Friday, January 1, 2010
Annual Basement Blues
As is often the case at the beginning of the year, I am confronted by my messy basement. I made an off-hand remark on Facebook about it, and it generated the most comments I have ever had about a simple status update. This confirms, anecdotally, what I have often encountered (also anecdotally) throughout my life, that the vast majority of people have a room in their house that is the dumping ground for all the miscellaneous things in their life that they can't otherwise organize, file, or place. It's part of the human condition. Maybe it's particular to modern America, especially among the middle and lower classes, but still, it's familiar to many of us.
I spent two hours in my basement to clear some space. Things were totally out of hand, so I stacked things. I concentrated many of the boxes in one corner, building my version of The Great Wall of Crap. It's totally oppressive and I don't like to think of how we'll ever deal with it. I just want it to go away.
These things have been lingering long enough that none of it matters to me anymore, and I'd rather give it away. Maybe someone else can benefit from the time, money, and effort we squandered in collecting those things. But we are a family, and it's not just my decision. It's times like this that I wish I was a little bit more like Dick Cheney, which is to say that I was a fascist dictator and that I would issue orders to clean the basement, and any resistance would be met with ruthless punishment. "No reality TV for you!" I'd scream. "That includes the new season of American Idol. Now go to your room, and do not interfere with my plans for decluttering the basement."
What saddens me is how cat hair and dust combine in the corners and crannies around the boxes so that, as they are moved and stacked, the dust bunnies literally explode around my feet. I spent an hour stacking and arranging, and then an hour sweeping and vacuuming.
Once done, I felt a brief moment of pride and relief. It was somewhat presentable. We had friends over to bring in the new year, and we played Table Tennis in the basement. The people had fun. They had fun in a space I had made for them to be welcoming. It makes me really want to clear out the junk, throw up some cheap paneling and decent shelves, and lay down carpeting. I'll get a foosball table, install a bathroom, and get a television.
The junk doesn't clutter only the basement, but also my mind. The junk messes with me so much that I actually admitted to wanting to be like Dick Cheney. If this continues, I'll begin to fantasize about Sarah Palin. Don't get me wrong: it wouldn't be a sexual fantasy; I would probably want to just go moose hunting with her, or take over the free world with a twisted view of religious fundamentalism. I don't want that to happen, so I'm really going to work on the basement this year.
I spent two hours in my basement to clear some space. Things were totally out of hand, so I stacked things. I concentrated many of the boxes in one corner, building my version of The Great Wall of Crap. It's totally oppressive and I don't like to think of how we'll ever deal with it. I just want it to go away.
These things have been lingering long enough that none of it matters to me anymore, and I'd rather give it away. Maybe someone else can benefit from the time, money, and effort we squandered in collecting those things. But we are a family, and it's not just my decision. It's times like this that I wish I was a little bit more like Dick Cheney, which is to say that I was a fascist dictator and that I would issue orders to clean the basement, and any resistance would be met with ruthless punishment. "No reality TV for you!" I'd scream. "That includes the new season of American Idol. Now go to your room, and do not interfere with my plans for decluttering the basement."
What saddens me is how cat hair and dust combine in the corners and crannies around the boxes so that, as they are moved and stacked, the dust bunnies literally explode around my feet. I spent an hour stacking and arranging, and then an hour sweeping and vacuuming.
Once done, I felt a brief moment of pride and relief. It was somewhat presentable. We had friends over to bring in the new year, and we played Table Tennis in the basement. The people had fun. They had fun in a space I had made for them to be welcoming. It makes me really want to clear out the junk, throw up some cheap paneling and decent shelves, and lay down carpeting. I'll get a foosball table, install a bathroom, and get a television.
The junk doesn't clutter only the basement, but also my mind. The junk messes with me so much that I actually admitted to wanting to be like Dick Cheney. If this continues, I'll begin to fantasize about Sarah Palin. Don't get me wrong: it wouldn't be a sexual fantasy; I would probably want to just go moose hunting with her, or take over the free world with a twisted view of religious fundamentalism. I don't want that to happen, so I'm really going to work on the basement this year.
Labels: mistake, personal growth
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
A Dog's Life
I gave a speech yesterday for Toastmasters. This was one of the few times that I prepared well in advance but, ironically, I did not pay close enough attention to the actual assignment. I have posted the text of the original speech in my articles. However, only those in attendance can know the actual speech delivered because I rewrote it in my head an hour before the meeting. Granted it's not like Kennedy's inaugural address; it's probably closer to Bush's "Hey, did you hear about the funny-looking potato?" speech.
The speech went well. It was heavy with photographs, more like a slide show with an accompanying monologue. I spent more time finding the correct photos than I did writing the speech. I can't include 99 percent of those photos because I borrowed them from the internet.
I actually do fairly well with extemporaneous speaking. The reason I joined Toastmasters was to get better at prepared speaking. What I've learned is to educate myself about a topic, come up with an opening and an ending, and then stand up and speak. That's what works for me with public speaking. In order to relax, I imagine that everyone in the audience is wearing funny-nose glasses; I used to picture them naked, but I've spent too much time in the men's locker room of the YMCA, and those images are too painful; they can keep their clothes on.
The speech was far more interesting when delivered live with the slide show than it is being read, but it ain't bad. I've definitely written worse, and you may have read it. Well, probably not.
The speech went well. It was heavy with photographs, more like a slide show with an accompanying monologue. I spent more time finding the correct photos than I did writing the speech. I can't include 99 percent of those photos because I borrowed them from the internet.
I actually do fairly well with extemporaneous speaking. The reason I joined Toastmasters was to get better at prepared speaking. What I've learned is to educate myself about a topic, come up with an opening and an ending, and then stand up and speak. That's what works for me with public speaking. In order to relax, I imagine that everyone in the audience is wearing funny-nose glasses; I used to picture them naked, but I've spent too much time in the men's locker room of the YMCA, and those images are too painful; they can keep their clothes on.
The speech was far more interesting when delivered live with the slide show than it is being read, but it ain't bad. I've definitely written worse, and you may have read it. Well, probably not.
Labels: mistake, personal growth
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Parenting Story
This past weekend, I spent the better part of Sunday at a soccer field. Not just a soccer field, but a soccer complex with eight large fields. As part of a tournament, my son was sideline judge for six games. I drove him there before eight A.M.; instead of going home to just wait to come and get him again, I decided to stay.
The weather was beautiful. That was one of the attractions. I could either spend an extra hour in the car going back and forth, or sit in the sun and read magazines and books while drinking coffee in a comfortable chair as the cool breeze wafted over me. It had every opportunity to be a wonderful day except for one small thing I overlooked: Soccer Parents.
The tournament was for younger kids. I had forgotten the insanity that takes over the minds of parents as they cheer on their children. Their voices rise and fall with the bounce of the ball. When a goal is scored, half of the parents scream in delirium; the other half groan in agony.
Heaven forbid a boy is not paying attention. The parents exhort and cajole, encourage and chastise. In one game in particular, the parents of the team from Fowlerville were berserk. By my estimation, every single one of them was crazy. They screamed for the coach to bench their own children. They coached from the sidelines, moving players back and forth. They threatened their own children while on the field, during the play of the game, for not paying attention to the game.
