"I don't think there's a qualifier, but if there were, it would say that the attributes of 'young' and 'good-looking' are strictly optional. Any man who cares about his wife/girlfriend/s.o. and shows it in concrete ways, is a 'pearl of great price,' and will find that taking out the trash can drive her into a romantic frenzy." ~ EHC
One of the "rules of engagement" frequently overlooked by men in the attempt to relate to the opposite sex is the rule of consideration. There was a time, not too long ago, when men were a little uncertain in this regard, not wishing to diminish a woman's own power by doing for her what she could do for herself. Good intentions notwithstanding, I've rarely known a woman who was not appreciative of a man being genuinely and honestly considerate.
I realize this sounds old fashioned and it probably is, but that doesn't render it a fossilized entry in our behavioral vocabulary. I've witnessed numerous occasions where Mr. Got-It-Made-in-the-Shade has ended up looking like a fool in comparison to an ordinary guy who knew how to treat a woman like she was special. Being a gentleman sets you apart and it does so in a good way. Even if men don't happen to notice, women do.
So, how do you proceed? To begin with, when taking a woman out, open her door, both when she's entering and exiting the car. If Bono can do it (photo), well, you get the message. A woman might act a little confused or self-conscious at first, but don't worry, she's probably not be used to having someone do this for her. Most guys don't, especially after they've dated a while or they've moved in together and he's starting to act like he's dad and she's mom without even realizing it.
Hold the door for her anytime you're entering a room or building. Help her on and off with her coat before dealing with yours. Pull out her chair when dining out -- or even at the home of friends, for that matter. Walk on the street-side when strolling down the sidewalk together; it's a sign of respect. Resist the temptation to think you're ever passed the point where you need to be polite, because once you do, you're flirting with taking your partner for granted. If there's any no-no you want to avoid like the plague, this one's it.
Sure, there may come a time when she'll open her own car door out of convenience, in haste, or because she doesn't want you to feel like you always have to do it for her, but surprise her occasionally. Furthermore, being a gentleman ought not be limited to those times when a man is courting. He will go a long way toward creating positive regard for himself if he's polite with coworkers and women in general.
Now, the key thing to remember is, consideration has to be genuine. It should be the natural expression of who you are as a person. It's not something you do because you have to or to get something in return. I mean, yes, I think it's safe to say a guy's going to come a lot closer to a kiss on the first date if he's considerate, but we're talking about being a gentleman and gentlemen aren't polite for the sake of what they can obtain. Consideration is its own reward.
Finally, being a gentleman among women and men doesn't make one a stereotypically "nice guy." Niceness is fine but gentlemanliness flows from an inner strength. It reveals a quiet, confident self-possession and self-awareness that not only women, but also other men, find compelling. It shows up when you least expect it, like for example, when you take out the trash -- without being asked.
(Creative Commons image by dpnash via Flickr -- a word of thanks in acknowledgment to EHC, a loyal reader who offered the quote beginning this essay.)
After a certain age, every man is responsible for his face. ~ Albert Camus
Superficially, it starts around age 13, when enough testosterone has entered the circulation to stimulate the growth of facial hair. Our parents begin dropping hints that the baby hair that has clung stubbornly to our cheeks is starting to look more like stubble. Next thing you know, a razor has found its way into the pile of presents at birthdays or Christmas.
I remember my first razor. It was a Remington cordless that was so heavy, shaving felt like a work-out. My dad used a blade and I was concerned an electric seemed somehow less manly, but he assured me it was the best way to begin. Later on, when my beard had turned into a rough approximation of industrial grade sandpaper, I could graduate to Schick or Gilette.
As much as shaving represents a rite of passage, I'm inclined to think Camus had something else in mind. It probably varies from person to person, but there definitely comes a point when a man has to recognize he's primarily responsible for the person he has become. We can blame our parents or their errors in judgment only so long and then it's time to admit we might have made different choices. And the ones we've made eventually carve their initials onto our faces for all the world to see.
"You're not the man I remember," said Marion, as she wiped the blood from Indiana's shoulder.
