazing feats, have some pride in yourself and your future, and nothing is too big to hold you down. To all those out there with broken bones and welling tears, I quote all around optimist, Norman Vincent Peale:

“Life’s blows cannot break a person whose spirit is warmed at the fire of enthusiasm.”

Thumbs Up!

Itchy, Itchy, Scratchy, Scratchy

October 13, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

It’s not all bad.

An injury can be quite sobering, especially if it impacts your well developed routine. It’s very easy to take things, even those that are very important to you, for granted when you’re able-bodied. Stupid things that normally take no cognitive thought become herculean feats of strength. Do you have any idea how hard it is to put on socks with one hand?

It forces your brain out of its comfort zone and tests the very limits of your creative thinking. Healthy limbs and surfaces of your body take on new roles and your manual strength and dexterity is tested at every turn. I’ve found ways to open bottles one-handed, sort the mail one-handed, even apply deodorant, to both armpits, one-handed. Some people may resign themselves to not doing certain things while injured, but I am far too stubborn to be so fatalistic when I still have some capacities.

I may not go to the extreme of driving or playing guitar with my feet, but I have been using them for unorthodox purposes. I can use my left foot in conjunction with my right hand to create a grip with a much wider span, or put my feet together to grasp something while my good hand opens/adjusts it. Years of soccer have given my toes freakish strength, which comes in very handy for picking up assorted items that are out of reach due to the injury.

But beyond forcing a new kind of adaptation, an injury ruins some of your favorite activities. Like the realization that all of your entertainment is electronic during a power outage, I was faced with the realization that all of my favorite hobbies rely heavily on having two free hands. Playing a stringed instrument: two hands. Using a computer efficiently: two hands. Reading a book: two hands. Dressing oneself: two hands. Showering: two hands.

All of your innate learning wants your body to use both hands, but a screaming stop sign of pain quickly reminds you of reality. Your arm becomes a cumbersome dangly part; good for getting in the way or making you look mentally handicapped at best. The easy route would be to lie in bed until cast removal day, but some of us don’t get that kind of time off work.

Instead I began to appreciate what I was missing. I took my left hand for granted, using the most literal definition of the phrase. My mini jam sessions will be all the more sweet from here on out, as I’ve tasted life without my music. I will cherish any feeling in my hands, cold or hot, good or bad, just because I know realize how terrible prolonged numbness feels. I’ve reawakened my appreciation for the little things in my life and all it took was one catastrophic injury!

There are many things I have found joy in, in an otherwise miserable period. I learned that the harmonica is one of the only instruments you can play one handed, and is fun as hell to boot. I rediscovered the joy of classic, turn-based video games that don’t require the frenetic response time of their contemporary brothers. I taught myself to take pride and garner a sense of accomplishment from the perfunctory, because I opened that can of cat food all by myself, dammit. Life becomes simple and your brain goes a little Pennsylvania dutch; it doesn’t matter that you’re not building an HD TV satellite, it just matters that your overalls are clean and that you can wear a sweet beard in public.

I have to mention the one bastion of sanity that an injured person can cling to even in the darkest of times, that I have embraced like a mother: scratching itches. A cast, while protective and stylish, is a hellish prison full of itch-monsters, hell-bent on driving you insane with impossibly placed, difficult to scratch itches. They will wake you up in the night, tickling or poking the hardest to reach areas of your wound, until you maniacally laugh or depressingly cry out of sheer frustration.

I had a theory in high school, that the total pleasure experienced from scratching itches outweighed the total pleasure experienced from sexual gratification over a lifetime, but unfortunately I cannot back it up with anything empirical. Scratches itched inside a cast are the mangum opus of a career featuring thousands of bug bites and the worst poison-plant induced rashes.

When you finally manage to satisfactorily scratch the itch, a euphoria, that I can only assume is like doing a buttload of Ecstasy while watching The Incredibles, washes over you. Your knees quiver and a chorus of angels sing praise hymms in your name. Small, furry animals flock to you and hippie folk musicians sing of your triumph. You may even black out. It it quite possibly one of the most rewarding physical experiences in the scope of human feeling.