I struck up a conversation with another dad who was waiting for the next game. We shared a glance as the shouting became frenzied amongst the parents when a goal was surrendered for no reason other than a child's lack of drive and initiative. He blurted out, "I'm an older Dad, so I cherish all these moments. But I try not to get too wrapped up in it."
I admitted that I had cheered mightily in the past, but I didn't remember ever cheering like this, yelling at the kids for not performing, or berating the referee. In fact, just a couple of days before, I stumbled on a team photo from one of my sons early teams. It was at least eight years old, and I had been the coach. At that time, urging six and seven year olds to play took quite a bit of effort from the parents. I was fairly certain that out of those twelve children on that team, only my son still played the game.
There's nothing wrong with kids trying out various activities until they find something they really, really like. To find passion in life is what gives life meaning. For so many parents, their children, and whatever the child happens to be doing, is the passion for the parents, and it's very easy to lose sight of an appropriate perspective to the situation. The child is competing against other children; if they are better than the others, there's hope that this might be a thing in which the child is gifted. Or the talent pool may be so shallow that, in fact, everybody stinks at it. You don't know that as a parent; you only see your child struggling, and your blood begins to boil.
I played hockey in my youth. I really, really loved it, and even dreamed of playing professionally. I got fairly good at it, but at the age of nineteen I quit and never played again. It has crossed my mind occasionally, and mostly out of curiosity, to play again; but what once seemed like everything in the world to me I lost.
Before that happened, however, my mother sat through numerous games, and I saw a side of her I had never, ever seen before. Hockey brings out the very worst in parents. They scream at the players, they scream at the referees, and they scream at each other. I would not be surprised to hear one day that the fans watching a hockey match became so enraged at each other that a hockey match broke out in the stands. My mother understood little of the game, but she understood that her son loved playing, and that other boys were trying to smash his skull out on the ice. I received stitches to the face (scary) and stitches to my inner thigh (very scary). I had the wind knocked out of me several times, and even had a stick broken over my helmet in anger. It seemed I might be severely hurt at any moment, but the most surprising thing was that my mother survived without having a nervous breakdown.
I'm not happy or proud that I lost hockey. It's a great game, and I would have done well to have made the effort to keep at it. Maybe it's not the game itself, but the exercise and the comradery I miss. I hope that my son, if he takes nothing else away from soccer, takes the feeling of team play with him, and continues that yearning desire throughout his life. We are mostly a social animal, and my life has not been social enough.
Back at the soccer field, the older dad took up a position on the sideline to watch his son play. I was still enjoying the sunshine and the cool breeze. I was also enjoying the sound of children at play, and their parents cheering the game. At one point, the older dad's son misplayed a ball, and the dad did not yell, but he did complain to the person sitting beside him.
The boy misplayed another, and the dad could not contain himself. He shouted to him without anger. A few minutes later, though, the older dad seemed on the verge of losing that control, and he walked away to watch the game from farther away, lying on a grassy hill, away from the chatter of the other parents. His son's team was out matched, and would suffer a 10-1 loss.
I am not holier than thou or thee. When my son was that age, I shouted, cajoled, and cheered. I struggled to contain my anger when his teams played poorly, and was giddy with delight when they won. I offered the older dad a knowing smile in the hopes that he and his son would both find the correct perspective for that game. It was, after all, only a game; and it was a beautiful day, regardless of the score.
The weather was beautiful. That was one of the attractions. I could either spend an extra hour in the car going back and forth, or sit in the sun and read magazines and books while drinking coffee in a comfortable chair as the cool breeze wafted over me. It had every opportunity to be a wonderful day except for one small thing I overlooked: Soccer Parents.
The tournament was for younger kids. I had forgotten the insanity that takes over the minds of parents as they cheer on their children. Their voices rise and fall with the bounce of the ball. When a goal is scored, half of the parents scream in delirium; the other half groan in agony.
Heaven forbid a boy is not paying attention. The parents exhort and cajole, encourage and chastise. In one game in particular, the parents of the team from Fowlerville were berserk. By my estimation, every single one of them was crazy. They screamed for the coach to bench their own children. They coached from the sidelines, moving players back and forth. They threatened their own children while on the field, during the play of the game, for not paying attention to the game.
I struck up a conversation with another dad who was waiting for the next game. We shared a glance as the shouting became frenzied amongst the parents when a goal was surrendered for no reason other than a child's lack of drive and initiative. He blurted out, "I'm an older Dad, so I cherish all these moments. But I try not to get too wrapped up in it."
I admitted that I had cheered mightily in the past, but I didn't remember ever cheering like this, yelling at the kids for not performing, or berating the referee. In fact, just a couple of days before, I stumbled on a team photo from one of my sons early teams. It was at least eight years old, and I had been the coach. At that time, urging six and seven year olds to play took quite a bit of effort from the parents. I was fairly certain that out of those twelve children on that team, only my son still played the game.
There's nothing wrong with kids trying out various activities until they find something they really, really like. To find passion in life is what gives life meaning. For so many parents, their children, and whatever the child happens to be doing, is the passion for the parents, and it's very easy to lose sight of an appropriate perspective to the situation. The child is competing against other children; if they are better than the others, there's hope that this might be a thing in which the child is gifted. Or the talent pool may be so shallow that, in fact, everybody stinks at it. You don't know that as a parent; you only see your child struggling, and your blood begins to boil.
I played hockey in my youth. I really, really loved it, and even dreamed of playing professionally. I got fairly good at it, but at the age of nineteen I quit and never played again. It has crossed my mind occasionally, and mostly out of curiosity, to play again; but what once seemed like everything in the world to me I lost.
Before that happened, however, my mother sat through numerous games, and I saw a side of her I had never, ever seen before. Hockey brings out the very worst in parents. They scream at the players, they scream at the referees, and they scream at each other. I would not be surprised to hear one day that the fans watching a hockey match became so enraged at each other that a hockey match broke out in the stands. My mother understood little of the game, but she understood that her son loved playing, and that other boys were trying to smash his skull out on the ice. I received stitches to the face (scary) and stitches to my inner thigh (very scary). I had the wind knocked out of me several times, and even had a stick broken over my helmet in anger. It seemed I might be severely hurt at any moment, but the most surprising thing was that my mother survived without having a nervous breakdown.
I'm not happy or proud that I lost hockey. It's a great game, and I would have done well to have made the effort to keep at it. Maybe it's not the game itself, but the exercise and the comradery I miss. I hope that my son, if he takes nothing else away from soccer, takes the feeling of team play with him, and continues that yearning desire throughout his life. We are mostly a social animal, and my life has not been social enough.
Back at the soccer field, the older dad took up a position on the sideline to watch his son play. I was still enjoying the sunshine and the cool breeze. I was also enjoying the sound of children at play, and their parents cheering the game. At one point, the older dad's son misplayed a ball, and the dad did not yell, but he did complain to the person sitting beside him.
