So I’ve been calling bingo at the local senior center on Monday afternoons. The week before last, a mere one day after my bingo training, I got thrown right into the pit to lead my first session.

It’s only now that I feel comfortable talking about it.

It was a Monday. Game time 1:00 pm. I arrived at 12:45 to set up.

Walking 4 in a 2

My first lesson of the day came just moments after I entered the building: Apparently I walk really fast. Perhaps too fast, at least for a place like a senior living facility.

I had just scaled the stairs to the second floor and was walking down the hallway to The Parlor, as I like to call our room of bingo, when I found myself gaining on an inbound bingo player, and rapidly.

As I pulled up to the left bumper of her walker, I recognized her from the week before: It was Jennifer. She was moving along slowly but surely, and there I was about to whiz by at 4 mph.

In a 2 mph zone.

Easy chief. Why hurry?

Quickly walking more slowly, Jennifer and I had a nice conversation as we walked the rest of the way to The Parlor. I was grateful I had cooled my jets.

And it was interesting to note just how challenging it was to really slow down.

Someone Ring The Bell, Already

We arrived soon enough, with plenty of time to set up and chit-chat with the ladies, passing the minutes while we waited for the clock to strike 1:00.

Tensions were mounting noticeably as they impatiently awaited game time. As I’ve learned pretty quickly, this bingo bell does not ring at 1:01.

One woman asked how I’d decided to volunteer at the senior center, which for some reason threw me a bit. I told her that our family had just moved to Portland after traveling around the world for eight months and that, as we established our new home in the area, I wanted to get involved with an important community that I drive by every day.

That seemed to go over okay.

While I fumbled around with the tools of the trade — the bingo cards, automatic card shuffler, plastic gold doubloons, and the funny money for which they can cash in their doubloons — a woman named Margaret, sitting directly to my left, kindly asked to which countries we had traveled.

I appreciated the prompt because I was interested in sharing a bit about me. After all, I’m really not just there to call bingo — I’m keen to connect with and get to know the folks living there.

I more or less gave the ladies the top line on our trip, at which point one woman laughed and said we’d done it backward. When I started explaining, she said she was kidding because ‘most people do it the other way.’

In fact, many of them remarked how they’d always planned to see the world but just got too sick or old before they could do it. Admittedly, this felt good to hear because it’s easy for Robyn and me to second-guess ourselves as we get our family situated.

As I’m guessing most of the people living at the senior center would tell me, life really is too short.

Francis, Tne Sneak Peeker

Anyway, after a couple more auto-shuffles of the cards, we finally get the game underway.

The first card is G72, which I read before placing it on the table in front of me so I can cross-check when someone calls bingo. The idea is to create a column for each B, I, N, G, and O — and the cards called with those letters get placed in a line of cards going downward.

I know, pretty rad org skills on my part.

Just as I set the first card on the table, Francis, on my right, reaches over to adjust the placement of the G72 card, whispering that I won’t have room to spell B-I-N-G-O cards comfortably.

Okayyy. I’m annoyed but this is one I can let go.

The games play on, and Francis consistently tries sneaking a peek at the card as I turn each one over.

WTF, Francis?

Then, it dawns on me that she has a genuine need to see the cards because, even though she’s sitting closer to me than anyone else in the room, she has trouble hearing me. She isn’t just trying to get the inside track; she needs visual confirmation of the cards I’m calling. My bad.

Thank goodness I only said ‘WTF?!’ in my head!

Be-Nign,

Most of the ‘B’s are fun to read, really. The ‘I’s are pretty good too.

Now comes the quote of the day…

At one point between games — there’s no talking during — a woman named Betty at the far end of the table shouts to another woman about a man named Robert who apparently had been living at the senior center:

‘It’s better he died!!’

And not in the he-was-in-so-much-pain-I’m-glad-he’s-in-a-better-place sorta way. As near as I can tell, she really is glad that dude croaked.

