Slow Down

Jerry and I are no different than anyone else.  We are always looking to accomplish more in less time.  Actually, we, like everyone else today, are always pushed to accomplish more in more time.  For generations in the past, you could limit your "productive" hours to 9 to 5 when you were earning a paycheck.  After that, you could coast, relax and maybe enjoy a popsicle on the front porch.  Not any more.

In today's do-more-with-less world, a 9 to 5 working day is only being a slacker.  When I was working at comedy central, long before today -- the 30th day of the rest of my life -- I was often there at 7:30 am and often there 12 or 13 or 14 hours later.  How many times did I work all through the night -- the same underpants plastered to my miserable unhappy ass for a 2nd 24 hour period?  Too many times.  But, even with that pace, it was not working extra hard by most people's standards.  It was just the expected and needed pace to, are you kidding me, keep up with the work.  Like that was even possible.  Actually, now being on the other side of things, it makes my head hurt and my heart ache that I allowed it to continue for as long as I did.

In today's world, now, when you actually leave your job to go home, you jump on your hands free phone so that you can return phone calls, catch up with friends and family, make plans, leave messages, using the time to multi-task, maybe even, if you're really lucky, lavishing yourself with attention by slurping down a Starbucks between your sister and Lisa up in Middletown.  Once home, there is precious little time to take your panty hose off and scratch, just enjoying the feeling of loose leg hair and freedom.  There is the dishwasher to empty, the washing machine to empty, the mail to read, the bills to pay, the extra chairs and tables from Easter to take down to the basement -- really, they have been staring me in the face for 5 weeks already.  What's up with that?  What's wrong with me?  Then dinner -- warming something up or, who hasn't done this, just eating it frozen -- before doing your set up for the next day.  Coffee, clothes, bathroom and valium.  That, my friends, is a day in the life.

I want to be wholly cherished like I was when I was a kid.  I want to be held tight to someone's chest for no reason other than I am loved.  And that I love.

In my household, growing up, I knew my parents loved me all the time.  There was not a whole lot of mushy and corny hand holding and hugging and singing kumbaya. 

But there was constant and uninterrupted attention to detail -- my detail.  What is best for Lew's dinner?  What clothes will make Lew look well tended to?  What are Lew's favorite foods?  What can be done to watch Lew and make sure he doesn't get hurt by those mean Catholic boys who live down the street?  What new picture of Lew can we put in the Lew shrine?  How can I make sure he gets an A in every class this year again?

Walking past me, my mom and dad never missed an opportunity to show me their love -- maybe not with the traditional outward things you see on McDonald's commercials.  But, my dad would always walk into the room and give me a noogie (tousling my hair with his closed fist).  Before leaving my side, my mother would tell me that she was going upstairs to do something important for me but that she'd be back in a minute.  On the way down the stairs, a full laundry basket of Lew's dirty clothes in her meaty, silky smooth hands, she would sing the song that still brings tears to my eyes -- the Lew-lee-o song.  "Lew-lee-o, Lew-lee-o, you're my only Lew-lee-o!"  Maybe there was not a lot of kissing and "I love you's" thrown around 229 Sunset Drive but, make no mistake about it.  It was the best sort of love I can imagine.  I feel sorry that everyone does not grow up that way.

So, last night, after a particularly hard week for both of us, Jerry and I decided to give ourselves some exquisite attention.  We got home and made an Opentable reservation at The Palm for 10 pm.  1000  points, pretty good, huh?

We took our expired gift certificate and -- get this -- leisurely walked the 8 blocks to the restaurant -- and back.  We did not hurry.  We did not rush.  Hell, we did not have the ability to hurry or rush given that Jerry's hip was hurting him right in that old man place where the leg connects to the butt bone.  We had to stroll, stroll, stroll and it was lovely.  We could not cross the streets until there were enough numbers on the "walk" sign to let him bumpedy bump bump through the crosswalk.  But, you know something, it was great.  We talked.  We connected.  We enjoyed each other's company even after 17 years together and, as one friend, Katarina, describes us, being like Siamese Twins.  We were, as my therapist used to say, "in the moment."  We actually took time to look at things and drink in the warm, beautiful evening.  We took the long way home, walking far out of our way so we would not pass the Shake Shack -- DO NOT PASS THE SHAKE SHACK --

and be tempted to have a thick, creamy $25 chocolate shake (that we both really wanted).  We even stopped to walk through the Mayflower Hotel, looking at the people, listening to their flirting and bragging and self-indulgences, looking at the crystal chandeliers and the celebrants from the Vietnamese wedding reception. 

It was, in its own special way, a magical evening. 

It was slow and warm.  It was romantic.  It was 2 people who love one another and know each other intimately.  There was no need for "I love you" or "gee, you're a really swell guy."  We already know that.  The luxurious focus and slow-motion time said it all.  And if I close my eyes, now, even 23 years after she peacefully left this world for her own infinite rest, I can almost hear my mother's crystal clear beautiful and slow moving voice wafting over me.  "Lew-lee-o, Lew-lee-o, you're my only Lew-lee-o."  What an incredibly fortunate and lucky man I am.