Should grown men be playing video games?

I have a “thing” about adult men playing video games. I’m not sure if it’s an unwarranted bias or a totally rational assessment but it’s definitely a “thing” that causes more than a bit of tension between my husband and myself.

I can tell myself that playing video games is just a modern way of recreating and that men have always found ways to burn off steam – at the pub or the golf course or cheering on their home team. Is this really any worse?

Video game fans remind me that playing isn’t even all that isolating anymore as many games are played best with a group of friends and you can even make new ones playing online fantasy games like World of Warcraft. I can even try and convince myself that there’s something to be gained in terms of hand eye coordin… (oh, I don’t even buy that one). But I get theoretically all the arguments in favor of grown men perched at the end of the couch, clutching their modern joysticks, totally engrossed in the escapist thrill of killing demons and crashing cars. I just cringe at the image.

I just can’t get passed my “thing” against it. Maybe it’s just my generation. When I grew up grown men (the ones who formed my archetype of what it is to be a man) simply did not play video games. They played sports or cards or who knows what, but they certainly did not stare at video screens. Their sons did. And the dads, along with their wives, worried that these games would atrophy their children’s bodies and minds and so tried to limit their use. (Atari and Nintendo were forbidden in our house entirely.)

But then their children grew up, and with no nagging parents to call them for dinner or remind them of homework, they were free to totally indulge their gaming habits made even better with shockingly lifelike graphics and sophisticated scenarios. I guess the video games have grown up along with the boys.

So, let’s take a closer look at what these new generation video games are offering. I did a quick search for the most popular games and they go by names like Street Fighter IV, Assassin’s Creed and Resident Evil V (I’m horrified that there were 4 Resident Evils preceding this). It doesn’t take a sociologist to figure out that these games are scratching some kind of an itch for male aggression.

But they are tapping into something even more than a lust for violence. Demon’s Souls “pits you against the forces of The Old One as you fight to save humanity from extinction” (sounds like I made that up, but no). In Braid you “Travel seven platforming worlds to save a princess” and in Dragon’s Age you travel through the “fictional land of Ferelden, meet memorable characters and fight for a cause you believe in.”

There are grand themes here of salvation and revenge all putting the player in the role of hero. Pretty seductive stuff if you’re looking to escape your humdrum life for a while. So, again, I think I can muster an understanding of the appeal.

Yet... still..... I think there is a strong case to be made against this practice that goes beyond my knee jerk aversion to how "unmanly" it is. And I know enthusiasts will balk at my saying so, but I'm a lone (and, by the way, buxom) sword yielding, seventh-level, forest gnome crusading to have my voice heard. (to borrow some imagery that might help my case.)

First of all, doesn't the modern male already generally spend the better part of his week interfacing with a computer? Shouldn't recreation at a minimum pull him away from this position at least for the sake of his eye site and rear end?

Also, is it really the best to indulge the male id in such shamelessly obvious ways? OK. It's "fun" and there's supposedly no harm done. But to me it's focused on engaging that part of the brain that was most alive in the teenage years and I'm not so sure that's a good thing.

Playing video games is also one of those activities that I would call a "time suck," in which hours might pass as minutes as your morning bowl of cereal watches the sun set. Unlike a game of golf, there's really no clear end point and there's a definite risk of these games stealing more hours of your life that even a gamer might have bargained for. And isn't there a premium on our increasingly shrinking free time already? Why do something that doesn't seem to respect that time is precious?

I'm aware this is all coming off as judgemental and nagging. My husband would vehemently argue that it is a safe and harmless outlet for decompressing after a hard day, and, in moderation, does not have to infringe on responsibilities or "healthier" forms of recreation.

Still. I have this "thing." There's just something a bit off-putting about watching the father of my child staring transfixed at screens full of fantastical characters in imaginary lands or (worse still) playing the hero in some post-apocalyptic battle scene. He claims this is unfair, but I can't help it. I'm just programmed this way.

Cracking back quack or my salvation?

I’ve been moaning about lower back pain so long I’m probably giving everyone around me upper head pain, and I’ve finally decided to do something about it. Last week I made an appointment to see a chiropractor.

I know next to nothing about this branch of medicine, including whether it is in fact a “branch” of medicine. I know the chiropractor I saw had several framed diplomas on her wall, all of which included the word “doctor,” and there was a capital D after her name on her business card. But Wikipedia tells me that the philosophy behind chiropractics, that spinal joint dysfunction interferes with the body's innate ability to heal itself, “brings ridicule” from mainstream medicine. OK. But, even my cynical and penny pinching insurance covers some of this, so there must be some proven medical benefit, right? I know people who swear by their chiropractor and others who think they are useless. I’m still trying to make up my mind.

