Why do I do stuff that is bad for me? I stay up late and complain when I can't stay awake at work. Also when I stay up late and try to talk to people when I'm too tired, I invariably end up saying really stupid and embarrassing things that I later regret. I am too eager if I'm really hungry, eat too much, and then feel sick. Yesterday I ate cake and an alfajor for dinner and drank mate--a lot of mate. A lot of mate when one hasn't had any for months does a number on one's stomach. My only justification is that the cakes had fruit on them. Not that it helped me any. All this resulted in me, in bed at a respectable 11:30, wide awake and wired.
For one, I had cake for dinner, so I was starving. I also had had several mates, which never kept me awake before. Guess there really is caffeine in it. Or something. "I can't sleep!" I thought. Then I started thinking of all the things I needed to do today and during the week. I got up. I turned on the light. I made a list of everything that needed to get done. (OK, not everything. Many things. Urgent things.) Still wired. I did 20 push-ups and 50 crunches. I did leg lifts. I did jumping jacks. I went to the kitchen and had a bowl of oatmeal and museli. I read an article in a magazine.
Still wired.
So I went downstairs and filed. Good thing, too--I was a couple of months behind. Then I placed an ad for a rental unit, a task that has been defying me for months. Then I paid bills and filed some more. I wondered at being responsible for these things and laughed. I checked my email. I checked facebook. I considered practicing the violin.
When, 2 hours later, I decided I could probably fall asleep, I noticed a census questionnaire that I had been avoiding filling out and mailing back. Heck, those past two hours had been the most productive of the last 24 hours, so why not keep going? I finished filling that out, sealed the envelope, and put it with the bills to be mailed.
Why did I not cross the things off of my list? It would have been so satisfactory.
But coming back to doing things that are bad for me . . . staying up late is bad for me. It makes me grumpy the next day. Putting off filing things for months is bad for me. It makes my house messy, but it does provide me with something to do when I can't sleep. Eating cake for dinner is bad for me. But it tastes so good. Drinking too much mate (apparently) is bad for me. But it doesn't taste very good. Eating a cookie for breakfast is bad for me, too. (But, seriously, how much better is that than eating Chocolate Marshmallow Mateys?)
I suppose there are worse things I could be doing, with worse consequences. Still, why do we do things like that, that make us so miserable as a result?
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
Flipping Pages
I used to have a weakness when it came to reading books. This was years ago, when I was still a kid. You see, the problem was, I'd get so drawn in to a story that I'd get anxious about where things would go, how they would end. Does Character X survive? Do so-and-so and what's-his-face get together? Will I feel happy, or sad? Satisfied or unresolved? The tension was more than I was willing to bear.
So, to deal with it, I flipped through the pages, reading a line here, a short paragraph there, and too frequently that final page. Ultimately--and I recognized this as well then as now--I ended disappointing myself. Either way the story ended, I missed out on the thrill of the build up to a happily ever after or the heartbreak of a sorrowful end.
At least I knew that there was an end.
And I was prepared for it.
I find myself wanting desperately to flip ahead in the pages of my life, to discover if I must prepare myself for heartbreak. It's a good thing, I suppose, that I can't. I don't know if I would be able to deal with the answers.
So, to deal with it, I flipped through the pages, reading a line here, a short paragraph there, and too frequently that final page. Ultimately--and I recognized this as well then as now--I ended disappointing myself. Either way the story ended, I missed out on the thrill of the build up to a happily ever after or the heartbreak of a sorrowful end.
At least I knew that there was an end.
And I was prepared for it.
I find myself wanting desperately to flip ahead in the pages of my life, to discover if I must prepare myself for heartbreak. It's a good thing, I suppose, that I can't. I don't know if I would be able to deal with the answers.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Funny what a difference $200 can make
Dad laughed when I showed him the right-front tire, and he laughed harder when I said I hadn't gotten new tires since 2004 . . . if I remembered correctly. Might have been earlier. It was bald.
"Car drifts to the right when I let go of the wheel," I further informed him.
