Independence versus Isolation

A couple weeks ago, after just a brief encounter several months before, a University employee from another department invited me to lunch. The idea had been mentioned in passing, almost as a courtesy, for quite some time, but was finally becoming a reality. As I watched her pay for my food, a custom of the Korean culture, I felt honored by her gesture and eager to learn more about our differences. By the end of this meal, we were friends. It might even be safe to say that she considered me a friend the first time we met. The hesitation I normally observe in developing relationships was not present. She was ready to value, accept and include me in her life, without reciprocation. No hidden agenda, no skepticism. Trust and love was given, not earned. I immediately belonged.

So I cannot say that I was surprised to be invited to a private picnic for the Korean students, faculty and staff from the University at a nearby park this weekend. When asked what to bring, I was told “an appetite.” Upon arrival, I was welcomed by all and offered a seat at the elder table. My eyes and ears couldn’t absorb enough information. There was so much to learn; so much to enjoy and appreciate. As my eyes darted from each menu item, the older gentleman to my left assisted me with descriptions and proper consumption techniques. That is when I learned he also worked at the University as a professor and proceeded to engage me in wonderful philosophical dialogue.

While I had to speak in an attempt to be friendly, I could have happily just watched and listened the entire afternoon. After lunch, the host organization put together some games and activities for the group to enjoy. Everyone, including myself, was invited to participate. Language interpretation was provided. The afternoon ended with a group photograph and hugs goodbye.

Two weeks ago, I would have never thought I would spend an afternoon in the park eating authentic Korean cuisine and being welcomed into a community of people so excitedly. While I usually tend to embrace others and welcome them into my world, I admittedly do so with hesitation. Whatever it is I am trying to protect does not compare to the power of community. Ultimately, I was reminded that my independence does not have to equate to isolation.

Stolen Identity

Moving right along in the direction of our destination, we suddenly paused to admire yet another insect. In this case, however, there were many. The wing span was small, but the wings themselves were lovely; a beautiful bright yellow. Such eye-pleasing butterflies, I thought. Wait. Where did they go?!

After several flutters along in multiple directions, these “butterflies” would settle down into a camouflaged state of being; blending ever so cleverly with the natural habitat. Are these grasshoppers? Surely not. I looked at my friend who had suggested this day hike and stated my intentions, “I must know more!” So, I charged at these insects with the movement of my body to encourage movement from their own confusing identity. I can’t say that I actually charged AT the insects, seeing as I was still uncertain as to where they were directly located. But, short spurts of speed towards the supposed locations did, indeed, result in a flurry of sunshine wings. These splashes of color decorating the sky around me would only last momentarily, however, before I was once again searching for their location.

What are these creatures? Can they really be grasshoppers? Perhaps clever butterflies? These moments of curiosity, coupled with entertaining but ineffective investigative measures, produced nothing more than fond memories. But, they did stimulate my imagination. Just as I was convinced that I had discovered a new species of insect, and sorted out possible names, I came to appreciate the lesson behind the experience. Things aren’t always what they seem.

Bump in the Night

I remember reaching down to my right calf, with my right hand, and locating the small itchy bump. A few scratches with my fingernails should, surely, cease the persistent itch. Yet with each scratch came additional irritation. I suddenly wondered when I would stop dreaming about this situation. It was becoming unpleasant.

It wasn’t long, however, before my mind realized that I was not dreaming this disruptive experience. My right hand was indeed scratching this tiny three-dimensional half circle of itchiness. That is when it happened. With my eyes still closed, trying to trick the concept of awake, I was rudely introduced to several more itchy bumps. As if unexpectedly attacked by a swarm of mosquitoes, I became acutely aware of all the bug bites I must have acquired the day before while hiking in the wilderness.

By this point, both hands were involved and my eyes decided to catch a glimpse of the numbers brightly expressed in red on the machine that alerts me to responsibility most days of the week. Here it was three in the morning, and I found I couldn’t scratch fast enough. Where did this come from? Why now, during this critical time of peace and healing? How am I going to stop it?!

