Edith Warton’s Home: We must keep up with the Jones’!
My Home. Not keeping up!
Please note this is a story I wrote several years ago while on my first Van Life experience.
“You only live twice:
Once when you are born
And once when you look death in the face”
― Ian Fleming, You Only Live Twice
“I think it was an inside job.”
— Sean Connery to Steve
Some years ago, I had a beer with Sean Connery. It was an unremarkable beer — a Heineken, I think. Or maybe a Becks. And, if you think Sean was, actually James Bondish in “real life” …um…he is not. If this is crushes you, do not, under any circumstances, read any further.
The Sean I had a beer with was, well, rather like your old uncle who moved to Boca, has that old man emblematic and weird super high belt line (like 4 inches below the nipples), and a button-down plaid (not Scottish Tartan — just plaid) shirt. The shirt was unbuttoned almost down to the hiked-up belt. Apparently to show off the kitschy gold chain. I suppose I can’t legitimately criticize the Morty Seinfeld yellow tinted glasses — he had just had cataract surgery. But I can criticize his car. What? An Aston Martin? Almost. Actually, a Pontiac Aztek. Think Walter White in Breaking Bad. That one. Yep. 007 in the flesh.
Yeah, this story is from the archives, but it’s a perfect one to dust off — it provides me with some perspective when I begin to undermine my own feelings of fulfillment and contentment by ruminating on what I should be doing rather than being content with what I am doing.
Stated differently, I make assumptions about how other people are living their lives and it’s always at a better, wealthier, happier and more interesting level than I am living my own I go on to make myself unhappy because I resolve to live like these other, much more successful people (apparently everyone) and then inevitably revert (or more likely I never progressed) to my mundane routine anyway. I like my routine…it’s predictable, comforting, reassuring — albeit boring — but it’s exactly what anxious people like me need. Minimize uncertainty is my motto (or feel like you are)!
But what about that dude free climbing El Cap?
Or my buddy off storm chasing?
Or that couple who perched their Airstream on the side of a mountain and are off white water kayaking before grilling Elk burgers over a fire they made with two sticks and a magnifying glass?
Or pretty much any camper within a 50 ft radius of me? All having more fun, better experiences (except maybe Rehab Guy — who BTW was arrested and kicked out my RV park, thus depriving me of stories) What about those people Steve?
Why aren’t you living like that?
But I am not and apparently my compulsion to constantly compare myself with others, and to assume that others are actually living as I imagine them to be living, really undermines my ability to just be content with my own place on the planet.
So, back to Sean, AKA, ”Bond. James Bond”, and a needed shot of perspective.
In the early oughts’ I was stationed (some of you may know I spent some time in the Coast Guard) in The Bahamas. Mr. Connery (sorry — Sean) was, at the time, a local…. or better stated a Scottish Nationalist and tax exile all at the same time. New Providence Island (Nassau) is the most populated island in the archipelago, but still small. You run into people. Including Sean. Yes, as expected he lived in a gated community…but even the elite have to come out and forage from time to time. On at least two occasions I saw him out dining with his wife. At the very same restaurant I had chosen. Wow…we frequent the same places! I suspect this would not have happened in Manhattan…but again, Nassau is small.
Now Vanilla Steve would never have actually met Sean if it had not been for a brand new Foreign Service Officer who just arrived — her first posting following initial training. And while never acceptable, I guess at this point in the excruciatingly slow evolution (maturation?) of human male behavior, a wealthy neighbor of Sean’s took a liking to this new much younger Foreign Service Officer (let’s call her Lolita — although fortunately she was much older and never had to go through the hell Lolita went through) …and began, for lack of a better way to put it, to pimp Sean out to extract ‘dates’ from her. I must note that 1) She played this well and was able to interact with Sean without ever giving the old lecher (let’s call him Humbert) what he was after and 2) Based on my interaction with Sean, I doubt he had a clue he was being pimped.