"It's not the years, baby, it's the mileage," he responded.
You probably recognize this exchange from Raiders of the Lost Ark. Though intended to provide comic relief, it speaks loudly and clearly to the issue. Experience leaves a mark. It wasn't just gravity that tugged at dad's forehead and the skin beneath his eyes, it was raising a family, paying a mortgage, and perhaps the pain from chronic arthritis that he said little or nothing about. It was also the joy and hope he felt and refused to allow anything to interfere with.
The way we perceive life, its fairness or injustice, the losses we've incurred, exerts such an influence that even in silence, a stranger can tell we've been down a hard road. You see it a lot in detox units where faces are lined as deeply as newly plowed ground. Lack of care, lack of resources, too much alcohol, and too little love make people old before their time.
We can't choose our genes and we can't alter our heritage, but we can determine to some extent the kinds of experiences we're going to wear and present to the world. The mileage is going to accumulate, one way or another, but it doesn't have to represent frustrated ambitions, resentment, or regret. Instead, it ought to reflect maturity and character, a willingness to embrace life rather than flee from it. And it's never too early -- or too late -- to start.
(Creative Commons image by miss ohara via Flickr)
Have you ever seen the television commercial advertising a treatment for erectile dysfunction depicting a man and woman, each sitting in a bathtub with their backs to the camera? They're holding hands and looking, first affectionately at one another, then at the sunset. The unspoken message is, the husband's decision to go on medication has led to a second honeymoon.
There are a few things that puzzle me about this commercial. For instance, assuming the tubs have water in them, how did it get there? I don't see a faucet nearby -- they probably used buckets and carried water to the tubs, yeah, that's it. But wait, you don't suppose the couple had to do that themselves? That'd be chintzy. They should have called Expedia and booked a better hotel.
Even if the hotel staff did the dirty work, how did they keep the water warm? Okay, so they started out with hot water, but one or two buckets at a time, filling is going to be a slow process and the water in the tub will surely cool off. Seems to me that might put a bit of a damper on the, um, mood, if you know what I mean.
My next question is, did the couple just walk out there, like stark naked (perish the thought)? There aren't any robes laying around on the grass and here's this other guy making a video of the whole thing. Somebody please blush!
Finally, there's the matter of two tubs. Now, I realize this is television and the kids are watching, but what in the heck is romantic about sitting in a bathtub all by your lonesome, your partner is sitting all by their lonesome in hers/his, and the very most you can do is hold hands and gaze goofy-eyed at each other? Do you suppose this is what they mean by "safe bathing?" It reminds me of classic films where married couples are depicted using twin beds -- safe sleeping.
I'm probably taking this too far and I should just shut up and suspend my disbelief for a few seconds. But I have to wonder. See, the thing about carrying water outside still gets me. I packed water in buckets to the horses in the dead of winter when I was a kid and I'll tell you, the best part about it was being done. There was nothing about the experience that makes me think it's a reasonable substitute for candlelight and music, especially for that "special moment." Not even if you throw in a sunset for good measure.
(Creative Commons image by mrt575 via Flickr)
I didn't exactly wake up thinking about miracles this morning, but pretty close. It took breakfast and two cups of coffee to get the gears turning, which goes to show that "miraculous" doesn't have to mean other-worldly. Actually, this topic came about as the result of an email I received over the weekend, asking how my medical peers -- students, professors, and physicians -- felt about so-called miracle cures and spontaneous remissions.
I wouldn't begin to speak for anyone else, but for me, the words of Hamlet are inescapably wise: "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." The immediate context for this quote from Act I Scene V is one in which the ghost of Hamlet's murdered father appears and Hamlet's closest friends, Horatio and Marcellus, are witnesses. Horatio regards what he's seen as "strange," and I think it's safe to say he's having a difficult time accepting it as reality.