My first visit was a relief. My biggest fear in trying to finally address this nagging back pain was that some professional would tell me that despite the hurt I was actually just fine and send me on my way. Being a totally subjective experience, it’s hard to know whether the aches in your body are within the realm of normal –making you basically a wimpy whiner - or whether you’ve been heroically enduring some serious structural problem. In the same way I relish when a bump to my leg develops into a dark purple emblem of my pain, I desperately wanted some kind of diagnosis and vindication of my complaining. So, when, after her evaluation, the chiropractor told me I had a chronic problem but that they had just the solution, I nearly kissed her.

My other fear in going to see any kind of medical professional is also quite common. I detest that dehumanizing feeling of being treated as a collection of symptoms by an automaton who has lost the ability to see you as a person. I hate the rooms you wait in, sterile and anonymous with half-hearted attempts to brighten the atmosphere with free posters from pharmaceutical reps. I hate the sterilized instruments on trays, which remind me that I am most of all a specimen, a problem to be solved with tests. I notice myself shrink in these offices and curl up inside myself. This is why I have avoided seeing someone about my back for so long.

So, score another point for my chiropractor who looked me in the eye, listened with a look of rapt sincerity and concern to my responses to her questions and never once looked at the clock. This went on for so long I almost got impatient. I didn’t quite know what was happening, and then it dawned on me. She’s establishing a rapport. She’s getting to know me as a person with a family and a job and interests. That alone made me want to come back. Which is a good thing because after she did her evaluation, it looked like I would be coming back. A lot!

Now, this is where she started to lose me. Just when this experience started to feel like salvation I heard that the solution to my back pain is coming in for adjustments…. three times a week for a month! Then twice a week for a month, and then once a week for a month! Totally unprepared for that level of time and money commitment, my jaw hit the floor (which is probably no good for the spine) and I entered in what feels like a used car sales negotiation with me trying to weasel out of this treatment plan and the chiropractor using everything in her arsenal to rope me back in. And then I notice the “2 referrals get you a free t-shirt sign” which adds to the general paranoia that I might be being “had.” But my defenses, along with my back, are weak, so I ultimately agree.

So, this is where I am. I’ve now had 3 adjustments and I still can’t decide whether I’m on my way to chiropractic conversion or simply to becoming $500 poorer. The drill is this: they zap me with electromagnet muscle stimulations for 10 minutes and the adjustments take all of another 10. She presses hard on either side of my spine and cracks my back and is off to the next patient. It’s moderately painful and takes up a significant chunk of my already miniscule free time; but if it works, I’ll be proselytizing chiropractics to anyone who will listen. If not, I imagine you’ll be hearing about that too.

Hate to love my TV

We all know these people. These purists who stubbornly refuse to own a television. I’ve long been baffled by and secretly envious of their lives. I picture their evenings spent curled up on the couch under soft lamplight clutching a warm cup of chamomile tea, flipping the pages of a classic, soft jazz playing in the background, stopping periodically to discuss something with their partner who is equally engaged in some mind expanding or productive activity. Maybe they’re knitting or practicing an instrument or writing poetry. I’m sure they’re doing a better job of catching up with family and old friends. I think, hey, that could be me. Hell, I want it to be me, if only it weren’t for that time-sucking, brain cell-killing idiot box in the corner of my living room. My better self does not own a television.

But my less better self loves our television. All week long Colin and I look forward to spending our Thursday nights with Liz Lemon and Michael Scott. Sunday football makes our forced hibernation from the winter cold a bit more bearable and PBS documentaries have lead to some of our best conversations. But that’s TV at its inarguable best. I don’t feel too guilty about that stuff.

The problem is that in moments of weakness, we find ourselves hypnotized by TV at it’s worst – the kind of programming developed by intellectually lazy profit-motivated television executives who borrow predictable formats from each other and universally aim to appeal to your basest instincts. And there’s a lot of such programs to choose from.

During the first cold winter months of motherhood I’m embarrassed to say that I watched, nay, even looked forward to MTV’s reality dating show Rock of Love, where a dozen groupie-types in astonishingly tiny outfits compete for the affections of aging rocker Bret Michaels in stunts whose true purpose is to expose as much skin and humiliation as possible, creating the perfect storm of vicarious sex, drama and “glad that’s not me”. I felt a strong compulsion to shower after each episode, but still tuned in. Then, there were the more innocent, but equally addicting, bevy of home improvement shows with handsome carpenters and shiny and colorful transformations, which, I’m embarrassed to admit, stole hours of my life.