I sat up, and swung my feet over the side of the bed as if I had a solution to this, what I considered, epidemic. Not wanting to plant my feet on the ground, thinking it might constitute “awake” and fearing the consequences of such a state, I decided to lie back down. My mind was determined to beat this nagging side-effect. Thinking that a repetitive statement might work, I closed my eyes and began the art of convincing myself that my bug bites did not itch. “I do not itch. I do not itch. I am itchless.” Refusing to use my hands, it wasn’t long before I noticed my feet moving up and down my legs in an effort to relieve the annoying sensation. “I do not itch. I do not itch. I am itchless, damn it.”

Just as I started picturing myself confronting armies of mosquitoes, and anything else that bites and puts Benadryl to use, I lost track of the itching. The next thing I remember is waking to the sound of my alarm several hours later. How did I fall back asleep? Did I convince myself I didn’t itch? Or did I actually stop itching? Is it possible that they are one and the same? As long as it’s itch-free, I will happily scratch my head on this one.

Father Time

What is time? Is it decorative? Is it a tool of organization and coordination? An indicator of celebration and accomplishment? Clearly this is the case for clocks and watches, meetings and work schedules, birthdays, anniversaries, and some sporting events. Not to mention the all-encompassing idea of past, present, and future. But if you eliminate responsibility, obligation and acknowledgement, does time exist?

I stopped wearing a watch years ago. I claimed that IT was responsible for my stress; completely ignoring my part of the equation. I was certain that if I removed this ornate numerical gadget from my wrist, I would stop living my life according to time. No more, “It’s too late. It’s too early. Only five more minutes.” This elimination would allow me to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted---outside of my societal obligations---without mental complications.

Lately, I have been reminded of this philosophy of mine. A couple weeks ago, my friend gave me a watch of hers she needed to part with. She mentioned my disbelief in time, but noted the beautiful vehicle it was contained in once a battery triggered its existence. I kindly accepted the gift, but am still hesitant to enjoy its purpose. As if needing a reminder as to why I so adamantly refuse to decorate myself in a concept I like to ignore whenever possible, I was exposed to a clock in another friend’s apartment. This clock, second only to the Whatever Clock showcasing numbers one through twelve collected in a corner, listed the numbers in reverse going clockwise. At second glance, it provoked a smile and served as a reminder that time is, actually, how you choose to see it.

On this very day, my day of birth, I am again reminded of this concept. Age is a celebration of time. Yet, somehow, for some, it is also a determining factor for accomplishment. Are goals based on time true measures of success? Are goals only goals because they are based on time?

I would be lying if I said that I don’t use time, as we accept it, to indicate my work and meeting schedules, and to celebrate and enjoy events and activities. But I definitely try to ignore time as an indicator for hunger, sleep, personal activities and future endeavors. Even as I say that, I am reminded of all the things I would like to do before my time on earth expires. Isn’t that living by time? Is there a difference between living by time and living by your own time? I guess only time will tell.

Sick Day

In true American fashion, I tried to strike preemptively on a cold that has been threatening to attack for the last forty-eight hours by taking a sick day. While, technically, the only hours that account for sick day status are between eight o’clock in the morning and five o’clock at night, most of my day was dedicated to remedying the scratchy sensation that had been developing in my throat.

These days of excused absence from work due to illness are, strangely, resisted in my world. It’s as if I can’t give in to the idea that I am not able to accomplish something; even if that something is as simple as attendance. In these circumstances, this behavior never seems to work in my favor. I often find myself sitting, or slouching, at my desk wishing I was on a morphine drip, or that I simply would have called in sick. So, today, I thought I would try a different strategy.

Orange slices, known for their Vitamin C power, took to the stage early this morning with an encore performance around noon. Green tea, somehow, replaced my water requirements expected for consumption during a twenty-four hour period in an effort to knock out the oxidants with a one-two punch. Gargling with sea salt became a popular routine, and honey was enjoyed as a coat for the pain.

While these seem to have proved helpful, I must attribute a large portion of my healing to the power of day-time television. The content of these shows not only lulled me in and out of sleep, but provided additional reasons to practice the “I feel good; I feel great; I feel wonderful” mantra. The lessons I learned from Tyra and the inspiration I gained from Vatterott College and Oprah may have been enough to get me back on my feet. While I don’t want to hang the Mission Accomplished banner just yet, I’m hopeful that tomorrow will reveal a victory in the War on Weariness.

