waving.

High school, circa 2001: A faint acquaintance approaches from a distance, arm outstretched in salutation. Wow. She’s awful friendly, I think. I mean, we haven’t ever really talked much or even really gotten along well, but, shucks, we did have that science class together in ninth grade. I think we may have even been in the same lab group. Perhaps the heat of the shared Bunsen burner had fused some connection between us too deep for words. So powerful was our connection that it needed a few years to sit dormant before mature enough to warrant mutual and public acknowledgment. I can’t believe I was so obtuse to not notice our bond. But she, approaching with a grin and a wave, she didn’t miss it. She’s been waiting for this for a long time. I’d bet that any time she encounters the smell of burnt chloride or happens across the sight of a petri dish, she can’t help but think of our time together, of me. Of course she wants to talk to me.

So I raise my hand, an olive branch extended, and wave. Not too soft, though. She’s waving pretty adamantly. I wouldn’t want her to feel silly. So I match her enthusiasm. I make eye contact, attempting to establish a tractor beam sort of influence that will aid her in her final descent towards the cove of lockers that surround me. But she doesn’t seem to be meeting my eyes. It’s more like she’s fixated on my shoulder. No, wait, above my shoulder. Holy crap.

This is the moment at which I wish for any number of things to happen. The apocalypse, for one, would be welcome. Atomic warfare, earthquakes, a school shooting—all would not only serve as adequate distractions from the humiliating corner into which I have painted myself, but also as vastly more pleasant alternatives. Because now I know. And it will only be seconds before she’ll realize too. I wish a disease, one that makes people feel sorry for you, would instantly infect me, rob me of my hair and make me stick thin. No one mocks the diseased the way they would mock a well person in the same situation. It’s not fair.

I’m quite sure of what’s happening, but I’m still waving and so is she. I can’t just stop. I am acutely aware that behind me and out of view stands another student, the intended recipient of the girl’s wave. He or she is probably waving too, but not so unrequitedly as I. I can’t bear to turn and look, but I know it’s the truth. I’m still waving and I notice that her gaze has drifted some and is now upon me, slowly surveying the situation. Her blonde head cocks sideways in bewilderment and stays that way, but just for a second. Quickly, it snaps back straight and I know she knows.

She is blond, but not naturally or convincingly so. My eyes are those of a pet on the verge of euthanasia. They whimper. Please don’t tell everyone. But she has averted her stare momentarily. It wouldn’t matter anyways. I’ve seen her standing in a circle with all the other unconvincing blonds. They chatter like hyenas, waiting for just such fodder, like the way African children will make a soccer ball from just about anything. Their cackles haunt me already.

I’m still waving. She’s closer, maybe twenty or so yards away. I now recall one conversation we shared over the Bunson burner all those semesters ago. She had rambled on and on about a Friends episode. About how Rachel’s nose kept changing and how Chandler was so funny and how she thought nothing would be greater than hanging out in a New York coffee shop, drinking from oversized and pastel colored mugs. Oh how she belabored the subject of those mugs, describing in detail the hypothetical flowers that would decorate her designated coffee receptacle. And how I wanted her to shut up. This was the girl to whom I extended an olive branch? One whose life goals revolved primarily around ceramics? What a fool I am.

My wave is growing tired, flimsy, but persists. I am suddenly incredibly aware of its flapping and how it has cursed me. The bones and flesh and ligaments, typically tools by which I am made able, today work against me. She is looking again, this time fully cognizant and acknowledging with attentive eyes my humiliation. There is no kindness in her stare, no sign of mercy. That’s when a synapse fires, maybe two. Grey matter crinkles just so, or does whatever it is that grey matter does when an individual is blessed by the advent of an idea. Whatever that process entails, that’s what happens to me, on the surface of my brain—an idea. It’s a long shot, certainly, a full-court overhand huck as the buzzer sounds, but it’s all I have.

She is ten or so yards away. I reinvigorate my wave. Taking great pains to appear effortless, I shift my gaze from the general area of her make-up covered, faux tanned face to the area just above and beyond her. I lock in on a brown-haired, bowl-cutted sophomore I’ve never met before. Books and backpack in tow, he cuts across the lawn in front of the administration building half a football field away. I wave, finally, with conviction and direction. This she notices. “Hey Greg, “ I yell as I begin to walk directly to him. He doesn’t as much as raise an eyebrow at me. Why would he? He’s no Greg. He could be deaf since birth or a Latvian foreign exchange student for all I know and entirely oblivious to my call, but I don’t care. I walk straight at him.

