Filling out a Friday afternoon.

Fridays can be the best, and the worst, all at the same time. You know the weekend is coming, you can’t wait, but that excitement for the future makes the present just drag. In my current situation, we have a three day weekend, so half the office took Friday off as well, meaning it is even slower than usual. Without a whole lot of work to be done (and all the interesting websites blocked….thanks IT!), it doesn’t make for the most enjoyable experience.

Luckily, we have a communicator feature for our office that allows you to chat up the people around you, so often I’ll go back and forth with some friends throughout the day. It helps alleviate the skull crushing boredom on days like today, if only just a little bit.

Today’s topic of discussion with one of my office pals was how hard of a time he’s had today. Now, he is much like me in that he treats Thursday nights as Friday Night Lite, so he had been doing some pretty good drinking. Probably more of a usual Friday night amount, which is why today has been a major pain for him.

He’s struggling through the day, and I’ve been pretty chipper, that is, until lunch. Got some food in my belly, and you mix that with the boredom, and now I’m struggling to stay awake. I voiced this concern to my pal, and though he was sympathetic, he said he would gladly switch feelings with me. Knowing he had just puked a few minutes prior and has been feeling like death, I acknowledged that he might be right. I forgot rule #1 when complaining:

• Never complain to someone that has it worse off than you

Making light of this situation, he told me I might as well run off and write a letter to some African children describing how hungry I was. Now, naturally I thought about this for a second. What would a letter of that nature sound like? What kind of nightmarish person would do such a thing? Immediately, I thought of a California Valley Girl who, for some reason (maybe as part of a sentencing for shoplifting or bad driving) has to write these letters as a way to emphasize with her fellow man. To become a more worldly person, so to speak. This bit of satire is the result:

Sup Africans! Hope you were able to find some water that didn’t poison you today. Anywhoo, I’m super seriously upset today. Like, my boss promised us we’d be out half an hour early, but it was more like 15 minutes early, what a gyp! And then, to top things off, I went to get my usual after work Twix bar from our office candy store, and they were out! Had to eat a stupid kit kat bar instead! Can you imagine?? It’s like, uh, can this day get any worse? Well, I have to run, they’re throwing a potluck for my yoga class and I don’t want to miss out on any of Stephanie’s spring rolls! They’re to die for! Okay, well, see you later! Hope you don’t get attacked by vultures again!

-Stacy

 

Of course she’s named Stacy. TGIF, I guess.

 

So I’m wearing ankle socks.

Because they’re the best kind of socks. Socks are for your feet, correct? That’s why I don’t understand why people insist on calling those things that go halfway up your leg socks. Your foot doesn’t go halfway up your leg, so why do you need all that cotton? Wouldn’t leggings be more efficient for what you’re doing? Just wear leggings, people.

So I’m wearing these ankle socks, and I’m presented with what happens to be the one drawback on ankle socks. As I walk around, the socks get super curious about what my toes are doing, and slide down to get a better look. As such, I’m forced to dig around with my fingers and try to pull them back up to proper resting position, chastising them the entire time. Now, don’t be put off by this scenario. Ankle socks are still best socks, and if you find a good pair, you won’t have this problem. What this instance means, is that it is about time to retire my current pair. The entrance is too stretched out from my lazy efforts to place my foot inside, catching the edge with my toes and stubbornly trying to push through anyways. Somehow, I think that if I tug on the sock hard enough, some sort of quantum dematerialization will happen, and my foot will end up in its rightful place. Naturally, this never happens, but I tend to put on socks in the morning, when I’m operating at about 50 IQ points lower than my midday self.

This pair will make it through the day, I’m sure, but I will have to take action. Once I get home, I’ll probably demote this pair to the lowest possible position: the back of the sock drawer, along with the pairs that have a hole in the heel/toe, the one or two pairs of legging socks I unfortunately own, or the mismatched pairs. Basically, emergency usage only status.

Another cool thing about ankle socks is that sometimes, they don’t even show above your shoe, making it seem as if you wearing no socks. As if you’re wearing nothing at all. “Hey baby, I’m naked underneath these shoes.”

Congrats to Jason Collins. You set the wheels in motion.