Little Pot of Horrors

Any day now, I am almost certain, I expect to hear the toilet in my apartment bathroom say, “Feed me!” The carpeted seat lid will rise up on its own accord and begin mimicking speech movement. It will beg for toilet paper and toxic matter. Although growth is unlikely, musical debuts prove threatening. It is only a matter of time before this elimination machine takes on a life of its own.

For the last couple months, the noises from the precious porcelain evacuator have increased in frequency and volume. It’s actually reached a point of distraction. At night, while lying in bed, I find that my mind latches on to the constant gurgles and odd swallows it shouts throughout the day. Sometimes it serves as a lullaby of sorts, encouraging a sound slumber. Other times, however, this bathroom fixture is such an obnoxious noise maker that I have to isolate it from its friends. A timeout with the door closed will surely teach him a lesson!

I have jiggled the handle. I have taken the lid off to explore the tank; poking and lifting things in fear of provoking a flood. This doesn’t get me very far in the solution box since function, thankfully, is not a problem. And every time I fiddle around in fear of breaking something that will, no doubt, create a disaster, I am reminded of the catchy little phrase, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Does this apply to everything? Does it apply in this situation? Is it possible my toilet is destined for fame, and I’m standing…or sitting…in its way? I guess, just like a breaking point, broke can sometimes be determined by choice.

Me, Myself and Ike

After I wished a stranger a happy 59th birthday and gave her a hug, I couldn’t help but laugh. There we were, approximately 3,000 of the 5,600 registrants, standing in hurricane aftermath waiting to complete either a half or full marathon. All of our moisture-wicking clothes were drenched head to toe, and ponchos were blowing in every direction. Shelter was being sought next to buses, underneath tents, and behind porta-potty doors. What were we thinking?!

Earlier that morning as I was eating a banana and watching tree limbs whip around in the darkness like swords behind sheets of rain, I was thinking that this event surely had to be canceled. The Internet said otherwise. Rain or Shine was communicated loud and clear. So, I did what anyone would do; I geared up my ark with all the essentials (Mizuno, Smart Wool, Under Armour and North Face) and headed out the door still questioning my intentions.

As I stepped out of the car into a river of water, I was glad to see that the race hadn’t started yet. The traffic heading into the event was backed up for, what seemed like, miles. The headlights in the morning darkness easily resembled the scene in Field of Dreams. Initially I was shocked at the number of people dedicated to this event, but soon after was relieved that there were so many others willing to go the distance no matter the circumstances. The line between sanity and insanity was, indeed, very fine.

The energy level in the human corral only continued to grow as the minutes passed. So when the announcer started the clock, people were ready to express their excitement. In honor of this excitement and my stubbornness, I tried running. The adrenaline seemed to keep the knee pain at bay for at least a quarter of a mile. Once it surfaced, however, I laughed at my stupidity and started walking with pride. And that is when I met Gina and Shelly.

Together we shared stories, dodged rain bullets, laughed at the blown-down mile markers, and thanked our volunteers. We pondered what we’d do if our porta-potty blew over, as we passed one that was horizontal, and we vocalized life lessons. A quarter of a mile before the race ended at 10.something miles due to flooding, we passed a sign that said, “Beer Near.” In true Show-Me state fashion, a man approached us with cups of this liquid delight. Beer on a race route?! Together we cheered our successes, as athletes and as people.

As we crossed the finish line, we grabbed each others’ hands and raised them over our heads. It was, without a doubt, the perfect experience. Six months ago, I thought I would have completed a marathon on this day. Turns out, instead, I covered more ground in this journey we call life.

Walk This Way

On Thursday when I bought my Cho-Pat knee brace, I was sure I had found the cure to my ailment. Until, of course, I got to mile two. The pain came back as quick as Nestle, and I could actually hear the disappointment in my heart. The elevated beat dropped, along with my hopes for a running finish. Walking back to my apartment, I could hear her words as clearly in my head as when first spoken a week before, "Be patient."

This advice, given to me by a former cross-country runner with past knee injuries, was ignored a second time when I decided to try running again this afternoon. But, like the pain, the words worked their way back into the forefront of my mind. Why wasn't I being patient? Why am I so hell-bent on running this race?

Not being able to run because of an injury is like being late for a departing flight with a gate on the other side of the airport, having to stand on an escalator and wait instead of using the adjacent stairs to get there. The rest of my body is at war with my knee, and my mind is its only ally. I have to be patient and surrender this race tomorrow to self-preservation. My knee needs me.