The boy misplayed another, and the dad could not contain himself. He shouted to him without anger. A few minutes later, though, the older dad seemed on the verge of losing that control, and he walked away to watch the game from farther away, lying on a grassy hill, away from the chatter of the other parents. His son's team was out matched, and would suffer a 10-1 loss.
I am not holier than thou or thee. When my son was that age, I shouted, cajoled, and cheered. I struggled to contain my anger when his teams played poorly, and was giddy with delight when they won. I offered the older dad a knowing smile in the hopes that he and his son would both find the correct perspective for that game. It was, after all, only a game; and it was a beautiful day, regardless of the score.
Labels: memoir, mistake, personal growth, story
Friday, August 28, 2009
W8 Monitr is dead -- Long Live W8 Loss
This is a notice that my interactive web site, w8monitr.com, will no longer be available at that address. I'm pulling it down for re-tooling.
However, I have also had a series of articles there that discuss my weight loss, nutrition, and healthy lifestyle. Those I want to persist, and they'll be available here at MickeyHadick.com in the articles section.
However, I have also had a series of articles there that discuss my weight loss, nutrition, and healthy lifestyle. Those I want to persist, and they'll be available here at MickeyHadick.com in the articles section.
Labels: administrative, personal growth
Friday, April 17, 2009
Two Theories of Sleep
The theory of circadian rhythms is that we have an observable pattern of behaviors we experience each day, the two most obvious of which are being awake and being asleep; being sleepy during your wakefulness is part of that, but not as obvious. There are also rhythms to our sleep: we go through, or attempt to go through, multiple three-hours cycles of dozing, light sleep, deeper sleep, R.E.M. sleep, and then back to light sleep. If you wake up in the middle of the night, you probably just came out of one of the cycles, and you'll repeat it if you allow yourself to fall back asleep.
I have recently been getting by with six hours, or less, of sleep. It's been going on for a while, and I'm not particularly sleepy during the day, so I believe it's enough for me. I've been able to put this to a more controlled test because I am traveling and sleeping in a comfortable bed without distractions, and I have consistently woken up before my alarm in under six hours and feeling awake and refreshed. I am also not waking up in the middle of the night.
But what if some internal alarm is awaking me, and I'm not consciously acknowledging it? What if I simply have to pee, and although I don't wake with a strong urge in place, my bladder is quietly signaling my brain that this is going to have to happen soon, and you may as well stop sleeping now, rather than go for a third cycle?
I'm in a hotel room. I have exact control of the room temperature, and it is comfortable--exactly the way I want it. I have a large, comfortable bed, and a pillow I would fight to keep. The room is dark (although I do leave the bathroom light on, and the door closed, so there is a small amount of light at the crack of the door along the floor; it's basically a night-light--I don't want to get scared). I requested an interior room away from street noise, and there are no obnoxious, drunk salesmen on the floor with prostitutes throwing parties (or if there are, I wasn't invited and they are quiet about it).
At home my sleep is assaulted by the following: my spouse using her laptop, her discomfort with the covers/pillow/temperature, the dogs moving about, the cat climbing on top of me, the dogs barking because a car drove past, the temperature out of whack because the kids adjusted the thermostat, or the kids themselves dealing with bad dreams by waking me up. For now, all of that is eliminated.
What's left is the reality that a few minutes after I wake up, I need to pee.
Well what of it? The only way I can imagine removing this from the list of possible interruptions is to insert a catheter and a drain bag. Those items can't be terribly expensive, but inserting the tube might be a trick (note to self: check YouTube for video on inserting catheter).
Even if I could eliminate the bladder issue, there are other, natural biological needs that might also signal the brain to wake me up because the inevitable is going to happen; as far as I know, there is no equivalent catheter for that. (Note to self: do not, I repeat, do NOT check YouTube for a video on that subject, because I'm sure it's there!)
I think I'm okay with six hours of sleep. I don't think I'm risking heart disease, and I'm not staggering into traffic, and my cognitive performance seems fine (but, then, how can I trust myself to judge that if my thinking is clouded?). My only dilemma now is sneaking the pillow out of this hotel.
I have recently been getting by with six hours, or less, of sleep. It's been going on for a while, and I'm not particularly sleepy during the day, so I believe it's enough for me. I've been able to put this to a more controlled test because I am traveling and sleeping in a comfortable bed without distractions, and I have consistently woken up before my alarm in under six hours and feeling awake and refreshed. I am also not waking up in the middle of the night.
But what if some internal alarm is awaking me, and I'm not consciously acknowledging it? What if I simply have to pee, and although I don't wake with a strong urge in place, my bladder is quietly signaling my brain that this is going to have to happen soon, and you may as well stop sleeping now, rather than go for a third cycle?
I'm in a hotel room. I have exact control of the room temperature, and it is comfortable--exactly the way I want it. I have a large, comfortable bed, and a pillow I would fight to keep. The room is dark (although I do leave the bathroom light on, and the door closed, so there is a small amount of light at the crack of the door along the floor; it's basically a night-light--I don't want to get scared). I requested an interior room away from street noise, and there are no obnoxious, drunk salesmen on the floor with prostitutes throwing parties (or if there are, I wasn't invited and they are quiet about it).
At home my sleep is assaulted by the following: my spouse using her laptop, her discomfort with the covers/pillow/temperature, the dogs moving about, the cat climbing on top of me, the dogs barking because a car drove past, the temperature out of whack because the kids adjusted the thermostat, or the kids themselves dealing with bad dreams by waking me up. For now, all of that is eliminated.
What's left is the reality that a few minutes after I wake up, I need to pee.
Well what of it? The only way I can imagine removing this from the list of possible interruptions is to insert a catheter and a drain bag. Those items can't be terribly expensive, but inserting the tube might be a trick (note to self: check YouTube for video on inserting catheter).
Even if I could eliminate the bladder issue, there are other, natural biological needs that might also signal the brain to wake me up because the inevitable is going to happen; as far as I know, there is no equivalent catheter for that. (Note to self: do not, I repeat, do NOT check YouTube for a video on that subject, because I'm sure it's there!)
I think I'm okay with six hours of sleep. I don't think I'm risking heart disease, and I'm not staggering into traffic, and my cognitive performance seems fine (but, then, how can I trust myself to judge that if my thinking is clouded?). My only dilemma now is sneaking the pillow out of this hotel.
Labels: personal growth, story
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Going Running
I'm about to go running, which has been an important time for me to think about me things. I'm out of the house for twenty to thirty minutes, listening to music to which I want to listen, and I distract my conscious brain with the activity of running. This frees up other parts of my brain to roam a little more freely through the archives.
I think about my current life situation a lot--job, family, finances, and home. I think about possibilities, and what would make me happier. I think about stories I want to tell, and ways I might change my life. It's my thirty minutes of Forrest Gump style running.
There are quite a few things to think about, as there should be. Things for which to be grateful are family, health, a job, and not danging my prepositions when unnecessary (see previous sentence).