What should be the biggest sports news of the day (unless you’re ESPN, shedding sad, salty tears that any team could be so mean as to cut Tim Tebow), is that Jason Collins has come out as the first active gay professional athlete. While he isn’t currently on a team, he is still the first to come out with hopes of playing still. Very commendable, and you know had to have taken some guts. I wish all the best for him.

But is this news? Should this be news? We have gays in every facet of life, because, believe it or not, they’re just people too. They have skills and goals and dreams just like everyone else. So why is it that it seems to be such a big deal for a professional athlete? The obvious conclusion must be that having a gay player makes the locker room uncomfortable. And while there is some fact that it might not be ideal, these guys are professionals. I seriously doubt they can get to this level if they can’t focus on the task at hand, and not occupy themselves by ogling teammates in the shower. To assume otherwise would be pretty juvenile. It would be the same as assuming any woman giving a post game interview in the locker room is about to get jumped. Baseless.

The reaction so far has been surprisingly supportive, which I’m glad to hear. I suppose my main problem with this grabbing the sports world attention is that we shouldn’t care. We really shouldn’t. I know that society is increasingly “celebrity crazy” and we have to know the personal lives of people that have no relevance in our lives, but there’s celebrities and then there’s athletes. Often one bleeds into the other, but I wish it weren’t so.

Here’s how I like my athletes: Performing on the field/court/ice. It’s what they do there that makes me form my opinions about them. That’s what makes them an athlete first, and a celebrity second. I know plenty of players I would never even want to have a conversation with, but respected their ability in the game. There have also been players that, through their interviews and actions, I’ve developed a fondness for, but would still not want near any of my favorite teams because of their lack of skills.

The thing that matters the most for athletes is what is done on the field. Short of any crime, their personal lives should not matter. Knowing whether or not a player is gay is akin to knowing whether or not a player is dating so-and-so. I just don’t care.

But.

I realize that a ton of people do care about these issues. That’s why TMZ seemingly has taken a larger interest in snagging headlines filled with pro athletes. People want to know what is going on in the lives of others. So I knew this sort of, well, I don’t want to call it a gay witch hunt,  but you know the media is waiting on pins and needles to plaster the gay player all over their coverage. “Guess what everybody!” They can say. Now that the first active pro athlete has come out, it’ll turn into a huge circle-jerk of “who’s next!?” and the like. This is all inevitable.

Please note I’m not talking about the social acceptance of homosexuality at this time. I honestly think you’re getting left behind the times if you can’t accept someone for having a very personal lifestyle that has no relevance to your life. It’s their life, let them live it how they want. Be well, and live.

What I am talking about is the media shitstorm that was bound to follow along this social subject, knowing what kind of drawing power this type of story had. Unfortunately, it’s still a polarizing topic for much of the country, and will be a lightning rod for all sorts of different takes from talking heads and public polls. The levels sports media can take this storyline knows no bounds. Yet, I don’t care.

But I knew it was coming. And that is why I thank you, Jason Collins. You have put this whole thing in motion. It was a completely necessary hurdle our media and social consciousness had to take, and now that it is started, soon enough we can put this all behind us. Soon, we can start questioning whether or not a gay player should be on a team, not because of his orientation, but because of their production and worth. Which is as it should be.

The perfect donut

I’ve often said the glazed old fashioned donut is the best donut. Now, when I say this, people often have the mistake of  hearing “My favorite donut”, but oh no, it goes much further than that. It is the best donut. Not only is it pretty spectular from purely a taste perspective, but there happens to be a system to the consumption of this donut that is just splendid. That is what makes it so great. Now, you see this donut here above these words? There are two main parts to it. The outer shell, and the inner circle. Let me break down how to eat one of these bad boys:

A) Tear off those outer edges. There should be about 3 or 4 sections to this outer layer that you can easily pull off for a bite sized chunk.

Now on to the best part. With the outer edges removed, you should have a donut that resembles something like this:

This truly is the best part. What you’ll want to do now is:

        B) Squeeze the ring. By placing your thumb and finger on opposite sides and giving a slight squeeze, the donut will naturally fold and break into 4 more bite sized chunks. The end result is as follows:

NOW tell me that ain’t amazing! It tastes great, and naturally lends itself to consistent bite sized chunks! Seriously though, you all can have your fritterererers and maple bars, and I’ll just stick with the best donut known to man.