When I take the time to think about my stubbornness throughout this entire injury process, I realize that I have learned a valuable lesson. The Rolling Stones knew it all along. You can't always get what you want; sometimes you get what you need. For some reason, if nothing more than to help me understand my definition of success, I am not supposed to run right now.

So, I will keep on learning as I lace up my shoes tomorrow, strap on my knee brace and pin on my race number to walk 13.1 miles to the finish line. And, with each step, I will enjoy the experience simply for the fact that it is mine. I may even take a stab at speed walking. If it's good enough for the Olympics, it's good enough for me.

Sole Mates

When a compliment surfaced yesterday about my shoes, I wasn’t expecting the thoughts that followed. What makes a pair of shoes stand out to someone? While I initially accepted the answers of style and comfort, I became more satisfied with the answer of association.

In elementary school, before school started, students would congregate in the playground area. This was the time popularity status was revealed to all. It was then that I started taking mental notes on the “coolest girl in school.” She was pretty and, it seemed, liked by most (especially boys), not to mention several years older in age. But most importantly, she wore Adidas Samba Classics. Needless to say, I practically wore my Adidas Samba Classics to bed that year.

Several years later, in my early high school days, I was intellectually inspired by greatness. And greatness just happened to wear Converse All-Star low-tops; navy, to be exact. Those shoes, eventually blanketed with blue and black pen-ink designs, logged many the miles of self-discovery prior to driving eligibility.

A rapid or two later, during my summers throughout college, I worked as a whitewater rafting guide. This community of people took my love for the outdoors to an entirely different level. They also wore Chacos (an outdoor, water-friendly sandal). It’s been a staple in my life ever since.

These are the three styles of shoe that still, to this day, catch my attention when worn. And, right or wrong, I am immediately interested in the person sporting these pairs of soles. I might even go as far to say that I think positively of them just because of their shoe selection. Is that absurd? Of course. Could there be some truth to the association with regard to potential relationship development? Of course. But, to be on the safe side, a person should never rule out a soul mate just because he or she is not a sole-mate.

Action, Reaction

As I was headed to campus for a meeting last night, everything was as it should be during my familiar commute. As usual, my car windows were down and my music was in sync with my vocal expressions. Just as I started to fall into a hypnotic state of driving, a strange result of a repetitive driving route, I noticed some activity to my right.

Front yards provide a blank slate for advertisements. Anything that takes place in this location is open to the public. This is especially the case for those living on a highly-trafficked street. Understanding this concept brilliantly were the four students that caught my eye. However, it wasn’t so much the human beings that grabbed my attention, but the large sign they had created for their front lawn. “You honk. We drink.” Sure enough, each person had a beer bottle in his hand while kicking around a soccer ball.

My initial reaction was laughter, followed quickly by a brief debate regarding my reaction to the sign. Should I honk? I do work at the school. Is that appropriate? What if they are minors? I don’t want to promote underage drinking. How many have they had? Will I be promoting binge drinking? As soon as those thoughts sabotaged my brain, I think I may have hesitated only momentarily before I smiled and honked my horn. Not once, but approximately SIX times!

Part of me enjoyed their sense of humor and wanted to honor their initiative to engage the public in their reindeer games, but another part of me enjoyed knowing the outcome of my action, or lack thereof. The sign didn’t tell me that I had to honk my car horn; it just told me what would happen if I did. It was my choice, either way. While I’m not sure I would always want to know the reaction to my actions because of the predictability factor, I think it would alleviate some of the uncertainty associated with making choices. Even knowing, however, doesn’t make room for the unexpected. And that is worth knowing. Right?

Car Talk

There are many locations that lend themselves to possible disasters. And a college campus parking lot is one of those places. Awkward designated parking spots, combined with frustration from tardiness and unavailable parking, create an overly active environment. This can prove problematic during navigation.

When outside looking in, the parking lot is like a game of Pac-Man. All of the moving objects are easily identifiable. As a result, an outsider can predict a possible collision with time to spare.

As the two cars moved closer towards each other, I could feel the nervousness start welling up inside me and move throughout my body. My eyes definitely widened and, I’m almost certain, I leaned forward in the direction of the movement. Almost like watching a ping-pong match, my stare went back and forth from one driver to the next. Do they really not see each other? Are they…Wait…Oh my God….”HORN!”