Before passing her, I can see her stride slow some. Her crumpled brow radiates the consternation that has so suddenly befallen her and turned tables which had once seemed so sturdy and immovable. I don’t stop. I walk, aware that within her sunbleached teenage mind the whole situation has been blanketed with a layer of doubt, like fresh snow falling upon and momentarily beautifying the ugliest ghetto of the most rundown industrial city. I feel delivered—as if seas have been parted this day for me as much as ever they were for Moses. So I accelerate my stride towards the one that I dubbed Greg, propelled by the knowledge that behind me is a blonde girl feeling utterly ridiculous to have believed it was she to whom I was waving, when in fact it was someone else entirely.

boredom.

There are certain things about life that I don’t and may never understand—things like soul patches and pelvis fat and glitter and vampire-themed entertainment. But perhaps foremost of those things which I lack the mental dexterity to grasp is boredom. I’m not even certain that I’ve ever experienced the state of mind to which people refer when speaking of “boredom.” There is just too much stuff I want to do. There’s always a book to read, a song to write, a nearby napkin upon which I can doodle an offensively exaggerated portrait of whomever it is that I happen to be with, or a minute aspect of existence which begs to be analyzed in excruciating detail (fire, cake cups, hugs, et cetera).

But let’s say that all that stuff evaporated in a flash, was transported to another dimension from which it could not be reclaimed; I still wouldn’t be bored. I’d simply resort to my list of just-for-the-heck-of-it activities, which I’ve been accumulating for years. One such activity I occasionally utilize in the passing of time requires a trip to Wal-Mart. You think the old folk greeters at that particular big box establishment are all smiles and white hair and creepy questions about your kids, but in reality, they are the Walton’s last line of defense against shoplifting. So one way to spice up an otherwise drab afternoon is to, like I said, go to Wal-Mart. Once there, select any item (preferably something small and light). Pay at the register and insist on foregoing the plastic bag, but double check to take and safely stow your receipt in a trustworthy pocket. Once you’ve got the product in hand, place it under your shirt or in a pocket in such a way as to create an obvious bulge. Walk towards the exit. When the drooping and sun-spotted neck flesh of the greeter draws your sight, causing you to draw all sorts of silent comparisons to chicken skin, pan your view up a few inches to make eye contact with the greeter. But make sure that it's uncomfortable eye contact, the accidentally-shared-between-elementary-school-crushes type of hyper self-conscious eye contact. As soon as you feel confident that the greeter has noticed you, run. Break out into a full sprint. Pump those knees and flee as if from a burning building, without even stopping to get the cat. You can bet your socks that at that moment the greeter will put his at least seven-decade-old bones into motion in hot pursuit of what he perceives to be a shoplifter.

Now, I ask you, is there any situation so boring that an impromptu footrace with a senior citizen across the parking lot of a Wal-Mart wouldn’t effectively banish from you any lingering sense of tedium? I think not.

fire.

Whoever came up with the old axiom “you have to fight fire with fire” is an idiot, or at the very least, has never had any personal experience with fire. If your couch bursts into flames, the absolute worst thing you can do is start another fire and then hope that the second fire out-fires the first fire. I’m not even sure what bizarre sort of mind would expect such an improbable turn of events—definitely not the type of mind that we should trust to be creating the axioms that define our society and definitely not the type of person who should be allowed to own scented candles. What’s missing is a basic understanding of how fire works. See, even if the second fire did engulf and overcome the initial fire, now all you have on your hands is a fire that is doubly strong and even more threatening. Because now you have a fire that has developed a taste for fire. And if there’s one thing that sounds worse than fire, it’s a fire that has added cannibalism to its long list of sinister properties.

Still, maybe the principle behind the axiom is what the author was really after. Perhaps he or she was trying to say something more akin to “Fight Indian burns with Indian burns” or “Fight punches with punches”—a sort of inverse of the golden rule: what others do to harm you, you should do to harm them. It's a notion as rife with moral indifference as the classics “eye for an eye” or “finders keepers.” But obviously, such sayings aren’t really concerned with perpetuating brotherly love or cuddling or the 3 AM sharing of homemade baked goods and most embarrassing moments at slumber parties. No, these are results-oriented sayings. And I believe that if results was what the author was after, the “fight fire with fire” or “fight punches with punches” axiom falls a little bit short. If we could combine the two, then we’d have an axiom that really gets us somewhere. May I suggest the synthesis, the sum of which is far greater than its parts: “Fight punches with fire.” Now, the principle behind that axiom has got some legs. If abided by, I promise, no one will ever punch you twice. That’s results.

literally.

