Jules looked at his watch. 5:30 p.m. He was sitting in his recliner, reading the newspaper. When he lived in Philadelphia, he’d always read The New York Times, and the local paper, The Philadelphia Inquirer. Since living in Santa Barbara, he’d subscribed to The Los Angeles Times. Today, the newspapers were thinner. He still hated reading on the computer, and never cared for cable television news. He was tired of all the spin. Sometimes he imagined himself, the news consumer, as a batter at the plate. The only pitches that he saw were off-speed, sailing out of the strike zone. Curves, sliders, screwballs and change-ups. He wanted fastballs. So he avoided television, except for Jeopardy, basketball, HBO, feature films and documentaries.
Jules was blocked up like the 101, heading south at 8:30 on a Wednesday. He hadn’t eaten enough fruit in the last week. He went to Ralph’s on a Monday morning and the produce had been ransacked. He went home with a few apples and bananas. Or maybe it was anti-diarrhea pill he’d taken two days earlier, after his questionable decision to eat the leftover sausages. In any case, Jules found himself sitting on the toilet for far too long, still reading the Arts section. Jules wondered if he had any prune juice left. He got up and made his way into the kitchen. He found the bottle of prune juice and poured a glass, thinning it with water from the tap.
His granddaughter Becca called, but he couldn’t get to the phone in time. He saw she’d texted him, “Traffic. Maybe 630.” Jules put on his glasses and replied, “OK, see you soon, honey.”
Jules went back to his recliner. There was the printed list of affirmations from Reva. He was on #9. He checked to see how many statements there were. Seventy! He sighed. Okay, I promised her I would. Jules walked over to his old computer, on the desk by the back window. He emailed Reva.
Lovely Reva,
I’ve been going through your list of affirmations. As I promised, I’m really thinking about each statement, even when my instinct is to laugh, or cringe, or shake my head. I know positive thinking is, well, positive for a person’s mind. I’m really not depressed anymore, but yes, an occasional day is somewhat depressing. Missing Violet as always. Missing you as always. Becca is driving up now.
Love You,
Dad
#9. I don’t judge myself.
Jules grew up floating in a sea of judgment, in which his mother aimed her comments like arrows at all three of the boys’ feet. In response, the oldest boy, Sam, shut his door and stopped talking. The middle boy, Morty, fired arrows back, mostly laced with sarcasm. Jules was the baby. Nina was softer with him. Her arrows came without arrowheads. Strangely enough, this meant her arrows flew farther and faster than the arrows she’d shot at the older boys, but they didn’t penetrate as deeply.
Did Jules judge himself? Yes. Didn’t anyone with a mind judge their own behavior, in order to maintain some sort of moral standard? In his early 30s, as a new father, Jules learned to be kinder than he’d ever been. He worked hard to support his first wife and nurture Reva. Then, after she disappeared to Barcelona, Jules and Reva found themselves clinging to each other. Reva started high school. Jules gradually learned to reserve judgment toward himself and others. When he felt a pinch of irritation or resentment, he stopped whatever he was doing, unless he was driving. He gave himself five of the slowest, deepest breaths he could, while imagining the Earth as seen from the moon, an image that had transfixed him since the summer of 1969. He had a framed image of the photograph over his desk. Jules judged himself, but not harshly, not anymore.
#10. I don’t compare myself to others.
Jules was a competitive athlete as a kid. Then, as a teenage basketball and tennis player. When you’re a good athlete, you’re always comparing yourself. It’s the nature of competition. Luckily, Jules’ mom had no need for her boys to be varsity captains. She was more interested in them becoming valedictorian of their high school class. Sam achieved that goal, which pushed Morty further into comedy, and propelled Jules toward girls. Jules stopped comparing himself when he settled into middle age. Thankfully, writing and editing high-school humanities curriculum allowed him to sequester himself and not spend time thinking about competitors. He did hold himself to a sometimes impossible standard as a dad, but he felt that was necessary. Giving all of extra energy to your child was only a problem if you ran out of energy for yourself and your wife. His first wife had run away, so that wasn’t an issue.
#11. I trust myself.
Jules was honest with others but continually suspicious of himself and interrogated his own thoughts. He loved Socrates’ line “An unexamined life isn’t worth living.” His friend Seamus often told him, “You’re my only friend who can go 12 rounds with yourself, and never lose.”
The prune juice was working. Jules trotted to the bathroom at last.