Right before the vehicles slid ever so closely next to each other, my anxiety became so great that I decided to warn these drivers of this up-and -coming disaster by yelling, quite loudly, the exact reaction I would have had at that moment. Horn?! Did I just yell, “Horn” at those people sitting in their cars with their windows up?

I looked over at my friend who I had been conversing with just moments before and started laughing. Where did that come from? It’s interesting to see, or hear, instinct take over in situations where reaction time is limited. With that said, should natural impulses be followed in all situations? Or are they only appropriate, and acceptable, when disaster strikes?

You've Got Mail

Almost every day before I open my mailbox to reveal the contents awaiting my retrieval, I wonder if I will be surprised with an unexpected piece of mail. Will today be the day I get a notice for a package that needs to be picked up? How about a card from a friend or family member? Or will today be the day I receive the ruby slipper of all signed, sealed, delivered items…a hand-written letter? Even though the possibility is similar to the one that develops when trying to operate a metal claw located inside a glass box, for which you are outside of, to capture a cheap stuffed animal within a thirty-second time frame (= unlikely), today was no different with regard to my curiosity.

As I started the flow of the three-step retrieval process---insert key, turn right, then pull back and to the right---I not only wondered if I would find something out of the ordinary, but hoped for its presence. Nothing quite compares to that moment of appreciation that is experienced at the acknowledgment of someone’s efforts using a dying communication vehicle; a voiceless gesture that speaks loudly.

Because of my short stature, I actually stand on the decorative brick step that borders the base of the massive mailbox display to access my numbered unit. The added height is almost too much, however, and results in a slight stoop to view the newly acquired mailbox items. At first glance, it didn’t look promising. Just to be sure, I grabbed for the contents and quickly shuffled through the loose advertisements and credit card offers. Without even a second thought, I put the mail back into the mailbox and shut the door.

It was almost as if leaving the junk mail in the mailbox meant that I didn’t have to be responsible for it. I didn’t have to find a place for the clutter before I had to read it and then, ultimately, toss or recycle it. It’s as if it didn’t exist. Yet, it did…and it does…so it appears I’m just postponing the inevitable. Did I just turn my mailbox into a storage unit?

After laughing at my reaction to this spam of the snail-mail world, I had to ask myself what is so appealing about hand-written communication and deliveries. Is it the effort that is exerted to send the item? Is it the lowered expectations for timely feedback? Is it because email and text messages are so common and frequent? In the end, I think it’s just the satisfaction of acknowledgement from someone you care about. Ultimately, when you’ve got mail, it’s the sender who sparks retrieval no matter the medium.

Growing Pains

As I was scanning the grocery aisles for something colorful and tasty that would satisfy the parameters of the established office food day, a packaged item caught my eye. It was neither candy nor food, but labeled with a sticker that indicated it should be. The item of distraction was titled Magic Grow Creatures. Could it be?! Are these magical dinosaurs from Taiwan the same special creatures that I was once entertained by in my childhood? After seeing the statement, “Grows 400%,” I knew that I couldn’t pass up the purchase.

I was so excited about distributing these unusual items of pink, green, yellow, and blue amusement that I almost didn’t notice the additional packaging statement, “Use over and over!” Turns out these magical extinct miniatures weren’t exactly the same as those from my past that exhibited one-time expansion. Even better, I thought. As my mind started thinking of all the practical jokes that I could implement with these toys made for people age four and older, I turned the package over to review the ingredients that might explain the “magic” behind the reusable feature. Huh. No ingredients were listed. No fairy dust or cancer-causing agents...nothing! Nevertheless, THIS was going to make a routine office food day memorable.

The eight dinosaurs were distributed within minutes. And some of the recipients took to the “Just drop in water…Watch them grow” instructions immediately. Warm water and a few hours would supposedly result in magic. So, after some warm water from the coffee maker and a few hours of observation, I am not sure the result was as expected. The anticipation definitely surpassed the actual Ta-da moment. Regardless of wondering if things would have turned out differently had the product been made in China, the experience proved satisfying.

Even though I was expecting to witness something a little more intense, I was happy to see the anticipation and excitement that surfaced from these Magic Grow Creatures’ potential. Maybe that was the magic? I guess, in the right conditions, we can all grow to meet our potential.