Poor Horatio. Shakespeare gave you two roles, neither of which is enviable. First, you're Hamlet's closest friend and confidante, and as such, it will fall to you, not only to hold his hand as he departs this life, but also to tell his tale in the midst of your own grief. I can identify with you, having been in a very similar position with my father as he lay dying. Second, you represent rational humanism, meaning you're the one whose presuppositions are going to not only be challenged, but altered as the story unfolds. Change is coming, Horatio, you'd better be prepared.
I'm not going to argue that miracles occur or that anytime we see something we can't explain we ought to drag God into the discussion and let him take the credit or the blame, as the case may be. For me to do that would not only be cheating but, as I see it, dishonoring to my understanding of the nature of God which requires me to put forth my very best efforts to make sense of what happens around me. In other words, my theology doesn't approve of taking the easy way out. On top of that, as I've said previously, I don't believe for one minute that the function of faith is to answer questions science could, but can't yet.
What I am arguing in favor of is a willingness to remain open to possibilities. It is easy to become as rigidly attached to rationality as to religion, and then use either for an excuse to dismiss whatever doesn't fit within the boundaries of our presuppositions. While doing so eliminates cognitive dissonance, it also rules out the potential for experiencing life in perhaps, an entirely new way. The truth is, sometimes we simply don't know what is happening right before our very eyes. Intellectual and, if I may be permitted to say it, spiritual maturity involves becoming okay with the ambiguity of not knowing until we do, if we ever do.
(Creative Commons image entitled "Ambiguity" by NAjwA via Flickr)
Well, last night's dance class was an eye-opener. In my mind, a waltz has always conjured images of a grand ballroom, Josef Strauss, and Vienna on New Year's Eve. Turns out, there's more than one way to skin that cat and by the end of the hour, I knew what I was doing well enough to waltz my way up the street to my car -- sans partner, that is.
Admittedly, I felt a little self-conscious but I figured any passers-by must be familiar with the site of students dancing on the sidewalk in front of our classroom, so why not? I didn't waste time any getting in the car, though, since the psych unit is fairly close by and the last thing I wanted was to spend the evening trying to explain to an overworked resident on-call that I really was practicing and it was all a big misunderstanding.
Shoot, with my luck, s/he'd have probably asked for a demonstration and that would have been all they needed to admit me on the spot. Anyway, it is the arts district after all, and you'd think folks (including the police) would be used to the budding Baryshnikov, caught up in a moment of inspiration, leaping and pirouetting down the sidewalk. I didn't leap, by the way, just so you know.
The closest I came to a pirouette was the little side-step, back turn between the right open box and the left promenade steps. Don't worry about what those mean -- I'm not even sure I got their names right, and for me, that's where dancing and real life meet. You see, I have the hardest time remembering names -- faces I'll remember for years, names, uh-uh. Fortunately, where dancing is concerned, all my feet have to do is not forget where they're going and I think I'll be okay. I gave up on names a long time ago.
(Creative Commons image via Wikipedia)
If you've ever gotten the impression that I'm not exactly up-to-date on the movie scene, you're absolutely right. I've got a list of excuses as long as my arm -- in excess of three feet, shoulder to fingertips -- but lack of interest is nowhere on it. I love movies and the latest Harry Potter flick got me hooked on IMAX and 3-D. All I have to do is walk into a theater and smell fresh popcorn, and it never fails, somewhere down inside I'm ten years old again.
Ultimately, the main reason I'm behind is cost. I'd betray my age if I told you ticket prices I recall, so as singer Jim Croce would say, "let's forget all that." My point is, it's darned near prohibitive, on a medical student's salary, to see first-run movies. And, unfortunately, the neighborhood movie house, as they used to be called, is a fond memory tucked away in American history. In case you don't know what I'm talking about, movies used to arrive first at downtown, upscale theaters. There they'd run for a few weeks before transferring to smaller, less expensive and less fancy theaters down the street from where most of us lived.
As a kid, Saturday afternoons were easily spent with my best buddy at the Woodlawn (isn't that a great name?), munching candy and watching double features. With the advent of the shopping mall and multiple screens, the local guys could no longer compete. Now, at least in my hometown of Denver, many of them have become venues for live music. That's a good thing, really, because it preserves the art deco architecture that was in its heyday in the 1920s and has become part of our cultural heritage.