Nobody else paid much attention, which signaled how obviously common the topic of death is in a senior home, or the guy really was a prick. In this case I got the sense that it was some combination of those factors.

Still Wondering

As the day’s round of bingo came to a close, I still had so many thoughts and questions bouncing around my mind:

I hope Francis wins because she seems like a sweet woman, even if I’m still convinced she’s sneaking a peek. What can I do to make this bingo time as enjoyable as possible for these folks?

Morbidly, I wonder how many of these women are widows. Morbidlierer, which of them will die first? It’s awful and yet seems reasonable to wonder. How can I liven up the game a bit? Do they even want it livened up? How can I drive more attendance at bingo? How can I get more men to join? Am I really setting up goals and success metrics for how I operate the bingo classes? Wow, isn’t it amazing that I’m in a room with over 1,000 years of wisdom?

Bottom line: I’m loving my time visiting with these folks. As silly as I’m being about the whole experience, I really do feel honored to get these opportunities.

Hat Trick

And yes, I am setting some goals. I intend to get >18 people to show up (the average is currently 13), and I intend to get at least one man to come play (right now there are none). I need to check the community rules around postering, flyering, door-to-door promotion, and email marketing.

As for Francis, whom I’d been pulling for: She ended up getting a hat trick.

So I was pretty psyched about that.

Monster Potion was our family blog, at the now-defunct monsterpotion.com. We wrote about life in general, including our travels around the world in 2012 and 2013, and went quiet by 2014. The pieces republished here are some of mine.

Read more at omnipolar.ai/s/monster-potion

I’m just going to put it out there: I have a stretch goal to play baseball on the moon with Pi.

And everybody else who wants to play.

I figure anything is possible

Monster Potion was our family blog, at the now-defunct monsterpotion.com. We wrote about life in general, including our travels around the world in 2012 and 2013, and went quiet by 2014. The pieces republished here are some of mine.

Read more at omnipolar.ai/s/monster-potion

I just had my half of the His & Hers Ayurvedic full-body massages here at the lodge near Ranthambore National Park. Ok, it wasn’t exactly billed that way — that’s probably an American marketing convention — but that’s pretty much what it was.

Seemingly Necessary Disclaimers

Before I tell you about it, a wood-shop teacher’s handful of disclaimers, compressed into one: I enjoyed the massage, I’m comfortable with my sexuality, I have real respect for these practitioners and their craft — and I’m aware that, as with “I’m not racist, but…,” a certain amount of truth hides inside a disclaimer, which is a thread for another day.

Now that those are out of the way, and with full acknowledgement that I mock that which I do not fully understand, let me tell you about this massage experience…

No Tigers, One Wrecked Back

The whole thing started this morning when we returned to the lodge after our second day in a row from a tiger safari where, incidentally, we saw no tigers. No problem, though — we had been forewarned and had a great time anyway. I talked about this in a post yesterday.

The safari was fun, though today we sat in the open-air jeep’s last row, which meant the ride was extra bumpy from the get go. Then, once we got into the Ranthambore National Park, we took a road clearly less traveled because it was barely navigable. In fact, calling it a road is generous.

What I’m getting to is that our backs got completely jacked. My chiropractor, Dr. Rabbetz, definitely would not have signed off on this excursion any more than he signed off on me playing ultimate frisbee in San Francisco a few years ago and, after an hour-long pickup game, I couldn’t walk for two weeks.

Twenty-Nine Dollars, Delivered to the Tent

So, at 10:30 AM this morning, when we get back to our lodge, I comment to my wife that I desperately need a massage. After 10+ years together, she knows how to skillfully deflect my poorly-veiled hints, this time pointing to poster about Ayurvedic massages as we’re walking through the lobby. Mmmm, interesting. But should we really spend the money? We’re really trying to shift into a more budget-minded way of traveling.

‘1600 Rupees for sixty-minute full-body Ayurvedic massage,’ says the man at the desk. ‘They come to your tent.’