Water Cooler Woes

There are some aspects of office life that get referenced in textbooks. One of the more recognized elements is Water Cooler Talk. For those unfamiliar, it’s a term used to define the gabbing sessions between co-workers, occurring usually in the morning, that tend to focus on the previous night’s happenings. The more popular discussion topics include television programs, nightly news items, and personal activities. This is definitely a ritual that is practiced at my place of employment and, as expected, appears to strengthen the connection between co-workers.

The other morning as I walked into the office and meandered over to my assigned territory, I noticed that a political discussion was brewing. While my focus at the time was on my morning tea, I tried to pick up as many passionate slurs and slanders as I could. It is always educational for me to listen to others’ opinions about people, topics and events. Although it mostly teaches me about the person of opinion, it also gives me a sense of what is defined to be of mainstream importance.

After trying to catch more than a few bits and pieces of the verbal dance being performed by several, I realized that I wouldn’t be able to participate in the discussion. Not because I don’t like bantering, but because I hadn’t done my Water Cooler Talk homework. I hadn’t directly watched the story that was requesting my opinion. And that was when I realized I’ve been slowing dying of thirst for the last few weeks.

Despite my life-long interest in women’s gymnastics, dating back to my somersault at birth resulting in a c-section delivery, the only moments of Olympic demonstration I witnessed were the Opening Ceremony and the first hour of the marathon competition. What?! To make matters worse, I didn’t watch a single moment of the JibJab National Conventions. Seriously?! What in the world have I been doing? I know I had to have watched some television during these historic times, right? After searching through the memory-bank, it turns out most of my tube time was the thirty minutes of nightly news with Brian Williams. Did I just assume YouTube would fill in the blanks if, and when, I became interested?

While I’m slightly embarrassed about my negligence with regard to watching these events (I never did try YouTube), I find that I am also intrigued by my decisions. Although I strongly believe in the global connection that is the result of the Olympics, and have great concerns with the political state of our country and excitement for its future, I guess I’m not sure I find the competition aspect of both as appealing as I once did.

Injury Loves Company

It is possible that I have discovered the secret recruitment strategy of tri-athletes…Injury. My aggravated-knee syndrome (rumored to be IT band syndrome) that surfaced approximately three weeks ago, due to some extensive running, prompted me to see a physician (also known as my co-worker’s physicians-assistant-to-an-orthopedic-surgeon’s wife). Her diagnosis left me with a prescription of anti-inflammatory drugs, ice, and non-pounding exercise. According to her, “swimming and cycling are great!” So for the last two and a half weeks, I’ve been following this prescription to the letter.

This wasn’t the first time I had heard about the benefits of swimming and cycling. In the expert marathon world, it’s called cross-training. Basically another way to improve the time of race completion; something I have yet to consider as an important aspect of the goal. While I’ve dabbled in some cycling over the course of my amateur training schedule, it’s been mostly for transportation purposes or leisure activity. And, I can honestly say, I haven’t purposely swam laps since high school. In an effort of desperation, I turned to these two solutions to heal the wound. They were solutions; nothing more, nothing less.

After a week of serious dedication to these “solutions,” I noticed the subsequent personal enjoyment that started to emerge. I found myself scoping out high-end performance bikes and searching for new swim gear. Wait. Am I cross-training? Is this what it feels like? Or am I still just trying to fix my knee so that I can return to running?

It is my opinion that a true tri-athlete has a passion for the meaning behind the name. And I can confidently say that I am not on a dedicated level that is comparable to the one necessary for the greatness behind the title. I have too many other passions that I make room for in my life. So, for now, I will settle for the title TRY-athlete. I have taken a strong liking to swimming and cycling because of my injury, and I do think both sports will serve as cross-training tools to keep me running longer. But mostly, I just like to try new things, and try my best, and see where it goes from there.

Tight-Rolling on the River

It’s official. I’m bringing back the tight roll. A few of you might recall this fashion statement that reached peak popularity some time during the 1980s. For those of you not fortunate enough to have experienced this era of, what I hope and assume, drug-induced style that sent shock waves across the nation, I shall reminisce.