I tend to have fun, or at least laugh, with whatever I'm doing. I'm going to think about ways to have even more fun while improving myself on both a personal and professional level. And maybe, just maybe, I'll let myself dangle a preposition as I select the music I'm listening to.
I think about my current life situation a lot--job, family, finances, and home. I think about possibilities, and what would make me happier. I think about stories I want to tell, and ways I might change my life. It's my thirty minutes of Forrest Gump style running.
There are quite a few things to think about, as there should be. Things for which to be grateful are family, health, a job, and not danging my prepositions when unnecessary (see previous sentence).
I tend to have fun, or at least laugh, with whatever I'm doing. I'm going to think about ways to have even more fun while improving myself on both a personal and professional level. And maybe, just maybe, I'll let myself dangle a preposition as I select the music I'm listening to.
Labels: personal growth
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Being Happy or Just Being There
I was in a colleague's office and saw two things that gave me reason to pause and think. The first was a sign on his credenza that read "You probably wanted to do something cool with your life, but you never got that job." The sign made me sad, well not sad as much as distressed, so that during the meeting I kept staring at it and reading the words.
I asked him about it, and he laughed. This is a fellow of very good humor that always seems happy and quick to smile. He said, "That about sums up my life. Now I work in insurance."
The phrase was uttered by his son when discussing career choices at a school function. He seemed to have come to terms with his fate. I have not done so, yet. I'd like to think there is a cool job out there for me. But how to find it?
I should first consider why I haven't found it by now, because I'm certainly doing something wrong. When I was about to graduate from high school, I wanted to be a writer, or to work in television, or to be an actor, but mostly to be a writer. I think I've always enjoyed the way my brain feels when I think about words, and stringing them together to tell stories.
My father used all of his persuasion to convince me to get a degree in engineering, reasoning that it'd be nice to have a job while I learned to write, and that writing was something that I could always do, but which was hard to use as a source of income. Most of that is correct, in that I have always turned to writing in some form, resulting in these blog entries right here.
I like to imagine myself making a living as a writer, but that is quite a long shot. Still, the ultimate for me would be to rise early and exhaust my thoughts working on stories of some kind. Then spend a few hours on the business of writing. Finally, I'd spend the afternoon boating, swimming, or otherwise playing with family around the house. The evening would be spent in quiet repose, again with the family, discussing life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I would drink coffee all day and wine at night.
It was the other thing I saw in his office that makes me wonder. That will have to wait until tomorrow.
I asked him about it, and he laughed. This is a fellow of very good humor that always seems happy and quick to smile. He said, "That about sums up my life. Now I work in insurance."
The phrase was uttered by his son when discussing career choices at a school function. He seemed to have come to terms with his fate. I have not done so, yet. I'd like to think there is a cool job out there for me. But how to find it?
I should first consider why I haven't found it by now, because I'm certainly doing something wrong. When I was about to graduate from high school, I wanted to be a writer, or to work in television, or to be an actor, but mostly to be a writer. I think I've always enjoyed the way my brain feels when I think about words, and stringing them together to tell stories.
My father used all of his persuasion to convince me to get a degree in engineering, reasoning that it'd be nice to have a job while I learned to write, and that writing was something that I could always do, but which was hard to use as a source of income. Most of that is correct, in that I have always turned to writing in some form, resulting in these blog entries right here.
I like to imagine myself making a living as a writer, but that is quite a long shot. Still, the ultimate for me would be to rise early and exhaust my thoughts working on stories of some kind. Then spend a few hours on the business of writing. Finally, I'd spend the afternoon boating, swimming, or otherwise playing with family around the house. The evening would be spent in quiet repose, again with the family, discussing life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I would drink coffee all day and wine at night.
It was the other thing I saw in his office that makes me wonder. That will have to wait until tomorrow.
Labels: mistake, personal growth
Saturday, January 31, 2009
I'm All Wet
My efforts with Total Immersion swimming are slowly paying off. The number of strokes it takes to go 50 yards is down by half, and I can actually feel the thrust, with little effort, when I get the mechanics correctly. People are still a little curious why I'm doing this now, at my age, and how it is I never learned to swim properly before if I had the interest. So a little background.
The Jungle That Is Our Youth
There were a few boys my age that were physical specimens starting in sixth grade. Their testosterone came early, or there was something in the water on their street, that gave them manly features while I still sported a pudgy belly and a double-chin. I ate a lot, and a lot of ice cream to boot, so I understood why I was the way I was. But two boys in particular, Terry B. and Danny V., had muscle definition and a chiseled physique. They were ripped. And it wasn't just being skinny, but there was muscle development.
One day in sixth grade, there was rain and so our recess was held downstairs, in the basement, and it was a crowded, raucous affair. At some point, Terry B. got a hold of an empty masking tape roll (i.e., just the cardboard ring) and slid that up his arm until it was snug on his bicep. He then flexed his muscle until that cardboard ring tore open. I was astounded. To this day I'm astounded.
Swimming with Sharks
The city pool was in the park directly behind our house, less than two hundred paces from our fence. We heard the shouts and screams of kids splashing in the water every day in summer. My mother was nervous about us venturing there, but we did go, and without ever taking a lesson, I could navigate the water fairly well. I stayed in the shallow end, but I could swim underwater, and was very comfortable, and splashed and played with the roughest of them.
There was a boy a year older than me, Jeff W., who had the same chiseled physique as the two my own age. He was something of a prick, and had a reputation for being tough, and so I generally avoided him. I was there, in the shallow end, with him one day in summer.
I was swimming under water, and apparently kicked him as I passed. When I came up for air, he jammed my head back under, and I took in a great gulp of water into my lungs. I still recall the feeling of panic vividly, and how I gripped at the edge desperately as I coughed it out.
I coughed and coughed until I spit blood. He was a little concerned, but mostly about what might happen to him. The life guard had him sit out of the pool until after the next Adult Swim. I made my way back home, shaken and unnerved.
The Best Revenge is Living Well
I did not return to that pool for five years, until I had learned to swim with my head above water. I don't like any kind of horseplay in the water, and I panic quickly as I lose air, or if water goes up my nose or in my mouth. I'm kind of a wreck.
But I am now, finally, gaining a bit more ease in the water. Breathing is my biggest problem.
You'd think I could have overcome all of this earlier, and without so much internal drama, but that is a kind of metaphor for my entire life. I'm trying to be a late bloomer, before it's all too late.
Oh, and that Jeff W. guy? Well, if he tries to befriend me on Facebook, I'm going to ignore it. So there.
The Jungle That Is Our Youth
There were a few boys my age that were physical specimens starting in sixth grade. Their testosterone came early, or there was something in the water on their street, that gave them manly features while I still sported a pudgy belly and a double-chin. I ate a lot, and a lot of ice cream to boot, so I understood why I was the way I was. But two boys in particular, Terry B. and Danny V., had muscle definition and a chiseled physique. They were ripped. And it wasn't just being skinny, but there was muscle development.
One day in sixth grade, there was rain and so our recess was held downstairs, in the basement, and it was a crowded, raucous affair. At some point, Terry B. got a hold of an empty masking tape roll (i.e., just the cardboard ring) and slid that up his arm until it was snug on his bicep. He then flexed his muscle until that cardboard ring tore open. I was astounded. To this day I'm astounded.