"Well, I guess you know what you have to do."
And yes, I did. I pride myself a little on being fairly conscious of the state of my vehicle. A Hyundai Accent GL, silver, 2001, it wasn't exactly a nice car. But it worked. I bought in the summer of 2003. Almost right away I had troubles with the transmission. Not long after that I had to replace the rear axle. Then the tires. Then the brakes. The exhaust pipe. It's gone through tune ups, "major" tune ups, dead batteries, the bright red blinking engine sign of doom, and yet not once has it stranded me on a major freeway during one of my many trips from Indiana to Utah, from Utah to California, from Indiana to Ohio, and wherever else I need to get. I always catch the problems in time, before they become real problems . . . though not early enough to prevent problems. I carry a tight purse.
I like long rides in the car. In fact, I prefer 12 hours in a car to 4 hours on a plane. I like to see where I'm going. I like to be in control. I like the stereo blasting my music, or my book-on-tape, while I pop sunflower seeds and watch the mile markers fly by. It's just me, in the car I bought, the car I care for, and the thousands of miles of paved USA. I guess, on a level, it's an issue of independence. I'll use google maps, but I prefer an atlas--I like making guesses, especially when they prove right. But I also like fixing mistakes, knowing the rules of the road and the geography of my mind well enough to course correct in minimal time.
I like the surge of the engine as I pass slower vehicles on a two-lane highway; I like stopping for gas in the country, where there's nothing in any direction but me, the road, and this one gas station; I like testing myself by taking new roads without consulting a map, and allowing my inner compass direct me a little south, a little east, until I meet up with a familiar road. I haven't made any major mistakes yet.
"Take it to a Discount Tires when you get back to Ohio," Dad advised me. "You can get by with the back tires for a while longer, but those two front ones need to be replaced. And you'll need to get everything aligned."
So I set off again, back to Ohio, a five-and-a-half hour trip. Easy as cake that comes in a box. I hoped it would not rain, as the wiper on the driver's side didn't work. But that wasn't too important. It hadn't worked properly for about two-and-a-half years, and though I was planning to get the wiper arm fixed very soon, I compensated for its defectiveness with RainX, which had seen me through plenty of storms. Fortunately, though the skies were gray through northern Indiana, they cleared up again through mid Ohio. When I reached I-270, just north of Columbus, I stopped for gas, checked my watch, and ancticipated that I would reach Athens at about 3:30.
I got back on the freeway. Not five minutes later, I heard an odd flapping sound coming from what seemed to be beneath the car. I turned off Bram Stoker's Dracula--downloaded from librivox.org--to listen more carefully. Flip-FLAP flip-FLAP flip-FLAPFLAPFLAP thunk! I turned my eyes to the rearview mirror and saw a sizeable piece of rubber tumble down the freeway. My attention returned at once to the road and to the approaching exit, which I did not hesitate to take.
I pulled into a gas station parking lot, killed the engine, hopped out of the car, and sped around the hood to drop to a knee beside the front-right tire. I could not immediately see the defect, but then placed my hand on the top of the tire and ran my fingers down the non-existent treads. Short spikes stuck into my fingertips, and I pulled back, crouched lower, and saw where the rubber had peeled away. Little metal spikes, like staples, stood up all over. I groaned. There was no possible way I could make it to Athens on this tire. I stood and went into the gas station.
The woman behind the counter didn't know if there was a Discount Tires nearby, but another patron did. He described it to me: "Turn right at this light and take it until you come to Gender Road. Hang a left, go all the way down, over some railroad tracks, and where Gender becomes Bryce, you'll see it on your left."
"How far?"
"Oh, I'd say ten minutes."
I prayed that my tire, in its current state, would last just ten minutes more. After creating a mental map, I returned to my Hyundai to follow it. I drove slowly, and with my hazard lights flashing. I rolled right by a cop without any assistance.