Big hair was a must. Stock in hairspray surely skyrocketed. This hair glue, it seemed, was the only acceptable product that would keep the section of hair around the face sticking out at least two inches from the base of the skull. Add a perm to the equation, and all was well with the world. Accessories were bright, plastic and circular in shape; hoop earrings, half a forearm of different colored bracelets, and that goofy shirt clip that a person could shove his or her oversized, maybe Hypercolor, tee-shirt through as opposed to the multiple attempts at tying it into a knot at the side of the hip. And let’s not forget the Slap Bracelet! Socks were many, at least two on each foot, and the pairs had to be two different colors. When scrunched correctly, this look screamed popularity. But the key to unlocking the magic of the outfit was the tightly rolled jeans.

It was an art. It sometimes took multiple attempts. To grab the bottom of the jeans and fold them over to the right or left at just the perfect amount so that the following three or four rolls upward would look “right”, and tight, was strategic. Luck didn’t have a chance with something this important. So important, and lethal to future generations, that it was filed under Top Secret in the fashion world, only to be released back into society in 2025. However, I’m here to fight for an early release. Not in the name of fashion, but in the name of necessity.

For the last two days, rain has blanketed the Ozarks area. When ground saturation reaches its maximum fill, the streets quickly become rivers and sidewalks turn into small creeks. So, when I exited my car two days ago to make the trek onto campus, the bottom of my pants looked worried. The pants knew they didn’t have a chance. My rain boots, the new acceptable pant-shield, just didn’t appeal to me in the way they have in the past. As if I already knew what I had to do, I opened up the driver-side door, propped my foot up on the seat and began tight-rolling.

Do I recommend this look for everyday wear, or even for the term wear? Absolutely not. But it does serve as a good example of how old ideas can be reworked to meet our present needs and future opportunities. Nothing, it seems, is lost forever.

Cracker Jack

When my co-worker opened a bag of Cracker Jack the other day, I wasn't shy about asking if a toy was included. I was, however, a tad bit hesitant to ask if I could maybe, possibly, become the toy’s new owner. Without reluctance, my co-worker tossed the familiar red and white striped square of surprise in my direction.

Immediately going for the perforated edge, I hastily tore off the tab that was serving as a barrier between me and this free object of interest. Before opening the flimsy, miniature book of wonder, I read the words written on the blue dot next to the legendary Cracker Jack sailor and dog logo that told me to “Guess what’s inside?” Almost certain it would be a hologram, since that was always the “Surprise Inside,” I proceeded with the big reveal.

What is with all these words? A “Guess Who” profile? Is that a paper doll of some sorts? Wait, another perforation? Turns out my Cracker Jack “toy” was a two –sided picture of Benjamin Franklin that, when folded in some sort of origami fashion, went from young to old. No hologram?! In addition, the paper folding project came with two full panels of historic information about the one-hundred-dollar-bill show stopper. Did you know he invented swimfins? Swimfins?!

Although the educator in me was slightly pleased to see such “toys” being included in snack bags, I couldn’t help but be disappointed with my freebie. If my childhood memories serve me well, this wasn’t a normal offering. So, I did what anyone does when they have questions…I went straight to the source of all quasi-reliable sources…Wikipedia. Not only did I learn that Cracker Jack is not Cracker Jacks (all these years of mispronunciation!), but I also learned that this switch from fun-useless-plastic toys to educational-paper-jokes-and-riddles toys was recent.

Turns out this little nothing-of-value surprise taught me quite a bit. Maybe you can get something from nothing. Or maybe nothing is, actually, something?

Semiautomatic

Yesterday, while running a few errands, I had an experience that left me amused and in a contemplative state of mind. It was my first stop of the afternoon, so I was still relatively focused and had yet to become mentally numb from the exhaustion associated with making required purchases at multiple locations. After locking my car doors with my automatic remote, I walked to the entrance of the retail store without any additional distractions. As I approached the double-door entry, I saw myself pause in mid step. My right foot was planted, but my left was slightly suspended in the air as if waiting to project itself forward.

Just as I started to question the delayed registration of movement that would activate the automatic door, I realized that the door was not automatic. So there I was, pausing in mid step waiting for a door to open that, actually, was waiting to be opened manually. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds of hesitation, but it was enough to spark laughter as well as initiate an entertaining internal dialogue.