Some towns, Dallas for example, have or used to have, dollar theaters. The seats weren't quite luxurious and the sound systems usually dated, but, hey, for a buck what can you expect? It was cheap and it beat paying several times that amount to see a film that had yet to go to DVD. The closest I can approximate that today is the automated dispenser at the grocery up the street.
True, my living room isn't the Paramount and the lounge chair I inherited from my parents isn't fitted with cup holders. Nor do I have the experience of surround sound and a screen wide enough to lose myself in the drama. But I can hit the pause button while I take my dog outside or skip backwards to hear a line that bears repeating in casual conversation. Peter Jackson and the Olympians was out in June and now it's available on DVD -- two months, that's not too bad.
The disadvantage isn't so much that I'm at a loss when someone asks what I think of the newest blockbuster. It's more that I don't have anyone to come around after "a night at the movies" to vacuum the carpet and collect the trash. I know, I need to have kids.
(Creative Commons image of Denver's Gothic Theater by DenverPam via Flickr; Operator by Jim Croce, copyright 1972)
The comments on yesterday's post (To the New Class) have me contemplating the similarities between medical and theological thinking this morning. That there are similarities might be surprising since we ordinarily regard medicine as a scientific enterprise, theology a religious one, and never the twain shall meet. There is a way, however, of talking about the kind of thinking we do in each that may provide a healthy corrective and help us understand how these disciplines address the human condition in a manner that is complimentary, rather than mutually exclusive.
Let's begin by defining our terms. When I use the word theology I'm referring to a critical reflection on the nature of religious experience. Not religious as a category of human experience, but very specifically, one that falls within the framework of an identifiable religious tradition. This is in distinction from religious studies, which is the scientific, historical, psychological, or sociological examination of a religious tradition or religion in general.
Theological thinking attempts to describe one's experience of ultimate mystery in a way that is communicable, and as such, is limited by language. How do you put into words that which by its very nature, transcends comprehension? Someone has said theologians should be poets. Religious studies, on the other hand, isn't interested so much in the implications or practical application of religious experience in the context of a faith persuasion. Instead, it wants to know to what extent the experience can be scientifically examined, placed in an historical setting, or evaluated psychologically. Theology presumes one is speaking as a believer; the practitioner of religious studies can be, and not uncommonly is, an atheist.
For our purposes, in place of theology and religious studies, I'm going to substitute clinical thinking and medical science. This is my own choice of terms, by the way, so be aware other writers may choose differently. Medical science refers to the process whereby we analyze, describe, and diagnose, while relying the scientific method, examination, the accumulation and evaluation of evidence, and technology where applicable. Clinical thinking is the process of reflecting on what we do as physicians; its tools are experience, education, training, and hopefully, maturity. Medical science, in a sense, tells us how well we do it and how to do it better.
If theology is a reasonable analogue of clinical thinking, it follows that one must be a clinician of some sort to engage in it. Not necessarily a doctor, but someone whose livelihood is earned in the trenches. A critical reflection on being a clinician and the experience of caring for persons implies possession of first-hand knowledge. It's why many physicians are poets. Medical science knows no such condition; observation is accessible to anyone willing to pay attention.
Now, all of this gets sticky when we consider how practitioners evaluate their own disciplines. It's tempting for a psychiatrist to say, for example, that only psychiatrists are in a position to critically appraise the field of psychiatry and the same holds true for other specialties. But that begs the question, just as it does for Christian theologians, because our situation within a given theological or medical context colors our perceptions. Consequently, of great value to both is the opinion of one who stands outside the perimeter of "faith."
All of this is not to say the theologian's or clinician's self-criticism is invalid, only that it is inherently limited and one should resist marrying one's perceptions. Whether in medicine or theology, we're working with humanity in ways that far exceed the capacity of any single person. We need one another if for no other reason than to keep each other honest. In the pursuit of understanding, the only dead ends are the roads we refuse to take.
(Creative Commons image by rustytanton via Flickr) 