In answer to that prayer, I found the Discount Tires easily, and $185 later, my car thanked me for yet another new part. Well, two new parts. I drove away a little pleased with myself for having correct the problem before it became a major inconvenience, leaving me broken down on I-270 or worse, in an accident from a blown-out tire. The drifting problem had even been fixed.
I like to think that I take care of myself, that I do a pretty decent job at it. It's only now, as I write this, that I realize that there's someone else looking out for me, too, who is doing a much better job of it than I ever could. He answers prayers.
"Car drifts to the right when I let go of the wheel," I further informed him.
"Well, I guess you know what you have to do."
And yes, I did. I pride myself a little on being fairly conscious of the state of my vehicle. A Hyundai Accent GL, silver, 2001, it wasn't exactly a nice car. But it worked. I bought in the summer of 2003. Almost right away I had troubles with the transmission. Not long after that I had to replace the rear axle. Then the tires. Then the brakes. The exhaust pipe. It's gone through tune ups, "major" tune ups, dead batteries, the bright red blinking engine sign of doom, and yet not once has it stranded me on a major freeway during one of my many trips from Indiana to Utah, from Utah to California, from Indiana to Ohio, and wherever else I need to get. I always catch the problems in time, before they become real problems . . . though not early enough to prevent problems. I carry a tight purse.
I like long rides in the car. In fact, I prefer 12 hours in a car to 4 hours on a plane. I like to see where I'm going. I like to be in control. I like the stereo blasting my music, or my book-on-tape, while I pop sunflower seeds and watch the mile markers fly by. It's just me, in the car I bought, the car I care for, and the thousands of miles of paved USA. I guess, on a level, it's an issue of independence. I'll use google maps, but I prefer an atlas--I like making guesses, especially when they prove right. But I also like fixing mistakes, knowing the rules of the road and the geography of my mind well enough to course correct in minimal time.
I like the surge of the engine as I pass slower vehicles on a two-lane highway; I like stopping for gas in the country, where there's nothing in any direction but me, the road, and this one gas station; I like testing myself by taking new roads without consulting a map, and allowing my inner compass direct me a little south, a little east, until I meet up with a familiar road. I haven't made any major mistakes yet.
"Take it to a Discount Tires when you get back to Ohio," Dad advised me. "You can get by with the back tires for a while longer, but those two front ones need to be replaced. And you'll need to get everything aligned."
So I set off again, back to Ohio, a five-and-a-half hour trip. Easy as cake that comes in a box. I hoped it would not rain, as the wiper on the driver's side didn't work. But that wasn't too important. It hadn't worked properly for about two-and-a-half years, and though I was planning to get the wiper arm fixed very soon, I compensated for its defectiveness with RainX, which had seen me through plenty of storms. Fortunately, though the skies were gray through northern Indiana, they cleared up again through mid Ohio. When I reached I-270, just north of Columbus, I stopped for gas, checked my watch, and ancticipated that I would reach Athens at about 3:30.
I got back on the freeway. Not five minutes later, I heard an odd flapping sound coming from what seemed to be beneath the car. I turned off Bram Stoker's Dracula--downloaded from librivox.org--to listen more carefully. Flip-FLAP flip-FLAP flip-FLAPFLAPFLAP thunk! I turned my eyes to the rearview mirror and saw a sizeable piece of rubber tumble down the freeway. My attention returned at once to the road and to the approaching exit, which I did not hesitate to take.
I pulled into a gas station parking lot, killed the engine, hopped out of the car, and sped around the hood to drop to a knee beside the front-right tire. I could not immediately see the defect, but then placed my hand on the top of the tire and ran my fingers down the non-existent treads. Short spikes stuck into my fingertips, and I pulled back, crouched lower, and saw where the rubber had peeled away. Little metal spikes, like staples, stood up all over. I groaned. There was no possible way I could make it to Athens on this tire. I stood and went into the gas station.
The woman behind the counter didn't know if there was a Discount Tires nearby, but another patron did. He described it to me: "Turn right at this light and take it until you come to Gender Road. Hang a left, go all the way down, over some railroad tracks, and where Gender becomes Bryce, you'll see it on your left."
