Last Thursday I had GreenLight laser surgery.

“GreenLight” sounds cheerful, doesn’t it? Like permission to cross the street, the “go ahead” to begin a new project, or reassurance from your accountant that you can afford another vacation.

It does not sound like a minimally invasive prostate surgery that ends with a catheter.

For the squeamish among you, I promise I will not describe the surgery. Or the catheter. I will simply say that before last Thursday I had never wanted one and now that I’ve had one I feel completely vindicated in my opinion.

The operation itself was remarkably easy, mainly because I slept through it. This is my preferred method for dealing with medical procedures, boring movies, and several classes in business school

Then I woke up.

The good news was that the surgery had gone well. The less good news was that I had acquired a new traveling companion: the catheter.

We went everywhere together. We ate together. We slept together. We took walks together.

There are relationships in life that deepen with time.

This was not one of them.

I counted the hours until we could go our separate ways.

On Friday, that day arrived. The catheter came out, an event I will also decline to describe except to say that I did not ask to keep it as a souvenir.

Then something wonderful happened.

I went to the bathroom.

It might not sound like an accomplishment deserving fireworks, a marching band, and a congratulatory telegram from the President. But after prostate surgery, you develop a greatly revised definition of success and, at 86, you learn to appreciate victories wherever you find them.

And I’m not complaining.

Well, obviously I am complaining. I’ve just written an entire blog about it.

But I’m also grateful.

Modern medicine has many miracles. Some are dramatic: new hearts, new hips, lives rescued from terrible diseases.

Others are quieter.

Sometimes the miracle is simply standing in your own bathroom and thinking “Wow. That works better.  And I didn’t have to spend an entire week in the hospital.”

And sometimes happiness is as simple as saying adios to a medical accessory you no longer need.

Last Friday I was singing most of the way home

Alan

For most of my life, I’ve been unable to practice moderation.

Perhaps this is because I believe that if something is worth doing, it’s worth overdoing. I do not present this as wisdom. It may be based solely upon my inability to recognize when I’ve had enough of a good thing.

In 2005 I purchased three jet airplanes.  Then, as now, there was only one of me.  A single private jet would have been more than enough. But no, I needed three.

Consider work. I founded my real estate company in 1968. After many years of success, most people at age 65 would have said, “Well, that was fun. Now I’ll retire.”

Apparently, I misplaced that memo.  At 86, I still work twenty hours a week and tell myself this keeps my mind active.  But it may also mean that after nearly sixty years I still haven’t figured out how to stop doing something I love.

Then there is writing. I’ve published my weekly blog for more than ten years without missing a single week. Posting once a week seems perfectly reasonable until you multiply that by ten years. Then it begins to look less like a hobby and more like a uncontrollable passion.

Now I’m told that blogs are passe, and I should consider a podcast.  Since I have a loyal following, perhaps I’ll find a way to combine the two. Because more of a good thing is always better.  Right?  Hmmmm.

Finally, there is philanthropy. Years ago, I pledged a large amount to the music school at the University of Arizona.  Several years later, the brand-new president of the university lied to me about his intentions and replaced everyone in the music school’s administration, starting with the outstanding Dean. I found myself funding a program I no longer believed in. Fortunately, I succeeded in ending my continuing obligation.  When a good thing ceases to be a good thing, then supporting it no longer makes sense.  In hindsight I should have limited my contribution in the first place.

Yes, excess has its dangers. Too much food makes my scale groan. Too much work crowds out family. Too much generosity without limits may accomplish less than carefully curated caring.

So, I’m not advocating excess.

But I do advocate enthusiasm.

When you love someone, love generously. When a subject fascinates you, follow it farther than you must. When you help, help enough to matter.

As for moderation, I have nothing against it.

I’ve tried it several times.

I just don’t want to overdo it.

Alan

I was born in 1940 Los Angeles, a city that earned its reputation as the “smog capital” of the United States. It held that reputation from the 1940’s until the 1970’s.  

For thirty years I inhaled air I could almost see, especially when blue skies turned hazy brown, which was often. 

A few days ago, after a gentle rain, I began my daily walk around the block.  After a few steps the clean air felt so fresh I found myself taking one deep breath.  That was new for me. 

Suddenly, I realized that for most of my life I’ve been taking shallow breaths, following an unconscious decision I made as a child because I didn’t want dirty air to invade my lungs.   

In retrospect, I doubt my shallow breathing helped.  After all, I was still immersed in the same polluted air. 

But that realization led me to wonder what other unconscious decisions may have guided (or misguided) my life. 

Here’s an important one. Many years ago, I unconsciously told myself: “I ‘want to have an interesting life.”  Not necessarily a conventional one, or a pain free one.  An interesting one. 

I may have overdone it. 

That single self-fulfilling proposition might explain why I studied, in turn, accounting, law, counseling, and professional writing.   

All my life it seems I’ve alternated between town (business and money) and gown (curiosity and learning).  During law school I took a nighttime course in Shakespeare. Even today one of my favorite entertainments is to attend a lecture – recently Justin Treaudau, former prime minister of Canada. 

At 25 I formed a law partnership. At 28 I founded a commercial real estate company. 

I’ve experienced four marriages, one three-year live-in relationship, four divorces, and, today, one fulfilling remarriage.  (Smile, Daveen.  You’re on Candid Alan.) 

I have six children, all of whom still talk to me. 

I’ve written three People Tools self-help books, one a New York Times bestseller, and two Benji children’s books that are still in print. 

I’ve founded and still oversee two charitable foundations. 

More than twenty years ago I started Rattle, a surprisingly successful poetry journal.  (Thank you, Tim Green.) 

Years ago, I wrote a prescient poem.  

Choices 

“I decide my life when I do not understand. 

“I understand my life in living those decisions.” 

It’s been a wild ride, and I intend to continue for as long as I can.  And that may be a long time because my father lived to be 104.  (Thanks, Dad.) 

And since it’s never too late to change an obsolete habit, I’ll continue to take in as many deep breaths as I can. 

Alan

P.S. Take one deep breath.  Feel better?  Please forward my blog to a friend.