$29 USD for an hour!

The only aspect of the whole bit I don’t have a great handle on is the ‘Ayurvedic’ part. Besides, we came to India to experience whatever it offers us.

Sign us up: Mrs. Robyn at 5:00, Mr. Chad at 6:30.

Done.

Robyn Goes First

The day passes and, at 4:55, a woman and man come walking toward our tent as I vacate with the kids so Robyn can get ayuvedarized in peace. The woman is dressed fabulously, with a shiny gold nose piercing and a bright blue sari, carrying herself in a way that screams Healer. (I’m not sure ‘scream’ and ‘healer’ go together but you get the point.) The gentleman accompanying her, from a few paces behind is dressed more formally. If I recall correctly, he’s wearing khakis and a white shirt. Very nice looking, though I can’t tell what his role is. Body guard? Unlikely. Translator? Maybe.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ I say to myself. ‘We’re each getting rubbed. For 60 minutes. And inexpensively!

When Robyn comes out of the tent at 6:15, I excitedly ask her how it was, expecting an expression of bliss that conveys both how much she loved hers and how much I’m going to love mine. That Ayurvedic massage is going to open up new doorways to heaven-on-earth for us.

Instead, Robyn says, somewhat tepidly, ‘It was good. But it’s not the massage you’re expecting. They rub your skin like silly putty.’

Not exactly the response I was seeking, but tell me more.

Giggling a bit, she makes a wax-on-wax-off motion, telling me it was strange when the woman massaged her breasts. Then she drops the real news: the man and woman are a husband and wife team, and I’m getting massaged by the man.

‘Well,’ I say, ‘that’s going to make the happy ending a little more awkward.’

She rolls her eyes.

No Sheet, No Draping, Just Me

Okay fine. I’ve had massages from men before and, although I prefer a woman’s touch, massages from men do have their advantages.

So I’m hanging out in the tent waiting for my turn when the nicely dressed Indian man comes to our tent’s open flap. I watch him laying his gear out on the bed, which includes some kind of synthetic tarp-like sheet. It looks super uncomfortable and I assume, obviously incorrectly, that he’s going to lay a comfortable cotton sheet over it. Nope. He just asks me, politely of course, to remove my clothes and face up. And I do.

Now here I am, lying on a cold plastic sheet, with my package just out there. No top sheet. No ‘draping,’ as I learned they call it in the one massage class I took before dropping out of the certification program back in ‘05.

It’s very cold in the room.

I haven’t man-scaped in months.

This is awkward.

But hey, I’m in India!

The first thing this nicely-dressed man does is pour warm oil onto his hands. Normal. He vigorously wiggles my stomach, which doesn’t feel that great due to the crazy amount of spicy Indian food we’ve been eating since we arrived last week. He’s taking a risk here too so I go with it. Then, he draws circles (and circles and circles) around my nipples and belly button with his oily fingers. Less normal.

As I lay there face up and buck-naked, I can’t help but wonder just a little bit how close he’s going to get to Mr. Johnson and the boys. Then, a few minutes later, a more alarming thought enters my mind: What happens when I turn onto my stomach when he goes to work on my backside? Of course, I’m really not that concerned and yet it’s funny to wonder where this is going. Semi-haha-funny, that is.

Fortunately, I guess, work on my front side only goes as far as him grazing the boys when he’s massaging my thighs. Plenty far, and really no biggie. Figuratively and literally.

‘Turn over, sir, please.’

Okey dokey.

I go to roll over — a move I find awkward during even the most normal of massages — and plant my face on the plastic tarp. The material doesn’t have any give so I turn my head to the left and rest my ear flat. The problem is, the material is such that my right ear is now suctioned to the tarp. Very uncomfortable, and yet I can’t come up with a better position.

Fine, I can live with the ear-suction, so long as I don’t have to get up too quickly. I don’t want any inner-ear damage from this experiment.