"How far?"
"Oh, I'd say ten minutes."
I prayed that my tire, in its current state, would last just ten minutes more. After creating a mental map, I returned to my Hyundai to follow it. I drove slowly, and with my hazard lights flashing. I rolled right by a cop without any assistance.
In answer to that prayer, I found the Discount Tires easily, and $185 later, my car thanked me for yet another new part. Well, two new parts. I drove away a little pleased with myself for having correct the problem before it became a major inconvenience, leaving me broken down on I-270 or worse, in an accident from a blown-out tire. The drifting problem had even been fixed.
I like to think that I take care of myself, that I do a pretty decent job at it. It's only now, as I write this, that I realize that there's someone else looking out for me, too, who is doing a much better job of it than I ever could. He answers prayers.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Doing nothing
I'd first like to thank Holly for inviting me to contribute. I hope you don't regret it.
I like leisure time. I like to sit and enjoy the quiet and do nothing. I like a good afternoon nap. Sometimes I like to just waste my time with anything that will occupy it. I like to do nothing. But when there is nothing to do, no work to be done at work while at the same time there are tons of things I could be getting done at home--I don't like that.
So there I was at work last week: my desk was tidy, the mail was in everybody's box, nearly everyone was gone, and I had nothing to do. On occasion a small break is nice. I like to read my book and get involved in the story. But I had just finished my book the night before. I had read both newspapers (though not American Banker). I had read the magazine on my desk--at least all that I cared to read in it. I had already checked both email accounts AND facebook. I was bored. In despair--or something related to it--I put my head on my desk. A nap would be wonderful, I thought to myself. Then, hearing footsteps in the hall, I hurriedly raised my head to see a co-worker return for the afternoon. I was a little embarrassed, being caught trying to sleep on the job. What a relief when he spoke, "Go home! There's nothing to do here, anyway." So I did.
I like leisure time. I like to sit and enjoy the quiet and do nothing. I like a good afternoon nap. Sometimes I like to just waste my time with anything that will occupy it. I like to do nothing. But when there is nothing to do, no work to be done at work while at the same time there are tons of things I could be getting done at home--I don't like that.
So there I was at work last week: my desk was tidy, the mail was in everybody's box, nearly everyone was gone, and I had nothing to do. On occasion a small break is nice. I like to read my book and get involved in the story. But I had just finished my book the night before. I had read both newspapers (though not American Banker). I had read the magazine on my desk--at least all that I cared to read in it. I had already checked both email accounts AND facebook. I was bored. In despair--or something related to it--I put my head on my desk. A nap would be wonderful, I thought to myself. Then, hearing footsteps in the hall, I hurriedly raised my head to see a co-worker return for the afternoon. I was a little embarrassed, being caught trying to sleep on the job. What a relief when he spoke, "Go home! There's nothing to do here, anyway." So I did.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Strange Dreams
I've recently begun acting out my fantasies while I dream. This afternoon, I fell asleep on the couch after watching an episode of The X-Files (fifth episode in season three, if you wanted to know), and quickly I slipped back into my 8:00 a.m. classroom. My students were all there, sitting in a circle for discussion, and one student--whose name I shall refrain from divulging--was asleep with his head on the desk, his hat twisted around so that the bill stood straight up in the air. Though this is not exactly typical behavior of this particular student, it pretty much represents the energy level of the whole class, every day, for the past four and a half weeks.
Someone brought the boy to my attention. My aggravation flared up, and strode over to him, well aware of all other eyes on me, and whipped my hand across the bill of the hat to knock it off his head and so wake him up. "OK," I said, "everyone out." I stared at the boy as he lifted his head in fear, the other students hurrying out the door. Once we were alone, I said, "How are you doing, _______?" Suddenly, I was all compassion.