Swimming with Sharks
The city pool was in the park directly behind our house, less than two hundred paces from our fence. We heard the shouts and screams of kids splashing in the water every day in summer. My mother was nervous about us venturing there, but we did go, and without ever taking a lesson, I could navigate the water fairly well. I stayed in the shallow end, but I could swim underwater, and was very comfortable, and splashed and played with the roughest of them.
There was a boy a year older than me, Jeff W., who had the same chiseled physique as the two my own age. He was something of a prick, and had a reputation for being tough, and so I generally avoided him. I was there, in the shallow end, with him one day in summer.
I was swimming under water, and apparently kicked him as I passed. When I came up for air, he jammed my head back under, and I took in a great gulp of water into my lungs. I still recall the feeling of panic vividly, and how I gripped at the edge desperately as I coughed it out.
I coughed and coughed until I spit blood. He was a little concerned, but mostly about what might happen to him. The life guard had him sit out of the pool until after the next Adult Swim. I made my way back home, shaken and unnerved.
The Best Revenge is Living Well
I did not return to that pool for five years, until I had learned to swim with my head above water. I don't like any kind of horseplay in the water, and I panic quickly as I lose air, or if water goes up my nose or in my mouth. I'm kind of a wreck.
But I am now, finally, gaining a bit more ease in the water. Breathing is my biggest problem.
You'd think I could have overcome all of this earlier, and without so much internal drama, but that is a kind of metaphor for my entire life. I'm trying to be a late bloomer, before it's all too late.
Oh, and that Jeff W. guy? Well, if he tries to befriend me on Facebook, I'm going to ignore it. So there.
Labels: memoir, personal growth, story
Monday, November 17, 2008
Cleaning House is not House Cleaning
I just threw out a dozen sweaters, all of them too large for me. I recently lost weight, and I've had to change my wardrobe. Those sweaters were some of the last things to go.
I don't even wear sweaters that often but over the years I acquired them. Most of them were gifts from either my mother or my wife. The rest were purchases made by my wife for whatever reason. I probably didn't wear them for precisely the fact that I didn't buy them, and thus was not invested in them. Thirteen sweaters and I didn't buy a single one of them. What am I, a four year old?
So I've been cleaning house. It has accelerated since my weight loss, but had actually started a couple of years before, after my father died.
When he passed, and my mother left to go live with one of my brothers, my other brother and I cleaned out their home. Most of that was brutal, because there was so little left that was of significant value to be salvaged. We trashed great deal. I was shocked about how much miscellaneous stuff a closet can hold
After that ordeal, I was intent on not living with miscellaneous stuff any longer. I had many, many useless things in the basement, and I began a process of throwing away a bag of stuff every week. I did leave a few things that I intend on selling on eBay, but I haven't gotten around to that, either, and now I'm thinking I just need to trash that stuff too.
My daughter did a good thing this weekend in cleaning out her room. The one problem is that she piled the stuff she didn't want in the hallway, and it actually spread so far and wide that it blocked our doorway. So tonight I spent a few minutes putting all that stuff in a trash bag. My wife still wants to sort through it, but I'm all for trashing it.
More than once the past couple of years I have had the thought that what I need to do, that what would make me happy, is to throw away all the old stuff. I'm surrounded by clutter and chaos (still!) and it really bothers me.
At work I've been better about spending a little time each week cleaning off the piles of stuff and filing what is important and then trashing that which is not important.
At the moment I have no joy in this. I really want to look forward to when all the stuff (I don't want) is gone, and I can live an uncluttered life. In fact, at the moment, I'm just exhausted and falling asleep at the keyboard. With luck, I'll dream of that uncluttered life.
I don't even wear sweaters that often but over the years I acquired them. Most of them were gifts from either my mother or my wife. The rest were purchases made by my wife for whatever reason. I probably didn't wear them for precisely the fact that I didn't buy them, and thus was not invested in them. Thirteen sweaters and I didn't buy a single one of them. What am I, a four year old?
So I've been cleaning house. It has accelerated since my weight loss, but had actually started a couple of years before, after my father died.
When he passed, and my mother left to go live with one of my brothers, my other brother and I cleaned out their home. Most of that was brutal, because there was so little left that was of significant value to be salvaged. We trashed great deal. I was shocked about how much miscellaneous stuff a closet can hold
After that ordeal, I was intent on not living with miscellaneous stuff any longer. I had many, many useless things in the basement, and I began a process of throwing away a bag of stuff every week. I did leave a few things that I intend on selling on eBay, but I haven't gotten around to that, either, and now I'm thinking I just need to trash that stuff too.
My daughter did a good thing this weekend in cleaning out her room. The one problem is that she piled the stuff she didn't want in the hallway, and it actually spread so far and wide that it blocked our doorway. So tonight I spent a few minutes putting all that stuff in a trash bag. My wife still wants to sort through it, but I'm all for trashing it.
More than once the past couple of years I have had the thought that what I need to do, that what would make me happy, is to throw away all the old stuff. I'm surrounded by clutter and chaos (still!) and it really bothers me.
At work I've been better about spending a little time each week cleaning off the piles of stuff and filing what is important and then trashing that which is not important.
At the moment I have no joy in this. I really want to look forward to when all the stuff (I don't want) is gone, and I can live an uncluttered life. In fact, at the moment, I'm just exhausted and falling asleep at the keyboard. With luck, I'll dream of that uncluttered life.
Labels: personal growth
Monday, November 10, 2008
Down the Rabbit Hole
I believe I would be more productive without the internet. This is a bold statement because the internet means so much for so many people, but I have been using it lately to kill time around the house. I'm avoiding projects I want to accomplish by surfing through random web sites.
In truth, it's not the internet, it's me. Before the internet, I would get lost in books. I always had stacks of them or literary journals full of short stories, and I would grab them from piles somewhat randomly, and read. It was very hypertext-ish because of the randomness. In a sense, my reading habits were forward looking and prescient. You might even say I invented the internet.
One of my all-time favorite places is the Dawn Treader Bookshop in Ann Arbor. Many years ago, I would wander into that store on the way back from classes and purchase a few used books. I would do this frequently, and at a pace much exceeding my ability to read.
This bad habit continued after graduation with the Daedalus catalog of remainders. I quickly overwhelmed myself with lovely books, some which I still haven't read.
To top it off, I subscribed to both The New Yorker and The Paris Review. And I liked to watch TV. What was I thinking? Ironically, it was my obsession with computers that chipped away at my reading habit. Now it's reading on a computer that chips away at my computer habit.
Did I mention that I'm trying to learn how to play the accordion?
In truth, it's not the internet, it's me. Before the internet, I would get lost in books. I always had stacks of them or literary journals full of short stories, and I would grab them from piles somewhat randomly, and read. It was very hypertext-ish because of the randomness. In a sense, my reading habits were forward looking and prescient. You might even say I invented the internet.