Getting to these itches is an art in itself. Some suggest vibrating the cast from the outside with a personal massage tool (nudge nudge wink wink, say no more), but I found this only marginally effective. Others suggest using a can of compressed air to “shoot” air down into your cast. The thought of liquid nitrogen leaking out into my cast and incisions negates the idea. One of my coworkers even suggested dumping talcum powder down my arm, an idea I found difficult to pull off without creating a giant mess.

See below for my weapon of choice, a size 3 (3.25 MM) knitting needle.

(Scissors included for scale)

This is a thin, green, metal stick. A knitting needle is ideal because of its rounded edge and superb length. That curve came naturally from use and is exactly why I didn’t buy the plastic versions; I don’t want to explain to my orthopedist why there is a half of a broken plastic stick stuck in my cast.

Here is an action shot!

(Scissors included because I forgot to move them)

Technically speaking, you’re not really supposed to stick things down your cast. The doctors claim you can cut yourself and get a horrible infection, but I’m pretty sure that is an empty warning. Anyone who has ever experienced the mind-bending bliss of scratching that long sought after itch would completely agree with me.

This has been my life for the past 5 weeks, scratching my way to freedom one day at a time. I’m over the hump now but hopefully I can retain the appreciation for the little things that this elbow has given me the chance to finally notice. Do yourself a favor and try to use just your dominant hand for one day; duct tape the other one to your leg or something. You’ll be surprised how awkward, but ultimately humbled, you feel by the time you go to sleep.

Sticks and Stones

October 12, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

I have a small piece of advice for anyone reading this: do not, under any circumstances, no matter the situation or social pressure involved, break any of your bones. Breaking a bone is one of the worst decisions a human can make. If at all possible, keep all of your bones intact and in their locked and upright, original positions.

I know this may not be easy for those more athletically or recklessly inclined, but heed my words; I speak as a grizzled veteran of the skeletal wars. I have seen all manner of bio-structural wounds, from hair-lines to compounds, even a complete shatter. Some of these have left scars, but those are the least worrying of all the after effects.

My list of broken bones, from minor to major, is as follows: toes (phalanges), fingers (also phalanges), nose (nasal bone), ankle (tarsal), wrist (carpal), shin-bone (tibia/fibula) and now elbow (humerus). Two of the prior involved somewhat major surgery to correct. Surgery is also inadvisable; they make you go to, and then stay in a hospital for an indeterminable amount of days. Parts of you get uncomfortably numb and what doesn’t becomes excruciatingly itchy. Other parts they color with funny chemicals, making your post-surgery recovery feel like a drugged out version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, where your hand, but only your hand, is an Oompa Loompa. You will sing the Oompa Loopma song and your significant other will probably join in. It’s terrifyingly confusing.

For those of you who remain virgin, broken bones hurt like hell. You’d think your body would have the decency to pass out upon suffering a break, but no, you just get to sit there in agony, feeling stupid and helpless. After a severe break, you can’t really move and will most likely go into shock, so you are limited to whimpering pathetically, crying lightly as to not aggravate the injury further, or trying to be a badass and shrugging off as much pain as possible. Shock normally takes over after a few minutes, leaving the poor selfless paramedics in the direct path of possible regurgitation. I had eaten Mexican food prior to my most recent injury, a poor choice in hindsight.

I have tried in the past to explain the initial pain of a major fracture, but somehow words fail me. It is describable only in abstracts. It is a very badly stubbed toe combined with a scalding burn from boiling water. It is a crunch and a pinch, followed by a poorly injected flu shot. It is a wave of dull and a scream of sharp and as debilitating as the worst odor you’ve ever smelled. It is having your favorite meal spoiled by noisy patrons after being stung by 15 bees. It is fleeting terror of the surreal mixed with teary acknowledgment of reality. It is your stomach leaping into the air while you startle awake from a most unpleasant dream. It is the horror of dead men walking the earth, until the few seconds after they inject the morphine.

