Ambushed! (Boston, Massachusetts)

I met an old lover on the street today (not shown). By old, I mean the same age as me. By lover, I mean a woman with whom I got jiggy a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Far far away until yesterday...

Fritz and I were back-roading to Massachusetts, on our way to my eldest brother's island retreat (a Maine event). Elvis' Are You Lonesome Tonight surfaced on my random playlist.

My memory strayed, to a bright summer day, when I kissed her and called her sweetheart. Or maybe it was bitch (after she signed a consent form).

I'm not saying perching on Fritz was equivalent to a wanton woman on a washing machine, but vivid memories of lewd interludes surfaced from my subconscious.

I pulled over and made the call. The next day, I dropped Fritz off for some new shoes. I arranged to meet let’s-call-her-Susan a couple blocks away at a greasy spoon called the Classic Cafe.

“Look at you!” Susan said by way of greeting, gesturing at my motorcycle jacket of several colors.

I stopped myself from echoing her salutation. Susan had added a tremendous amount of weight to her once slender frame.

Avoiding her expectant gaze, I went straight for a hug. A whole body embrace that told Susan what words could not: her size didn’t matter to me in any way shape or form. Except sexually.

"I went to our reunion," Susan revealed over a cup of dishwater masquerading as coffee. "You remember the fun we had with [let's-call-him] Jake? He took one look at me and said 'what happened to you?'"

Shame shame, shame

"You're still you," I assured Susan, sidelining any discussion of her alcohol and drug abuse, poor diet and exercise aversion, triggered and habituated by childhood and subsequent trauma. "Just in a bigger package."

My libido wasn't so understanding, but I meant it. Susan was still the smart, witty, kind-hearted woman I knew biblically back in the day.

The last thing I wanted her to feel – well almost the last thing - was shame about her weight.

Shame of Fools

Alcoholic ex-wife number two taught me that shame is psychological cancer. In its most virulent form, it manifests itself as an unshakeable sense that you're inherently flawed.

That kind of shame depresses, demotivates and destroys self-esteem, trapping sufferers in an endless loop of self-recrimination and self-destruction.

Without getting personal, I shared these thoughts with my ex-lover. She highlighted the fact that shame can be useful – if it’s linked to regret for a violation of moral or social norms. .

Biden Their Time

The conversation turned to President Biden…

Not Joe's lack of shame. You can't expect a person with dementia to accept or even know they have the condition.

We marveled at the lack of shame from the family, staff, politicians, fundraisers, donors and media who've been running cover for the Commander-in-Chief for years.

Biden's obvious incapacitation on the debate stage was an Emperor's New Clothes moment for the ages. It exposed the President's allies as gas-lighters extraordinaire.

Susan said The New York Times and the rest of the MSM's volte face - calling for Biden’s withdrawal from the next election (though not his presidency) – reflects their single-minded desire to defeat Trump. It's not an admission of responsibility, a display of remorse or a promise of future reliability.

“They believe the ends always justify the means,” Susan concluded. “They’re shameless.”

The Foot of the Rocks

Walking back to the BMW dealer, I came across a historical plaque at the intersection of Lowell Street and Massachusetts Avenue.

It marks one of the two locations where Minutemen attacked British troops withdrawing from the battles of Lexington and Concord.

The latter conflicts were “proper” military engagements between opposing forces. The action at The Foot of the Rocks was an ambush.

On that fateful April day in 1775, Brigadier General Hugh Percy commanded 1000 troops headed back to Boston. Lying in wait: 34 companies of 150 Minutemen apiece, led by a farmer named William Heath.

Without artillery, Heath figured a frontal assault against the British army wouldn't end well. He ordered his troops to circle around the Brits and attack them as they retreated.

Anticipating an ambush, General Percy tasked 100 to 150 men with sweeping the fields on both sides of the road leading to Beantown. To eliminate snipers, he commanded his soldiers to clear every dwelling en route to Boston.

Despite lacking the full element of surprise, the Colonials attacked the British from their positions inside and besides houses in the village of Menotomy.

Percy ordered Lt. Col. Smith’s troops to split into squads, enter the dwellings and clear out the Colonials.

The resulting hand-to-hand, house-to-house combat claimed the lives of 25 Colonials and 40 British soldiers.

It was worse than that...

British regulars went rogue. They ransacked, plundered and torched houses. There are credible reports that they bayoneted Colonials who'd surrendered.

“Shame derives its power from being unspeakable” - Brene Brown

Although historians acknowledge the Americans' use of guerrilla warfare in subsequent military operations, accounts of the Revolutionary War’s start don't mention the ambushes that set the War into full motion.

Just as Susan doesn’t like to think of herself as obese. And Joe Biden – and his enablers – don’t like to think of the President as incapacitated. And I don’t like to think my sexual preferences as close-minded.

Not thinking about something, pretending it doesn’t exist, doesn’t erase its existence. Especially when it’s hidden deep within us, buried by shame.

And yet, considering the personal and societal damage caused by denial rooted in shame, I reckon it's a shame we don't value shame more than we do.