One of my all-time favorite places is the Dawn Treader Bookshop in Ann Arbor. Many years ago, I would wander into that store on the way back from classes and purchase a few used books. I would do this frequently, and at a pace much exceeding my ability to read.
This bad habit continued after graduation with the Daedalus catalog of remainders. I quickly overwhelmed myself with lovely books, some which I still haven't read.
To top it off, I subscribed to both The New Yorker and The Paris Review. And I liked to watch TV. What was I thinking? Ironically, it was my obsession with computers that chipped away at my reading habit. Now it's reading on a computer that chips away at my computer habit.
Did I mention that I'm trying to learn how to play the accordion?
Labels: personal growth
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Fun With Razors
I have never been a big fan of shaving, but I do like the feeling of smooth skin that results from it, so I take care to do it properly. But the act of shaving also exposes some of my fits and follies, and a secret affectation.
My mother told stories of how her father shaved, which was with a straight razor he sharpened with a strop. The shaving stories were always an off-shoot of a discipline story, in that he used the strop to beat the children when they were naughty. A strop, if you don't know it, is a huge leather belt used to sharpen a straight razor by repeatedly stroking it with the razor. It's also useful for beating the hell out of someone naughty, or so I'm told. I had this image of a cranky Eastern European guy, in his tank-top T-shirt, working that razor with his face lathered up. From early on, I fantasized about shaving that way.
I am something of a romantic about literary things, and, like so many people, I really fell in love with The Catcher in the Rye when I read it back in high school. That Salinger guy is a heckuva a writer. I mean I read quite a bit, and that guy is really goddam great writer. He knocked my socks off, if you know what I mean. He talks a little bit about shaving in that, but mostly it lead me to read Franny and Zooey, also by Salinger. In that book, there is a lengthy scene about shaving that I fell in love with. Lane spends, like, a lifetime in his bathroom, taking a bath, reading a letter, and shaving. He shaves three times, I swear to God he does, but it was how he shaved that killed me. He squeezed shaving cream out of a tube onto a brush, and then applied it to his face. That killed me. I swear to God, if you ever read about someone shaving with a tube, a brush, and an injection razor system, it'll goddam near kill you.
So I bought myself a shaving brush the first chance I got. I even bought a travel version so I could take it with me. For whatever reason, call it lack of faith or even plain old stupidity, I stopped using it. Biggest mistake of my life (well, one of the biggest). For the twenty years since, I have been thrashing about trying to find the combination of shaving cream and razor that gives me what I want. I was unhappy for a very long time, but now, I believe I'm happy at last.
My father used electric razors. I have tried those a few times, but never liked how it felt afterwards. There is a downy softness to my skin, and that never excited me. Applying lotion afterwards helped a little. Still, it wasn't right for me.
I whored around a bit with cheap Bic disposables. They were effective, but I cared so little for them that I stopped caring about the quality of the shave. It began to eat away at my soul.
When the Gillette Mach 2 razor came out, I was skeptical. I sneered at those who would spend more than a quarter on a razor. I used mine for upwards of two weeks, spending about nine dollars per year on razors, and two cans of Colgate cream. How big of an idiot was I to spend a grand total of $12 a year on my face?
The sneaky bastards sent me a complimentary Mach 2 razor in the mail. I tried it and loved it. It was like discovering the funniest TV show ever, but in syndication, which means you get to watch it everyday, over and over again.
I have upgraded the razors as they have introduced new models, and each time I have been amazed by how it really does feel better. After ten years, how can this love of mine keep surprising me? I don't know, but it makes me love it that much more.
The one problem is that the tightly set razors often get clocked with the whiskers and shaving cream. Not only does it look messy, but it degrades the shave. So I spend a lot of time rinsing. It annoys me, but, like loving a great woman, you have to take the bad with the good. I have tried many different creams. Noxema is the worst: it seems to bind like super-glue between the blades. Gillette is a little better, but builds up and won't rinse off. Colgate, the cheapest stuff on the shelf, is probably the best for not sticking to the razor, but I don't like the feel of it.
On a nostalgic whim, I bought a soap cake and brush kit. I immediately loved the result. It was fun as hell applying the shaving cream with the brush, and I can control the density of the foam by adjusting the water I use. It rinses clean from the razor, and I get the satisfaction of recapturing a small part of americana every morning. My smooth cheeks remind me of it in the morning, and in the evening I begin to look forward to my next shave when my stubble starts to come in.
My mother told stories of how her father shaved, which was with a straight razor he sharpened with a strop. The shaving stories were always an off-shoot of a discipline story, in that he used the strop to beat the children when they were naughty. A strop, if you don't know it, is a huge leather belt used to sharpen a straight razor by repeatedly stroking it with the razor. It's also useful for beating the hell out of someone naughty, or so I'm told. I had this image of a cranky Eastern European guy, in his tank-top T-shirt, working that razor with his face lathered up. From early on, I fantasized about shaving that way.
I am something of a romantic about literary things, and, like so many people, I really fell in love with The Catcher in the Rye when I read it back in high school. That Salinger guy is a heckuva a writer. I mean I read quite a bit, and that guy is really goddam great writer. He knocked my socks off, if you know what I mean. He talks a little bit about shaving in that, but mostly it lead me to read Franny and Zooey, also by Salinger. In that book, there is a lengthy scene about shaving that I fell in love with. Lane spends, like, a lifetime in his bathroom, taking a bath, reading a letter, and shaving. He shaves three times, I swear to God he does, but it was how he shaved that killed me. He squeezed shaving cream out of a tube onto a brush, and then applied it to his face. That killed me. I swear to God, if you ever read about someone shaving with a tube, a brush, and an injection razor system, it'll goddam near kill you.
So I bought myself a shaving brush the first chance I got. I even bought a travel version so I could take it with me. For whatever reason, call it lack of faith or even plain old stupidity, I stopped using it. Biggest mistake of my life (well, one of the biggest). For the twenty years since, I have been thrashing about trying to find the combination of shaving cream and razor that gives me what I want. I was unhappy for a very long time, but now, I believe I'm happy at last.
My father used electric razors. I have tried those a few times, but never liked how it felt afterwards. There is a downy softness to my skin, and that never excited me. Applying lotion afterwards helped a little. Still, it wasn't right for me.
I whored around a bit with cheap Bic disposables. They were effective, but I cared so little for them that I stopped caring about the quality of the shave. It began to eat away at my soul.
When the Gillette Mach 2 razor came out, I was skeptical. I sneered at those who would spend more than a quarter on a razor. I used mine for upwards of two weeks, spending about nine dollars per year on razors, and two cans of Colgate cream. How big of an idiot was I to spend a grand total of $12 a year on my face?
The sneaky bastards sent me a complimentary Mach 2 razor in the mail. I tried it and loved it. It was like discovering the funniest TV show ever, but in syndication, which means you get to watch it everyday, over and over again.
I have upgraded the razors as they have introduced new models, and each time I have been amazed by how it really does feel better. After ten years, how can this love of mine keep surprising me? I don't know, but it makes me love it that much more.