In the middle of the ‘seduction’ period, I was at home and got a call from Lolita who invited me to her small State Department provided home — Sean and Humbert were going out to a movie and decided to stop by her place enroute. Bullshit I thought. Sean Connery is going to come hang at your tiny house? I’m not gonna waste my time. Ok, fine Lo says to me. Hangs up. I proceeded to shower and prep as if I was going on a date and jetted over ‘just in case’. And guess what…. soon after I arrived, Lo gets a phone call. It’s Humbert. He is at her door. Sean is with them. They have a half hour or so. She opens the door — Humbert is pretty much filling it up….but I can see the goatee behind him…and the Aztek…and the open shirt and hiked up pants…and of course the big yellow glasses…the only proof I have that this is Sean is the iconic goatee and the Scottish brogue when he says “Hello Lolita…thanks for inviting us.” They shuffle into the tiny (charming) cottage, and we all congregate in the kitchen. A very small kitchen. Maybe 10 x 10 ft. We were absolutely covid close.
Lo and Humbert exit to the even smaller living room. That leaves Vanilla Steve and Sean in the kitchen. I ask if he wants a beer. He accepts. I pull one of Lo’s beers out of the fridge for him (can you move Sean so I can get the fridge open?) and one for me. I open both. I hand one to Sean. He takes a sip. Then he remarks on the fine quality of the cabinetry. I agree. They are certainly nicely made cabinets.
This is surreal. I’d agree with anything he said at that point. Is this really happening?
I ask him how he like living in the gated community (let’s call it Beardsley Estates).
“It’s ok” replies Sean.
He continues: “There has been some crime recently. Mrs. Pratt a few homes down was burglarized. Lost a lot of stuff. All her CDs. I think it was an inside job.”
Holy Shit! Did Sean Connery just tell me — and only me — that a burglary in his gated community for the elite had been an “…inside job”?
It’s like I am in a scene on The Untouchables. Well not really, but it’s still pretty cool. Lo then sticks her head in and invites us to the living room…god damn it…I give her the eye…I am having a pleasant chat with Sean Fucking Connery…. don’t screw it up. She doesn’t get the eye. We all sit down in the living room. I am still thinking about the “inside job.” But then the image falls apart. Lo grabs the glasses off of Sean’s head and puts the obscenely oversized yellow old man makers on…looks around…ask Sean why he has these ugly glasses…then asks Sean if George Clooney is gay…Sean is looking a little confused at this point. Humbert leans over and reminds Sean that he was in The Untouchables with George.
“Um, no I don’t think he is gay.”
Boy The Untouchables in about 5 minutes time went from being a high point of my life with the “inside job” comment…to a testament to Sean’s age…
It was time for them to leave. They wanted to make the movie (I don’t know why but its weirdly reassuring to me that a movie star still liked going to the movies).
We said our good byes and that was it.
Yes, I “ran into” Sean again — I was at a restaurant with Lo…he came over to say hello. To Lo. Not to Vanilla Steve. Not sure he even recalled seeing me prior to that…but that isn’t the point of my blather. Not at all.
My point is that if even Sean Connery drives an Aztek, dresses like an old man, goes to an occasional movie and just hangs out at his place…maybe my boring, unsophisticated, mundane existence isn’t that far off the norm.
Most of the highly curated Instagram and Facebook happiness is — well, fake. I am not celebrating that — I’d prefer people to be content in their lives — but I do take solace in the fact that I have some evidence that even the most elite among us lead lives that are, perhaps, on balance not much more exciting than mine.
At least, unlike J. Peterman, I don’t have all the cable channels memorized.
I think we all do a little comparing…and it’s nice to know that our assumptions about the exciting lives of, well, everyone else, is mostly a distortion we create in our heads. Maybe this realization will prevent some of the contentment from ebbing…
Lots of alliterative titles came to mind for this piece — The Cancer of Comparison…. The Consequences of Comparison…Compelled to Compare…Corrosive Comparison…it’s an alliterative bonanza…. but it boils down to this: Comparison Sucks. It seems to be part of our psychology though. So, despite my best efforts, I continue to do it. Thus, the story of Vanilla Steve and Vanilla (at least that evening) Sean help blunt the impact.