Soon after I assume this position, he begins kneading my skin, eventually running his finger tips up and down the length of my body. Almost a caress. Admittedly, it feels pretty good. This nicely-dressed man has a nice touch.

But two things happen that cause some dis-ease while I’m face down with my right ear stuck to this tarp thingy such that I can only hear out of my left.

First, a wild squirrel starts scrambling around on our canvas tent’s roof. Squirrels have been doing this the past couple days and, I’ve been told, at least one of them has even come into our tent. So that’s not ideal, for what I trust are obvious reasons.

Second, I feel part of his body, presumably his knee, depress the bed between my thighs. Not a true concern, but I’m lying there thinking the material for this post just keeps getting better and better. Forget if I’m actually enjoying the experience or not — this is hilarious.

He finishes off my backside with a few more tickle-like caresses, so to speak, and now it’s time for me to sit up so he can massage my head.

The Part I Was Looking Forward To

I do as I’m told and sit there Native American-style, still totally naked. Work on my head and shoulders is the part I’m looking forward to most because, like most people who spend an inordinate amount of time hunched over a computer, I tend to carry 99% of my stress in this region. And before I know it, he’s busting the moves on my head and neck. Great!

I don’t even remember his first technique, exactly, but I do know that, for some reason, it conjures an image of Yogi Bear. Repeatedly. I have many theories but none of them seem plausible. So, amidst hearing a refrain of ‘Hey Boo Boo’ I do my best to push Yogi out, with very little success.

Next comes a motion where he thwacks my head with his fingers in a way that, ensconced in the darkness of my closed eyelids, I begin to see what I can only describe as fireworks. Not romantic fireworks — more like those light tracers you get when staring into your eye lids that make strange shapes, just in the form of fireworks. This maneuver of his one hurt a little so I distracted myself by reflecting on the Katy Perry song, which Bowie loves. She and I were just listening to it yesterday so that was a nice place to go while he did whatever he was doing to my noggin. At this point, it’s clear to me how in the moment I am. I’m having a good time though.

The last technique he introduces to my head is rubbing my scalp pretty much as hard as he can, with both hands pushing from the temples upward. Again, it feels good, and yet it also reminds me of the time Robyn and I went to that crazy new age workshop in Houston where they put pillow cases on our heads, rubbed them with industrial-grade car buffers, and had us hyperventilate — all in the name of reaching a higher level of consciousness. Yes, we paid money for this.

Anyway, this is what the technique feels like. And as I think of that head-buffing workshop, which is how we now reference it in the lore of our colorful relationship over the years, it jogs my memory of the woman Robyn and I met at that workshop.

All I remember is sitting on the floor of that warehouse, talking to a woman who, as her (presumably unpaid) profession, performs mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on squirrels. (I swear I’m not making this shit up.) So with the squirrel racing around on the roof above our tent, it’s all a little much.

From there, the nicely-dressed man alternates between these three techniques, along with another that I cannot for my life figure out how to describe, until he somewhat abruptly stops and announces: ‘Finished.’

Trapped on the Table, Fully Oiled

Aside from all the nonsense going on in my head for the past 60+ minutes, it’s a great massage. I don’t really know what to do, though, because I’m sitting on the bed totally naked, oiled up like nobody’s business, and I need to wait for the nicely-dressed man to roll up his tarp and go on his merry way.

I think to myself: Shower! I’ll tell him I’m going to take a shower! That way we can say our goodbyes here.

So that’s what I propose.

‘Wait ten minutes,’ he tells me.

Oh come on, man, what do I do now?

‘Okay,’ I say.

To buy time, I clumsily slide my oily body back into my black Calvin Klein boxer-briefs, then my dark green REI shorts, and sit down on the edge of the bed pretending to meditate. (Yes, that’s the best I could come up with.) As I count the seconds, I watch him meticulously wrap up his gear, including the now-oily tarp. I think to myself that I’ve never wanted any person to care less about the tools of their craft than I do in this very moment — for no real reason other than my own awkwardness. I figure it’s just time to move on here.