The one problem is that the tightly set razors often get clocked with the whiskers and shaving cream. Not only does it look messy, but it degrades the shave. So I spend a lot of time rinsing. It annoys me, but, like loving a great woman, you have to take the bad with the good. I have tried many different creams. Noxema is the worst: it seems to bind like super-glue between the blades. Gillette is a little better, but builds up and won't rinse off. Colgate, the cheapest stuff on the shelf, is probably the best for not sticking to the razor, but I don't like the feel of it.
On a nostalgic whim, I bought a soap cake and brush kit. I immediately loved the result. It was fun as hell applying the shaving cream with the brush, and I can control the density of the foam by adjusting the water I use. It rinses clean from the razor, and I get the satisfaction of recapturing a small part of americana every morning. My smooth cheeks remind me of it in the morning, and in the evening I begin to look forward to my next shave when my stubble starts to come in.
Labels: memoir, mistake, personal growth
Monday, October 20, 2008
Me and TV
I have just added a new article: Me TV. It's a memoir-ish account of the television shows I watched in my youth, and is really a testament to the great wasteland that is my mind. If I had spent half the time I spent watching TV just walking around, I might have never had a weight problem.
One little tidbit I left out is that during some of the family TV time, my father and I would watch The Rockford Files, which is an hour-long show. He'd stop at Uncle Bill's on his way home (Uncle Bill's was a bottom-feeding discount store, back before there were stores such as "Big Lots") and pick up a half gallon of Whoppers, those delicious malted milk balls. We would plow through the entire carton during the show, after dinner. It seemed a little bit like dessert, but was not a great thing for me to do.
So I've had this weird relationship with food and television all of my life. I've loved both of them far too much, and for the wrong reasons, and without any conscious thought as to whether or not it helped me, made me stronger, smarter, or faster in any way. I just liked those things, enjoyed them, and squandered the better part of my life away because of it.
Granted, it wasn't as bad as alcoholism, or drug addiction, or gambling away all my possessions. Instead it was a slow decline into obesity, and time wasted that I could have been learning something, building a business, or improving the world. I wonder if I can do any of those good things now, ever.
That seems to be behind me now. I just don't have as much time to watch television anymore, in spite of how much I love it. About half the time that I do, I do so on a treadmill exercising as I go.
To be honest, though, I would like to just sit some time and plow through a carton of chocolate covered malt balls.
One little tidbit I left out is that during some of the family TV time, my father and I would watch The Rockford Files, which is an hour-long show. He'd stop at Uncle Bill's on his way home (Uncle Bill's was a bottom-feeding discount store, back before there were stores such as "Big Lots") and pick up a half gallon of Whoppers, those delicious malted milk balls. We would plow through the entire carton during the show, after dinner. It seemed a little bit like dessert, but was not a great thing for me to do.
So I've had this weird relationship with food and television all of my life. I've loved both of them far too much, and for the wrong reasons, and without any conscious thought as to whether or not it helped me, made me stronger, smarter, or faster in any way. I just liked those things, enjoyed them, and squandered the better part of my life away because of it.
Granted, it wasn't as bad as alcoholism, or drug addiction, or gambling away all my possessions. Instead it was a slow decline into obesity, and time wasted that I could have been learning something, building a business, or improving the world. I wonder if I can do any of those good things now, ever.
That seems to be behind me now. I just don't have as much time to watch television anymore, in spite of how much I love it. About half the time that I do, I do so on a treadmill exercising as I go.
To be honest, though, I would like to just sit some time and plow through a carton of chocolate covered malt balls.
Labels: memoir, mistake, personal growth, toastmaster
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Trouble Sleeping
I have a problem sleeping sometimes, usually because I've had coffee late in the evening. There is no small irony in that, after a certain point, coffee does nothing to keep me awake. I turn into a zombie, but not a flesh-eating, undead zombie; I'm more of the kind of zombie with a nervous twitch, clammy, itching skin, and a swollen bladder. I stagger around the kitchen trying to find some morsel of food that will help keep me awake, but I know sugar will be just a nail in my coffin, and almost everything in an American pantry turns into sugar.
Once I concede the point and admit that I can not stay awake any longer, my caffeine-induced irregular heart beat returns to normal as my stress about staying awake can finally be released. I fall asleep quickly in this state, and why shouldn't I? I am exhausted to the point of collapse, and frequently doze off in my chair before finally giving up and going to bed.
I had a sleep disorder briefly, back when I was in the fourth grade. I found fourth grade very stressful, and would worry about the intrigue and politics in the classroom. I didn't have a good friend in the classroom, and so I was perpetualy on the outs of the dominant social circles. The one friend I had, Nick D., constantly fought with me, tried to make me his bitch, and was somewhat obsessed about sex. When we sat next to each other, he would share his drawings of the sex acts he wanted to perform on various girls. It was, for me, rather uncomfortable.
That was when sex was explained to me in the form of a story told about someone's cousin who had performed the act. Oddly enough, it was told at lunch. The perfect place for such stories is at a bar while drinking, but we were too young for that.
My fourth grade teacher, Miss Carson, was also drop-dead gorgeous. I don't know when it's normal to have a crush on your teacher, but in the era of mini-skirts, it became normal for me. I never asked the other boys if they felt the same way, as I never asked any follow-up questions regarding the cousin who was putting out, because I was shy about such things. So internalizing such intense thoughts was no-doubt a large part of my trouble sleeping.
In fourth grade, I was also susceptible to panic about my future, and I thought not getting enough sleep would cause me great harm, jeopardize my future, cause me never to be worthy of a smoking hot woman like Miss Carson. The panic fed off itself, often driving me to tears. Of course, it just meant that instead of falling asleep at 9:30 p.m., I fell asleep at 11 p.m. Still this caused me panic.
In college, I went for long stretches an five or fewer hours of sleep. I was studying Computer Science at a time when you needed to use punch cards to enter your program, and it was just slower to get anything done. I also wore it as a badge of courage to have stayed up late, later than my friends studying Economics and German, and so that also fed off of itself, encouraging me to stay up late instead of learning better habits and getting my work done at appropriate times. The other Computer Science students behaved similarly, and we fed off of each other, nodding with respect as we passed each other in the North University Building Substation at three in the morning.
It no longer bothers me to miss sleep. I have learned that I can easily function on three or four hours sleep for a day, and so there is annoyance, but no panic in being awake at odd hours. So let me elaborate on the annoyance.
In many cases, I'm annoyed with myself for having drunk coffee so late, making me susceptible to waking up again when disturbed. But I'm also annoyed at the disturber. First and foremost among these are the dogs. They will bother us to be let out, or if they're hungry, and I may not be able to get back asleep.
For years, the children were disturbers, and my son woke me nightly for a variety of reasons until he was eleven. These were bothersome, but I blamed myself for not having taught him to self-soothe and put himself back to sleep. (I blame myself for a lot of things.)