How typical of me! I set forth rigid policies in my syllabus, and present myself as unbending, unflinching, maybe even cold. But put me one-on-one with a student who slept in, didn't finish an assignment, wants to get back into a class he dropped five weeks ago . . . and I have pity. "What can I do for you? How can I help?" Does this say that I'm a softie? That I can't stick to my guns? Am I a pushover? Or dare I call it something nobler--merciful? Nah, that's too noble.
Someone brought the boy to my attention. My aggravation flared up, and strode over to him, well aware of all other eyes on me, and whipped my hand across the bill of the hat to knock it off his head and so wake him up. "OK," I said, "everyone out." I stared at the boy as he lifted his head in fear, the other students hurrying out the door. Once we were alone, I said, "How are you doing, _______?" Suddenly, I was all compassion.
How typical of me! I set forth rigid policies in my syllabus, and present myself as unbending, unflinching, maybe even cold. But put me one-on-one with a student who slept in, didn't finish an assignment, wants to get back into a class he dropped five weeks ago . . . and I have pity. "What can I do for you? How can I help?" Does this say that I'm a softie? That I can't stick to my guns? Am I a pushover? Or dare I call it something nobler--merciful? Nah, that's too noble.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
The Dump
A recent, heavy snowfall took down a number of large branches in the backyard of my parents' house. I'm home for the weekend, so it was my happy privilege to assist in the cleanup. Dad found an excuse to use his chainsaw, and after loading the truck with hacked branches and covering the bed with a new tarp, Dad, Sam, and I took a quick trip to the local dump.
The gulls were my first indication of our approach to the "sanitary landfill." I never notice these scavenger birds anywhere else in Norther Indiana, and they remind me of vacations and giant parking lots of amusement parks and California beaches. These are not vacation birds. They are attracted to the grimy decay of the collected waste products of all of Elkhart County, and maybe beyond. I don't know. I don't really care to. Circling the gray, compacted mounds, the gulls caw and dive, and I watch them peck those long, grit-stained beaks into what had once been welcome in Grandma's refrigerator. Seven months ago. They barely move out of the way of our truck as it jostles us over worn tracks to the top of one particularly giant pile of trash. This is their rubbish mound--they have claimed it. We are but building their kingdom.
When we pull to a stop, I reluctantly leave the clean cabin of the truck, our protective pod, and my feet sink an inch or two into what I hope is just mud. I know it isn't just, but I don't want to think about what else lies beneath my feet: the remains of mundane human activity, the evidence of our daily existence, now the property of gulls. I try to make sense of the things I see; I don't want to look to long at any one mound. Is that a blanket? A sack, maybe. A diaper. Perhaps none of these things. It might have been white, once. It may have even been soft. Whatever it once was, its use had expired. Here, upon a rancid heap of abjection, the thing, no longer identifiable, made its last and everlasting home, its only visitor now the gulls.
I smelled it all the way home, eager for a shower.
The gulls were my first indication of our approach to the "sanitary landfill." I never notice these scavenger birds anywhere else in Norther Indiana, and they remind me of vacations and giant parking lots of amusement parks and California beaches. These are not vacation birds. They are attracted to the grimy decay of the collected waste products of all of Elkhart County, and maybe beyond. I don't know. I don't really care to. Circling the gray, compacted mounds, the gulls caw and dive, and I watch them peck those long, grit-stained beaks into what had once been welcome in Grandma's refrigerator. Seven months ago. They barely move out of the way of our truck as it jostles us over worn tracks to the top of one particularly giant pile of trash. This is their rubbish mound--they have claimed it. We are but building their kingdom.
When we pull to a stop, I reluctantly leave the clean cabin of the truck, our protective pod, and my feet sink an inch or two into what I hope is just mud. I know it isn't just, but I don't want to think about what else lies beneath my feet: the remains of mundane human activity, the evidence of our daily existence, now the property of gulls. I try to make sense of the things I see; I don't want to look to long at any one mound. Is that a blanket? A sack, maybe. A diaper. Perhaps none of these things. It might have been white, once. It may have even been soft. Whatever it once was, its use had expired. Here, upon a rancid heap of abjection, the thing, no longer identifiable, made its last and everlasting home, its only visitor now the gulls.