I don’t know why, I told her that lie.

Isn’t the brain interesting? I mean, it’s fully automatic, yet completely in your control, for most of the important stuff. You know, like moving and talking and (for the most part), thinking. Yet, every now and then I find myself doing something that I absolutely cannot explain. Words will come to me and I’ll just spew them out, then spend the next few seconds utterly confused at my own doing.

For instance, I was recently at the doctor’s. Got myself a knee injury that has lingered and gotten progressively worse, so I thought I’d check it out. Word of advice: Be sure to actually land on the step you’re aiming for when descending stairs. Granted, I wasn’t entirely sober when this happened, but I completely missed a step, landing straight legged and hyper-extending my knee to the point where I launched myself into the wall. Smooth.

So this little misstep has bothered me to where I need to get it checked. After filling out all the paperwork and waiting in the waiting room, the nurse brings me into the exam room, asking me how it happened, about the symptoms, etc. Classic stuff I don’t really know but fake enough to move along with the procedure. She says I’ll need to have some X-rays done to ensure there’s no bone damage, so she goes to the cupboard and tosses me a pair of shorts. X-rays done, I’m sitting back in the room when the Doc comes in to play with my knee.

After tweaking it several times to verify that, yes, that does indeed hurt, he informs me that he suspects a torn meniscus, and goes about scheduling a MRI. The Doc points me to where I’ll need to officially make my appointment, and is on his way. I get dressed back up, taking off the shorts they supplied me and throwing my jeans back on. Coat and shoes on, I’m left standing there staring at the pair of shorts in my hand. Do I leave them on the examination table? The floor? Maybe that chair in the corner? Do I bring them up to reception and hand them over proudly? I don’t know, so I just open the cabinet up where I saw the nurse originally grab them from, and toss them in. Problem solved, I think to myself.

I find my way back to the reception desk and begin the necessary paperwork. It’s at this point where I make an unexplainable move. The nurse comes back my way and asks what I did with the shorts. Instantly, before I could think, I look up and say, “I uh, think I left them on the table there.”

She shoots me a puzzled look. “Really? Because I didn’t see them.”

“Yeah, pretty sure alright!” I nod, as she sets off towards the exam room once more. As soon as she leaves, I’m forced to think, WTF? Why did I say that? Shrugging, I continue my paperwork, but it doesn’t end there.

“Are you sure you left them on the table?” I look up to see the nurse again, now eying me somewhat suspiciously. “Maybe you left them on? It happens all the time!” She sorta laughs at this last bit, maybe trying to ease any embarrassment on my part, if I happen to be of the type that doesn’t know what kind of clothes they have on.

At this point, I feel the need to continue the lie. There is no reason, I could just tell her about the shorts’ current whereabouts, but I was feeling obligated to confuse this poor nurse further. I instinctively grab towards my waist. “Nope, I’m positive I took them off! Maybe someone beat you to grabbing them?” I suggest this feebly, with a half shrug and sheepish grin. She stares at me for a moment, perplexed, gives an audible “Hunh” and walks off.

I swing around to the receptionist. “Weird, right?” and bury my face into my paperwork again.

Looking back now, maybe I was thinking that they probably washed the shorts after each use, and I had done wrong by mixing the pair back in with the ones ready to use? Regardless, there is now a nurse out there who is completely bewildered with the case of the disappearing shorts, or figures me as a really petty thief. Either way…..wtf brain?

I hope to have more info on the status of my knee soon, as I’ll head back over the next two days for the MRI itself, and for the results. Not surprisingly, I’ve been requested to bring my own shorts from home.

The Dream

I have this recurring dream. I’m laying on my back, and I’m staring up into complete darkness. I keep noticing these shapes and objects coming flying at me. They’re so close, I just know that if I sit up, just an inch, I’ll get decapitated, or worse. They’re coming at me from all directions. Left, right, and I’m just stuck laying down. It feels like a bed though, I seem to be comfortable. Night after night, I lay in fear, unable to move. I always want to shift my position, I have to move, but I can’t. I won’t. It’s too comfortable and I’m too afraid.