There is also my wife. We have gotten ourselves on different schedules, so she will often come to bed after I've fallen asleep. Her normal routine, washing her face, brushing teeth, and changing into pajamas, is occasionally accompanied by questions such as: "Are you asleep?" and "Did I tell you what the cat did today?" If I mutter a reply in my slumber, this may start a conversation, and that may awaken me. She will then fall asleep, and I will be up until 3 a.m.
But now I don't panic, and I work on one of my various side projects -- web site development or blogging -- and count it as simply a time bonus. We lead busy lives, and those late nights are some of the few scant hours I can call my own. If it wouldn't hasten my death, I might just make a habit of it.
Death comes soon enough, though.
Once I concede the point and admit that I can not stay awake any longer, my caffeine-induced irregular heart beat returns to normal as my stress about staying awake can finally be released. I fall asleep quickly in this state, and why shouldn't I? I am exhausted to the point of collapse, and frequently doze off in my chair before finally giving up and going to bed.
I had a sleep disorder briefly, back when I was in the fourth grade. I found fourth grade very stressful, and would worry about the intrigue and politics in the classroom. I didn't have a good friend in the classroom, and so I was perpetualy on the outs of the dominant social circles. The one friend I had, Nick D., constantly fought with me, tried to make me his bitch, and was somewhat obsessed about sex. When we sat next to each other, he would share his drawings of the sex acts he wanted to perform on various girls. It was, for me, rather uncomfortable.
That was when sex was explained to me in the form of a story told about someone's cousin who had performed the act. Oddly enough, it was told at lunch. The perfect place for such stories is at a bar while drinking, but we were too young for that.
My fourth grade teacher, Miss Carson, was also drop-dead gorgeous. I don't know when it's normal to have a crush on your teacher, but in the era of mini-skirts, it became normal for me. I never asked the other boys if they felt the same way, as I never asked any follow-up questions regarding the cousin who was putting out, because I was shy about such things. So internalizing such intense thoughts was no-doubt a large part of my trouble sleeping.
In fourth grade, I was also susceptible to panic about my future, and I thought not getting enough sleep would cause me great harm, jeopardize my future, cause me never to be worthy of a smoking hot woman like Miss Carson. The panic fed off itself, often driving me to tears. Of course, it just meant that instead of falling asleep at 9:30 p.m., I fell asleep at 11 p.m. Still this caused me panic.
In college, I went for long stretches an five or fewer hours of sleep. I was studying Computer Science at a time when you needed to use punch cards to enter your program, and it was just slower to get anything done. I also wore it as a badge of courage to have stayed up late, later than my friends studying Economics and German, and so that also fed off of itself, encouraging me to stay up late instead of learning better habits and getting my work done at appropriate times. The other Computer Science students behaved similarly, and we fed off of each other, nodding with respect as we passed each other in the North University Building Substation at three in the morning.
It no longer bothers me to miss sleep. I have learned that I can easily function on three or four hours sleep for a day, and so there is annoyance, but no panic in being awake at odd hours. So let me elaborate on the annoyance.
In many cases, I'm annoyed with myself for having drunk coffee so late, making me susceptible to waking up again when disturbed. But I'm also annoyed at the disturber. First and foremost among these are the dogs. They will bother us to be let out, or if they're hungry, and I may not be able to get back asleep.
For years, the children were disturbers, and my son woke me nightly for a variety of reasons until he was eleven. These were bothersome, but I blamed myself for not having taught him to self-soothe and put himself back to sleep. (I blame myself for a lot of things.)
There is also my wife. We have gotten ourselves on different schedules, so she will often come to bed after I've fallen asleep. Her normal routine, washing her face, brushing teeth, and changing into pajamas, is occasionally accompanied by questions such as: "Are you asleep?" and "Did I tell you what the cat did today?" If I mutter a reply in my slumber, this may start a conversation, and that may awaken me. She will then fall asleep, and I will be up until 3 a.m.
But now I don't panic, and I work on one of my various side projects -- web site development or blogging -- and count it as simply a time bonus. We lead busy lives, and those late nights are some of the few scant hours I can call my own. If it wouldn't hasten my death, I might just make a habit of it.
Death comes soon enough, though.
Labels: mistake, personal growth
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
2B or not 2B
I don't really have a choice, you know. I am 2B, which is my age in hexadecimal. I thought it might soften the blow, but it does not. It is my thirtieth anniversary of puberty, and I don't believe I've changed much. In fact, my priorities from age 13 are probably the same priorities I have right now.
So today was special. My friends at work asked repeatedly what I was going to do to celebrate. I really had not planned on anything. In so many ways, every day is special, and I'm happy enough just hanging around the house. But it occurred to me that it'd be nice to sit around with a beer and learn a new song on my accordion.
That's when life intruded. I purchase an accordion from a gentleman on eBay last week, and it arrived with a leak. So I decided to correct the leak before playing tonight. It took quite a bit longer to correct and, in the end, I didn't solve my problem.
There is that adage that life is what happens while you are planning on doing something else. There is also that adage that you can not control what others do, or all the challenges that arise in life, but you can control how you react to those things. So I could have been crabby about things not going my way.
I should confess that I did get very angry at our new kitten when it threatened to jump on my workbench while I was working on the accordion. I really don't like the little beast.
But for the most part, I enjoyed this strange evening repairing an accordion. They are amazing machines, and are frequently broken. It's not a hobby I recommend. I am reminded of one of Bob Newhart's colleagues from the medical office in his first TV show. This was the urologist, I believe, and he told Bob once that most evenings, after dinner, he worked on wood-working projects in his garage until his family was asleep, rarely interacting with them. It was funny because, of course, that's not a normal way to interact with your family. But every once in a while it's nice to have something to distract you, and dedicating an amount of time helps accomplish your goals, assuming you direct your energies wisely.
I will strive to make some progress on my goals, as should we all.
So today was special. My friends at work asked repeatedly what I was going to do to celebrate. I really had not planned on anything. In so many ways, every day is special, and I'm happy enough just hanging around the house. But it occurred to me that it'd be nice to sit around with a beer and learn a new song on my accordion.
That's when life intruded. I purchase an accordion from a gentleman on eBay last week, and it arrived with a leak. So I decided to correct the leak before playing tonight. It took quite a bit longer to correct and, in the end, I didn't solve my problem.
There is that adage that life is what happens while you are planning on doing something else. There is also that adage that you can not control what others do, or all the challenges that arise in life, but you can control how you react to those things. So I could have been crabby about things not going my way.
I should confess that I did get very angry at our new kitten when it threatened to jump on my workbench while I was working on the accordion. I really don't like the little beast.
But for the most part, I enjoyed this strange evening repairing an accordion. They are amazing machines, and are frequently broken. It's not a hobby I recommend. I am reminded of one of Bob Newhart's colleagues from the medical office in his first TV show. This was the urologist, I believe, and he told Bob once that most evenings, after dinner, he worked on wood-working projects in his garage until his family was asleep, rarely interacting with them. It was funny because, of course, that's not a normal way to interact with your family. But every once in a while it's nice to have something to distract you, and dedicating an amount of time helps accomplish your goals, assuming you direct your energies wisely.
I will strive to make some progress on my goals, as should we all.
Labels: personal growth
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