Watching TV while the sun is shining makes me feel particularly gross and guilty, and nighttime television is slightly less offensive but not when it’s your default way to relax. Colin and I found ourselves turning on the television almost automatically at night almost forgetting that there were other ways to relax after a long day. And the fact that there was more often than not nothing worth watching didn’t deter us. After an hour or so of sitting stupefied by ridiculous Law and Order plot twists or what Colin calls the emotional masturbation of reality transformation shows like Wife Swap, we look at each other baffled at how we were so easily sucked into that vortex of mind-numbing banality. This led to our other nightly ritual of discussing the various ways the shows we had just dedicated hours of our life to were on every level objectionable. Something needed to change.

Getting rid of our new flat screen television seemed a bit too radical, so we got rid of cable and vowed to discipline our TV watching to only include shows truly funny, innovative, or education or (for Colin) important sporting events. You know, the kind of stuff that won’t entirely make you stupid.

So far it’s going well. I can’t say I’ve written any poetry or even upped my chamomile intake, but my house is probably cleaner and so is my mind.

So, last night I finally did it. I’m embarrassed to say my inspiration was a reality TV talent show, but, never mind, I finally got my tush back into a modern dance class. And despite the fact that the 2½ hour class lasted way past my regular bedtime and my muscles ached with the effort of getting out of bed this morning, it was well well worth it; and has made me wonder what took me so long to find my first love again. I came home last night red-faced and sweaty and totally reconnected to my spirit.

In my decades (holy crap, it’s been decades!) of dance classes, I have experienced a range of styles. There’s the kind in which an egomaniac instructor takes a break from admiring their own image only to give corrections to those students considered advanced enough to be worth their time. As one of those students I have to admit I bought into and craved that attention. My dancing improved in these classes, but it was because yearned for and worked assiduously to gain those morsels of validation. This is the hard-knocks teaching style which results in a lot of competition among dancers and personal self doubt punctuated by moments of absolute euphoria during those rare moment of praise from your diefied instructor.

The class I took last night was at the opposite end of the spectrum. The instructor, Andy - a petite woman with a postively luminous smile and the kind of muscles that showed striations even through her clothes -was from the old-school hippie modern dancer camp. This is an approach more interested in nurturing your inner artist than perfecting your pirouette; and Andy was equally attentive to the diverse level of dancers in the class with insights into each person's unique strenghts. That's not to say it wasn't a rigorous class, only that it encouraged dancers to do their best, not better than each other.

This was a perfect climate for my returning to dance after a too long hiatus, looking to focus on the joy of dance and fight my proclivities to seek physical perfection. That judging part of myself noticed that my extensions weren't as high and my plies weren't as low as before, but in the end I danced the combination with a confidence and ease I had struggled to find as a professional. I danced really letting the music (an old bluesy tune) guide me and finding the intention in the movement, and I let go of my usual self-criticism. Maybe it was the accepting neo-hippy atmosphere. Maybe it was the fact that there were no stakes for doing well. Probably it was simply finding that 12 year old girl who first fell in love with dance. But moving through the combination, I felt exhilirated. Like flying. Like perfection.

Baby steps

Over the Thanksgiving holiday, among the flurry of family reunion face stuffing, Colin and I watched our baby learn to crawl. Again, the most mundane and predictable of developments seems at the same time miraculous and profoundly life changing.

We used to be able to put little Caleb on the kitchen floor, turn around and start cooking dinner, knowing we could look back and see him just where we left him giggling and waving his spoon at us. In this way Caleb also watched football with dad, sat with a look of rapt attention as we debated politics, and seemed to genuinely enjoy being a lone audience for mom’s impromptu living room dance performances. This made us feel like we could do all kinds of activities together as a family – even if Caleb was trapped in the activity by his immobility. He seemed happy at least.

But all this has changed with his newfound portability. He’s no longer an unwitting bystander to our lives. He’s exploring the world for himself and it’s fascinating to watch him express his interests. Apparently this whole time he’s wanted to flip the pages of stray notebooks, pull books off the shelves and fondle the door stop instead of watching mom pirouette. Who knew?

Instead of being drawn to the brightly colored toys designed with presumable years of child development research, Caleb (like a lot of babies I’m sure) is magnetized to all the non-toys in the periphery of our house. And the more dangerous the more alluring. I swear he’d go directly to the jagged staple in a pile of stuffed animals. So, we have to step up our vigilance. From nothing to something.

But extra vigilance notwithstanding, it’s a joy to watch him find corners of the house previously unknown to him. The other day something enticed him to crawl under the kitchen table. Under the kitchen table may as well be Narnia or the moon as far as Caleb is concerned. It’s been there in front of him this whole time, but he’s never been able to get there before. And now he can go whenever he wants. I can’t even comprehend the magnitude of this change for him. For us, it would be like suddenly learning to fly.

And babyhood is like this all the time: going from total incomprehension of human sounds to understanding, from inability let your desires be known to communicating through speech and sign, from immobility to freedom of movement. It really blows your mind when you think about. Maybe that’s why we can’t remember our lives as babies. Our minds have been blown.