I am often very skeptical as to whether or not certain people know the meaning of the word “literally.” I mean, if I hear you say “Oh my gosh, this soft pretzel is so freaking hot. Man, it just burned my tongue off. Like literally, my tongue has third degree burns,” well, then, at least in my mind, when you stick out your tongue, it better look like it’s been through trench warfare. But way too often, people use the word “literally” to describe statements that are actually the exact opposite. For instance, a man telling a story today at church said, “Literally, you could have cut the tension in that room with a knife.” Really? With a knife? I ‘d like to see someone literally cut an abstract concept like tension with a knife. I’d bet any attempt at so doing would just look like a crazy man walking through an already tense room thrusting a knife with seemingly no direction.

If we think about it, the soft pretzel patron should have said something to the effect of, “Like figuratively, my tongue has third degree burns.” That kind of verbal specificity and precision fosters genuine and trustworthy communication. And integrity of communication is a thing that is really important to me. Because when someone tells me that they have third degree burns on their tongue, and they stick out a tongue that for the most part looks like any old boring tongue, I am always disappointed.

hoth chocolate.

This morning, as I was on my way to work, I noticed a discarded object in the middle of a street not far from my house. I stopped my car to inquire and was made utterly, utterly speechless by what I beheld:



You guessed it—a Star Wars-themed cookbook. It was just laying face down in the asphalt, all lonely-like. You can bet that there is some little poindexter out there somewhere, heartbroken to have misplaced it, demoralized at the prospect of having to eat boring old earth food for dinner tonight. The pictures and recipes are downright hilarious. Observe:















This next one is my favorite:



I think this proves that something can simultaneously be both pathetic and amazing.

dinner table conversation.

As I've mentioned before, Angela and I are of a dying breed—the young, somewhat newly married, and still childless couple. Almost all the other couples our age are up to their elbows in babies and baby paraphernalia (toys, puke, rotting diapers, etc.). There seems to be a social partition between pre-parents (us) and parents (pretty much everyone else). We work, do homework, come and go as we please, speak in adult voices, sleep through the night and so forth. They, on the other hand, use the word “onesie” at least a dozen times daily. Instead of discussing crocodile wrestling or introducing the concept of hugs as currency, their blogs are meaningful, doubling as scrapbooks, serving to document Olivia’s first steps or Jack’s hilarious crayon tirade.

I’ve noticed that many of these other couples don’t really like to talk about the things Angela and I talk about. Music? Not really. Good design? Nope. Books? There’s hardly time for a good night’s sleep, much less pleasure reading. But one thing’s for sure—they love to talk about their kids. And when discussing their kids, it seems that any subject is deemed appropriate. For instance, the other night at a dinner we attended one mother explained to the rest of those present, “Oh, little Cannon is doing so good at going on the potty. Yesterday I walked by the bathroom and caught him staring into the bowl of his mini-toilet. I asked him “Did you poopy?” and he shook his head yes and held out his hand for a candy reward.” Everyone laughed. “Oh that Cannon…” The story is plenty cute and all. I just think it poses an awful double standard; at the dinner table a mother can discuss the disgusting details of her son’s bowel movement, but not a full five minutes later I ask one hypothetical question about whether or not you would go to the bathroom through your nose for the rest of your life for ten million dollars and everyone looks at me like I’m some sort of sicko.

M & M's.

So I guess everyone is probably aware that the M&M’s have been dubbed “the milk chocolate that melts in your mouth, not in your hand.” I’ll admit that that is one catchy slogan. It really rolls off the tongue—almost with the sort of mellifluence typical of a Shakespearean couplet. But I guess it’s the logistical implications of the slogan that bother me. For me personally, chocolate melting in the palm of my hand hasn’t been a huge problem. In fact, I can’t remember the last time that happened. Typically, if I have chocolate in my hand, it’s only there as a sort of pit stop between candy jar and mouth. If you’re holding chocolate in your hand long enough that it starts melting, I really think that that is a you problem. Maybe you just really like holding things without ever using them for their intended purpose. If that was the case, then certainly I could see the M&M’s slogan really resonating with you. You could hold those tasty treats all day and not worry yourself one bit. But then again, if you’re just into holding things why not try a stapler or a paper clip? Those objects aren’t equipped with an intrinsic proclivity to melting in the first place. You could hold and cling and heft them to your heart’s fullest desire and not for one second teeter on the perilous precipice of melt-ation.

But what’s worse is that until I heard M&M’s slogan about their candies not melting in your hand, I didn’t even think of melting as a fate for which my candy might be at risk. The existence of the slogan causes me to assume that all other candies absolutely will melt in the palm of my hand—for they don’t have a slogan to assure me otherwise. Therefore, my plan is to launch a product that is exceptionally similar to M&M’s—small, beadlike, colorful shell-covered chocolates—except my slogan will be “the milk chocolate that melts in your mouth, but doesn’t explode in the palm of your hand, maiming you for life.”