Once I was certain no one had actually seen this display of misinterpreted expectation, I began reviewing the historical steps that had gotten me to this point. There was a time when I manually rolled car windows down, lifted garage doors open, located radio stations with a knob, and locked car doors. And there are still circumstances that require such physical exertion, including the opening of doors. However, many inventions have been created that assist in the completion of a task. While automatic options can be convenient, they can also minimize control and eliminate situational judgment, as is the case with automatic sprinklers in a rainstorm or Microsoft Word formatting.

It appears that the evolution of our technology has not only influenced the ways in which we complete tasks, but our behavior as well. Is it possible we, too, have become semiautomatic with regard to our expectations?

Treasure Hunt

Living in an apartment complex has its positives and negatives. A strong positive, in my opinion, are the people who inhabit the sets of duplicate buildings. The variety of personalities can almost be equated to a Farmer’s Market produce selection. There are colorful folks, some with rough edges, others dense, but when put all together create an attractive display.

There are several locations throughout the complex where people gather. One of which is the human aquarium some refer to as a pool. Frequent visitors to the chlorinated swimming hole include mostly college-aged students who desire to be kissed by the sun, and families with children who are hoping to enjoy a summer pastime. Since I don’t fit into either of these categories, I will claim myself as an exception to the rule.

When my destination during the day is the gated water world, I can usually be found in the pool as opposed to the patio surroundings. However, much of the excitement is found on the outskirts. This was proven just the other day when I heard a high-pitched squeal from a residential child followed suddenly by the elated declaration, “Treasure!” Her eyes widened and her smile expanded to full capacity as she reached for the earring that had somehow been separated from its twin. I laughed quietly to myself once I realized the true identity of her findings, but couldn’t stop smiling at her reaction.

It’s the same reaction I get when watching the National Treasure series or any Indiana Jones film; the arms-over-the-head, hand-clapping, knees-to-the-chest, grinning-so-hard-it-hurts excitement. As I watched the child’s mother instruct her to return the “treasure” to its spot of acquisition, I started pondering my own interest in adventures with hidden treasure. What is it about those stories that make me want to find a clue, hidden in a brick of a historic building, that will eventually lead me to a seemingly uninhabited island with a village underwater that can only be accessed at sunset, on the third day of the year of the Monkey, by using a missing key whose destination can only be found using a map located at the end of a secret passageway somewhere on the island?

It was then that I realized it’s not the treasure I’m interested in, but the hunt itself. A simple reminder that the journey sometimes is the destination.

Grass Hopping

Whenever I use my car for transportation, it is likely that one or both of the following is true: the windows are down; I am singing. Two nights ago, I was guilty of both. And when both variables are incorporated into the driving experience, my awareness of the proximity of others is heightened.

In circumstances when vehicular movement is involved, the karaoke spectacle goes mostly unnoticed. The same cannot be said, however, for the cease of forward motion caused inevitably by the red dot that shines brightly from light fixtures at high volume intersections. When movement is no longer an option, the singer clearly takes center stage to those fortunate enough to parallel the vocal debut. As a result, in the moments prior to a complete stop, I actually make a conscious effort to minimize the volume of my music and to sing along in a muffled, ventriloquist-like fashion so as not to offend my fellow motorists, and to avoid complete humiliation.

Just as my fingers released from the volume knob and my eyes darted quickly to peer out the driver’s side window to avoid any possible stares from those on my right who may have heard my singing only seconds before, I saw something green out of the corner of my eye. Forgetting all about potential onlookers, I quickly turned back to my right to inspect the object on my windshield that had so abruptly caught my attention. The moment I realized it was a grasshopper, the light turned green.

The movement of the car encouraged the grasshopper to make his way downward towards the windshield wipers. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. For obvious reasons, that was not a good thing. As I watched his little antennas blowing backward at a ninety-degree angle, I couldn’t help but wonder what this little creature might be thinking. Did he choose to take this adventure? Is he regretting his choice? Is he scared? Is he planning to go where no grasshopper has gone before? Thinking he might be wishing for solid ground over the car surfing experience, I found myself driving more slowly and cautiously than preferred by those around me. Before I could make anyone too upset with my preoccupied navigation, the grasshopper decided to head northbound on the windshield and, just as quickly as he appeared, crawled out of sight. I can only hope it was to greener pastures…or, even, just a green pasture.

There are times when I find myself getting caught up in the notion that the grass is greener on the other side. I wonder if the grasshopper thought this very thing, only to find that there was actually no grass at all.