‘Can I use the bathroom, sir?’

Come on, nicely-dressed man, you’re killing me!

‘Of course you can, right through there.’

A few moments later, he exits the tent.

I Never Even Got His Name

My very first Ayurvedic massage, no doubt of many while I’m here in India and beyond, has come to a close. Sure, I was never actually concerned that something untoward was going to happen. The whole experience was just hilarious.

In fact, the most bothersome aspect of the whole affair was that I never learned his name. Somehow it felt wrong to have someone graze my balls without me knowing what to call him.

Did I feel a little cheapened by this? Perhaps.

Can I be okay with it, at least in this case? Sure! It was a good massage!!

So thank you, Mr. Nicely-Dressed Man. Next time, please just shut the tent flap on your way out so the squirrels don’t come in again after you leave.

Monster Potion was our family blog, at the now-defunct monsterpotion.com. We wrote about life in general, including our travels around the world in 2012 and 2013, and went quiet by 2014. The pieces republished here are some of mine.

Read more at omnipolar.ai/s/monster-potion

For more than a year now, the old song Rise by Public Image Limited has been playing through my head with more frequency than necessarily makes sense to me. I wasn’t exactly a big P.I.L. fan growing up so it’s not like The Smiths running through my head.

I could be wrong.

I could be right.

As I’ve gotten older, if not wiser, I’ve been willing to take more and more thoughtful risks in my life, I find it behooves me to ‘trust my gut.’ In fact, the biggest payoffs in my life have, to the external observer, made no sense.

As I wrote earlier this week, sometimes I need to turn my cerebral navigation computer off. Just speaking for myself here.

One such decision that comes to mind is, oh, say, redirecting our entire savings to risk living differently by traveling the world and forging a new, uncharted path for ourselves. Others include speaking my mind at work when I sense wrongdoing, even if those around me do their best to convince me otherwise, reasonable evidence in hand.

As Rich Rosetti, my first boss during my days as a private investigator at Kroll Associates, was fond of telling me: ‘If it looks like a duck, smells like a duck, and quacks like a duck…then it’s probably a duck.’ To be honest, I’m not even sure if this anecdote is relevant but it came to mind and so I’m taking this opportunity to pay homage to a man who gambled on a guy straight out of college who, candidly, knew jack ding dong about anything. I also don’t know if the ‘smells like a duck’ was part of that equation but including it allows me to point out that I do not know what a duck smells like.

I digress.

One thing I’ve had to teach myself — or that I’ve had to open up to others teaching me — is that I will not always be right with these decisions. Furthermore, in the short-term, decisions often present themselves as ‘right’ when they may ultimately end up being ‘wrong.’

And vice versa.

It’s difficult to say, especially when the reality is that 100% of the time I’m both right and wrong. No decision is perfect. No decision is without consequences, some seemingly better than others.

They’re just consequences.

I do know that my best choices are when I go with my gut. My instinct. My heart.

I also know that, while I do need to use my brain, leaning on it entirely is a dangerous bit.

So lacking better data, I’ll go ahead and figure that I’m right 50% of the time. Sure, in reality, I feel right far more than 50% of the time — sometimes as much as 99% — and yet I’ve been known to get a bad case of Icarus and can get to thinking I’m truly right even close to 99% of the time.

In the spirit of betting on myself, let’s go with a modest 51% hit rate. Heck, if I were a baseball player, that’d be impressive.

Of course, do these percentages mean anything?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Monster Potion articles originally appeared on monsterpotion.com, now defunct, where we wrote about life in general, including our family's travels around the world in 2012 and 2013. Robyn and I wrote most of it, the kids wrote once or twice, and we went quiet by 2014.

Read more at omnipolar.ai/s/monster-potion