I smelled it all the way home, eager for a shower.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Patience
I did not lose my patience today, and for that I congratulate myself.
It seemed like such the thing to do. I have previously (and perhaps too frequently, I might add) lost my patience with someone's tone of voice (too whiny, too falsetto, too flat), with people encroaching on my bubble (just because it is a public computer doesn't mean I have no qualms with you watching me google search or write emails), and especially with things that make me wait. I hate waiting. When I get it in my mind to do something, I want it done. No where is this particular catalyst for my annoyance more sharp than when I drive. Everyone knows (or ought to) that the "speed limit" really means a minimum of five over (ten on freeways). That's just sense. So why is that biker passing you on the right?
About a week ago, I got it into my head that I needed to start exercising more. I am up at 6:30 ever day, I teach at 8:00, and I'm done by 9:00. As part of my newly self-enforced regimen, the hour between 9:00 and 10:00 a.m. is dedicated to a 30-minute elliptical session (I hate running) at the gym, allowing time to change, stretch, and shower. To my own amazement--mostly due to a usual lack of self-discipline--I haven't missed a day yet.
This morning, a friend who works out at the same gym forgot her wallet at home. Translation: No ID, no entrance. I laughed at her but sympathized as she fumed and flustered about, making plans to return home for it. "I would just consign myself to skipping," I thought, had our situations been reversed. My class ended, I pocketed my cell phone, keys, and iPod, and walked down the hill toward my parked car and the gym. After retrieving my gym bag from the car, I contentedly proceeded toward the front doors of the gym, and there stopped short. I had forgotten my wallet (read: ID). "Shucks," I said aloud. And I turned back to the hill toward Ellis Hall. Ten minutes later, I was changing in the locker room.
A moment's disappointment, sure, at having to walk back to where I had just been. But other than that, I felt no frustrations at being 20 minutes behind my normal schedule. Though I hate trekking up that hill every day, having to surmount it twice in one morning didn't bother me. For some inexplicable reason, I had all the patience in the world.
Let me tell you, it's a good feeling.
It seemed like such the thing to do. I have previously (and perhaps too frequently, I might add) lost my patience with someone's tone of voice (too whiny, too falsetto, too flat), with people encroaching on my bubble (just because it is a public computer doesn't mean I have no qualms with you watching me google search or write emails), and especially with things that make me wait. I hate waiting. When I get it in my mind to do something, I want it done. No where is this particular catalyst for my annoyance more sharp than when I drive. Everyone knows (or ought to) that the "speed limit" really means a minimum of five over (ten on freeways). That's just sense. So why is that biker passing you on the right?
About a week ago, I got it into my head that I needed to start exercising more. I am up at 6:30 ever day, I teach at 8:00, and I'm done by 9:00. As part of my newly self-enforced regimen, the hour between 9:00 and 10:00 a.m. is dedicated to a 30-minute elliptical session (I hate running) at the gym, allowing time to change, stretch, and shower. To my own amazement--mostly due to a usual lack of self-discipline--I haven't missed a day yet.
This morning, a friend who works out at the same gym forgot her wallet at home. Translation: No ID, no entrance. I laughed at her but sympathized as she fumed and flustered about, making plans to return home for it. "I would just consign myself to skipping," I thought, had our situations been reversed. My class ended, I pocketed my cell phone, keys, and iPod, and walked down the hill toward my parked car and the gym. After retrieving my gym bag from the car, I contentedly proceeded toward the front doors of the gym, and there stopped short. I had forgotten my wallet (read: ID). "Shucks," I said aloud. And I turned back to the hill toward Ellis Hall. Ten minutes later, I was changing in the locker room.
A moment's disappointment, sure, at having to walk back to where I had just been. But other than that, I felt no frustrations at being 20 minutes behind my normal schedule. Though I hate trekking up that hill every day, having to surmount it twice in one morning didn't bother me. For some inexplicable reason, I had all the patience in the world.
Let me tell you, it's a good feeling.
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