And as awful as that sounds, the initial pain passes rather quickly. Deft hands hastily repair your damages, even if their skills come at great cost. The recovery, with all of its emotional punches and unforeseen disabilities is the where the real pain hides. If you are an independent soul, the limits forced upon you by medication, casts, and movement-oriented pain are almost too much to handle. You can do little but live day-by-irritating day, stealing awkward chemically induced naps when you find that one comfortable resting position. Slowly but surely it gets better, but it takes a steel resolve to maintain your sanity when assaulted by itches that are damn near impossible to scratch.

Contrary to popular rumor, the easiest part is the physical therapy. When you finally get to the point that you can rebuild your strength, you are free; the very worst parts of the injury are behind you, only scars remain as discolored reminders. With no casts and greatly diminished pain you are suddenly capable of anything. A feeling of emancipation washes over you, and you will at any cost restore your limb to its former, sexy glory. Joints may be tight, muscles may be weak, but you can easily look past any of these trivialities and bask; bask in the wonderful glow of wholeness and normalcy.

These are the days I crave. The days when I can drive, and run, and type with both hands. The days when my left hand is more than a half-numb crab-claw of frustrating clumsiness. The days when I can hug my beautiful lady with both arms, and no pain. Soon, my cat will bite and scratch both of my hands and afterward a melody will float through the house, in the neighborhood of D minor.

Soon.

As proof of all advice and anecdotes contained herein, here is the inside of my left arm as of 9/22/2010:

The Latent Evil of Fundraising

May 26, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

My fortress of cynical introversion is constantly under siege by coworkers who want me to do “good things”. As a non-Christian, non-conforming, non-proselytizing young man, I am clearly only committing hate crimes in my free time and sewing my seeds of hate at every opportunity. Due to my rampant bad behavior, many of those I work with daily feel I should repent in some form or another, whether I actually want to or not. I am unswayed by mindless spiritual zeal and their persuasive logic is far inferior to mine, so they are forced to fall back on the tried and true way to win someone over: cookies.

Everyone loves cookies, even diabolical people like me.

Enter the fundraiser. We’ve all been witness to these poor attempts at entrepreneurship; whether for a church, a school, a youth sports club or some other sickeningly wholesome, suburban cause. They flout brand-name candy and cookies, overtly labeled with some contact information about the so-called charity you are supporting. The illusion of helping out a “good cause” allows a buyer to ignore the heinous inflation that is imposed onto otherwise cheap goods. People fall all over themselves to buy assorted crap from these cardboard boxes of deceit, in hopes that their indirect, incredibly minor contribution will somehow lead to salvation.

Despite this seemingly benign reasoning, there is a clear hypocrisy in the snack distribution world. If a box of random goods is put out for sale in an office on the honor system, there will be at least a 30% loss of inventory. I know this first hand from stocking the snack box at my office for 6 months. If the exact same box is put out with a fund-raising label, the pilfering all but completely stops. It is not that people want to feel good, it is that they don’t want to feel bad. Stealing from some guy who supplies snacks at no profit is no big deal, but stealing from kids or a church is just flat out wrong. I love double standards, especially where my own money is involved.

Using psychological tricks is not the only underhanded tactic these “good causes” employ to peddle their overpriced junk. They also pull the strings on more innate, primal responses, like hunger and sympathy.

Hunger and greed is the obvious one; have you ever seen a generic fundraiser that sells fresh fruit? Salads? Anything remotely healthy? No. Because people don’t want healthy. They want to justify their disgusting face-stuffing habits by misdirecting their gluttony onto their now inflated sense of charity. It’s OK if I eat this entire sleeve of Oreos™, the money I paid for them is going to help a youth basketball team from the derelict inner city. I’m such a good person, even though I think I can literally hear my heart and circulatory system crying out in tortured anguish. People in this country have horrendous diets anyway, but at least when they buy the overly processed sugar that they don’t need from a fundraiser, they can say they did it to support a good cause.