Then one night, the dream changes. Not only am I being bombarded, now something starts scratching at my foot. It itches like you can’t imagine. I can’t do anything though. I can’t sit up to scratch,  I can’t even move enough to pull away. The sensation becomes consuming, and pretty soon I can’t help but focus all my attention on this itching at my foot. A white fire starts to take over my mind, and I jerk myself forward to sit up, and I scratch. And I scratch. And I stop, and realize that I am sitting straight up. I flinch, knowing I completely forgot about the low flying objects and that the next movement I see will be my own demise. I clutch my eyes shut, but nothing happens. I slowly peer out the side of my eyelid, and witness another shadow. Another object. But nothing has happened.

I slowly crawl to the edge of my bed, and I try to take in what I see around me. My bed, next to to the edge of a small pond, in a dark cave no bigger than an office. I glance up, and see the small crack in the top of the cave where moonlight is pouring in. Not enough to really light my view, but enough to make reflections off the water. Reflections that then bounce off the cave walls and ceiling. Reflections that then look like thousands of fast moving objects, shooting around like a crazy cosmic pinball game. Reflections that held me captive in fear each and every night. I then look at the edge of the bed, and am surprised to spot a blooming flower surrounded by a small shaft of light, nodding along with the reflections. The flower whose roots stretch back to the very same pond, drawing the life necessary to fully blossom, its petals brushing along the edge of the bed. Right where my foot was.

I wake with a smile on my face for the first time in months.

The everlasting internal battle.

I’m not so sure how many times I opened this very page over the past few month or so, since I last updated in the beginning of February. I would start a sentence or two, maybe hammer out a title, and promptly lose all wind in my sails, closing the browser and pushing away from the computer.

This has been frustrating for me, since I felt like I had some decent momentum in my contributions. I’ve been thinking about it, and I think I have a fair idea of what happened: I started seeing positive results from this blog. I was enjoying what I was writing, I showed a couple people who encouraged me to keep it up, and then….all motivation went kaput. This type of behavior is chronic for me. As soon as I start to see positive results in what I’m doing, I abandon it. Start exercising, have a couple of people compliment me on weight loss? Better stop working out. Play high school football, have a couple of people recommend I should play at the next level? Better avoid college altogether. Get some positive swell from this blog? Better…..well, you get the idea.

I used to think that I feared failure, and that is what held me back. While this is still applicable to a degree, a different realization came to the forefront. A realization I actually touched upon in one of my last posts: that I am afraid of success as well. What a silly thing, to be afraid of success. Isn’t that what we all want in life? It can mean a variety of things, depending on who you talk to. Wealth, fame, family, etc. Regardless of what it is to the individual, I think we all want to look back at the end of our lives and be able to say, “I mattered because of [reason].”

To find myself actively shying away from situations or opportunities where I can find this success, has been frustrating to say the least. At this point, it’s just a matter of rewiring my brain. Normal people don’t think like that, at least, I don’t think. Or am I normal for thinking this way? Is it the people that have no doubts, nothing but absolute assurance in their own abilities that can be thought of as abnormal?

Anyway, I discovered a little hack I can perform on myself. The early results have been encouraging. Every single time I find myself thinking “I don’t want to do that”, I’ll immediately get up and go do whatever said action is. It’s funny how my brain is that way.

“I don’t want to clean up my place.”
“I don’t want to go for a run.”
“I don’t want to finish this project at work.”
“I don’t want to read this book, hang out with these friends, write in this journal, post on this blog, etc.”

See a theme? Pretty much every single thing I find myself finding against, is exactly what needs to be done in my life. Either out of necessity, or to follow the type of life I’d like to lead. I just need to accept that I am in a constant battle with myself. I am my own ally, and worst enemy. Every single day I get to decide who wins. The hero or the villain. I’m the author of my own biography, and with my pen in hand, I have to decide whether or not this next chapter is going to be a positive one, or a negative one. This can all get so very tiring, but I have to strengthen my resolve.

All in all, things have been decent, but not great. Aim to keep on keeping on, force myself to be more active around here. After all, I do find this a bit therapeutic.