The one I really loathe, as I cannot personally control it like I can hunger, is sympathy. There is a niche group who has literally cornered their respective market with this tactic: the goddamn Girl Scouts. These little girls don’t even need to try to sell you their product, in fact most can be found twirling mindlessly in circles while their mothers try their hardest to collect the money that people are literally throwing at them. It does help that the cookies are very tasty, but the fundamental truth cannot be denied. Girl Scouts line up in the best of public places, showing off cute little girls whose innocence will be destroyed if you don’t financially fund their futures by purchasing an absurd number of boxes of cookies. The bottom line is it works; a Google result for “girl scouts of the usa” returns 322,000 results, which is impressive until you compare it to a search for “girl scout cookies” which yields a staggering 833,000 results. A well-played, sympathetic cause will have people “awwwing” as they open their wallets faster than you can say “Thin Mints”.

And even with these two powerful emotional strategies, some fundraisers are not satisfied. The main tool, especially of office related fundraisers is the ever present idea of guilt. If you don’t buy some expensive yet disgusting candy from us, the church might go under, and then all of the poor parishioners will have no one to guide their sheepish spirits. If that happens, my kids will grow up in a heathen world, never know god, and eventually writhe in the pits of hellish damnation. Is that what you want? You want my kids to go to hell? What kind of person are you? Never mind the scary irrationality, this is basically the main idea people put forth when presenting you with random goods to buy. It doesn’t matter if you don’t want them, can’t afford them, don’t actually support whatever cause it is, or any combination. You must buy something, otherwise you are just a bad person.

Seriously, buy something. There are kids out there with diseases (deadly diseases) who desperately need the 13 cents profit we will make from you buying this candy bar. The same candy bar that will eventually put you into the hospital with advanced symptoms of diabetes. But rest easy, some one can have a fundraiser to raise the money to pay your medical bills.

Turning the “P” in “Please” into a little, concerned looking man does not sway me, candy demons.

You’re Welcome – 2.0

May 18, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

One of the papers I wrote in college highlighted the awkward social implications of holding doors for strangers. The full text can be found here. Since writing that paper, the art of the door-hold for me has expanded beyond college campus level and entered the hyper-politically correct realm of Corporate America. Not wanting to cause an HR issue, I will attempt to present the following analysis of Corporate doorholdsmanship in the most unoffensive manner possible:

In college, few doors are locked. In fact, most are so open, you really don’t even have to turn a knob or handle; a slight nudge in the right direction leaves most doors wide open. But in the Corporate life, most doors are locked; with keypads or intercoms or card-swipe things. No longer are mysterious rooms in cafeterias, dormitories, lecture halls, faculty offices and bathrooms left unprotected from my inappropriate and clandestine searches. Nay, now all doors are securely locked, despite how hard I kick the door, or jam a credit card in the narrow light emitting crack on one side of the door. Where I once could unravel any mystery, now lays before me more uncertainty than Frodo faced setting out from the Shire.

Ultimately, this lack of open entries leads to one main problem: holding doors. When a door cannot be opened it is difficult to hold for other people. Chivalry is appreciated (in some cases even expected) in Corporate life, but with no chairs to pull out (as it leads to awkward meeting situations), no umbrellas to hold (as it rarely rains inside your cube) and no maidens to save (I’ll leave this one alone), we’re left with a few unsatisfying ways to be Knightly. I have broken it down into the following:

Holding bathroom doors:

Level of awkward: MEGA AWKWARD
Level of necessity: Minor

There is no hiding the fact that I am male. Men tend to be solitary bathroom goers; I have seen more than one man turned away from a bathroom by “overcrowding” caused by one extra occupant. Many do not even begin to appreciate a door being held for them upon entering a bathroom. It probably reminds them of that fancy strip club they went to that one time their wife was out of town that they really don’t want to remember for obvious reasons. Either that or they feel their privacy is being infringed upon and another man is basically advertising that they are walking into the bathroom with them. As it stands, the Corporate Men’s Bathroom door hold may be the most awkward and difficult to pull off door hold in the entire known universe. The timing must be uncanny; not only do you have to match your walking pace with the other soon to be peer to reach to door at the correct time, you also have to be headed that way anyway without seeming like some creepster who follows dudes into the bathroom. This is incredibly difficult, as you feel like a creep even when the meeting is entirely accidental.

Conclusion:
The only time you can really get away with this one is upon exiting the bathroom. You can tactfully hold a door for someone who has just finished washing their hands, with little worry of social pariah status being projected upon you via questioning glares. It is highly recommended that you simply avoid joint bathroom visits whenever humanly possible; taking 4 flights of stairs to find an unoccupied bathroom to achieve this is completely acceptable. I cannot speak for thefemale side of things; I feel if I stand around waiting to hold the Women’s bathroom door, I’ll have much more to worry about than social awkwardness.

Holding the Front Door to the Office:

Level of awkward: Somewhat Awkward
Level of necessity: Medium/High

Unlike its bathroom based cousin, this door-hold is more common and more expected. It is also completely based upon the time you arrive at work in relation to all your coworkers. If you find yourself to be a sniveling, pathetic shell of a person, get in early or come in late to avoid having to share your entry with any of your coworkers. If you are the bold, daring sort, arrive at the office during peak entrance times to guarantee the maximum number of doors holds possible (my personal record is 6 at once!)

Even though this door hold is easy to plan, it is very important to get right. As covered in my above essay, timing is key with all correct door holds. Since most Corporate office doors are on the heavy side, you might consider holding the door far ahead of time, to prevent the all too common, “Oops, the door was heavier than anticipated, so I dropped it and it may have smacked you in an undesirable body part” problem. Every time you let a door slam into someone’s torso/leg/arm/child, you run the risk of that person claiming you are “incompetent” or “dangerously clumsy”. This must be avoided at all costs. Be sure to hold the door completely, with both hands, while simultaneously moving your body out of the way of incoming traffic. This may be painful, but trust me, it’s worth it. That next bonus you get will have nothing to do with your performance, it will really be because everyone admires how deftly you handle the front door every morning.

Conclusion:

Don’t suck! This is the easy door hold in Corporate. You can screw up every other hold all day everyday, but still be redeemed if you get this one right. The only thing that may make it difficult is a secured entry (keypad or card swipey doo-dad), so be sure to arrive at the door in time to swipe, swing and stay. The three S’s. I just made that up, but it seems to make sense I think.

Holding the Door to the Building:

Level of awkward: Not Awkward to MEGA AWKWARD
Level of necessity: Low to OMG DO IT

This one is a no-brainer. Hold the door for anyone; coworker, security guard, UPS guy, random vagrant, murderous looking guy wearing camouflage or maintenance person. You cannot discriminate here, if someone is coming in or going out with you, you have to hold the door, otherwise your principles could be called into question by a complete stranger. As long as you don’t let random people into your specific office, you’re golden. You will be completely absolved of all possible guilt in any subsequent situation if you follow the above advice.

If you decide to get picky, and not hold for some people, you may run into the classic, “I let the door limply swing shut so you had to reopen it, even though you are the CEO of a company 40 times the size of my own” syndrome. This is why you must never make an assumption about an entering individual, despite his attire or demeanor. Remember, everyone looks some kind of homeless on casual Friday.

Conclusion:

The outside door to the building is unlocked all day anyway, so it’s not really your problem if some crazy maniac gets into the building. Open all doors at all times without even thinking about the consequences. Just claim you’re, “thinking outside the box” and I promise you won’t get in trouble.