Miss Near-Miss

March 8, 2010

Here’s one little arcane morsel of wisdom about the universe I seem to have acquired during my short stay here in this life: pretty much anything attempted before 10 AM is going to have a few practice runs before it is accomplished. And this is all the way from the important things, like work tasks, down to the minutia of the morning. It is compulsive. I am unable to skip the practice runs. I will perform any given action a healthy few times before I do it correctly.

I mean, I was in theatre. I know the importance of dress rehearsal. I assume this is what this is cosmically all about, why I am destined—why many of us are destined—to do this. Yeah, that’s right. I’ve overheard you talking. It’s not just me.

For instance, in order to fully prepare to grasp what time it is at any point in the morning, I need to go through a few reps first (I assume to get the motions down perfectly). Okay, the train is coming into the station. Is it on time? I glance down at the time on my phone. Okay… I could really go for a bagel. I walk halfway to the office. Wait, was it on time? Am I going to be on time? What time did the phone say? I look again, nod but store no information to my memory, put the phone away, and ooo—shiny thing! Shiny thiiiing!!! Now I’m about to cross the street to my building. Wait, so was I on time? What time of day is it? Did I fall asleep and it’s afternoon now? No way of possibly knowing. I glance again, satisfied, but not storing the information. …So why do beagles look nothing like Snoopy? Does Woodstock migrate? I get to the elevator. Um, seriously though. What time is it? I peer at my phone again and put it in my pocket, then feel my scalp for evidence of head injuries. I now have gotten five steps away from my desk. Have I arrived here at the same time I always do? I check my phone in the final stretch just before I sit down to my cubicle where I will be surrounded by no less than three things that will all tell me the time, but now the time on my phone finally sticks. 8:52 AM, right there on the front of my cell phone. Yup, normal time.

See, and I have to assume I would never have been able to have gotten the time if I hadn’t done all that rehearsing of the precise hand movements it takes to read my phone clock. Thanks, universe.

The same applies to things like the first step out of bed, which often bears repeating for good measure. Alright, Hofer—stand. *stands up, teeters* Noooope, sit right back down again. Possibly curl back up into former sleep pretzel position in order to have a totally fresh restart. Okay. Now, stand. *stands up, dismount* Nailed it! Thank god I practiced.

Even retrieving my key pass (which electronically grants me access to the doors at work) from my pocket so’s I can buzz myself into my job seems to require daily honing, oddly enough. Like, I get inside the building and reach into my pocket to grab my key pass. I instead pull out my left glove and hold it in my hand all the way to the elevator. Okay, good, Hofer. That is a similar motion to grabbing your key pass. I notice I’m holding a glove and put it back in my pocket. Shaking my head, I now reach into my pocket and pull out my bus pass, holding it firmly in my hand. I press the button for my floor and begin my ascent. Okay, closer now. We have part of the word correct—“pass”. Good! Dry run #2 accomplished. Now, put it away. I realize I’m holding my bus pass, sigh heavily, and put it back in my pocket, thinking about the things I have to do when I get to my desk. Meanwhile, I now pull out my car keys and prepare them to open the door to my office on the 18th floor. Hmm. Nope. No. Alright, the other part of the word is now present—“key”. Excellent job, Hofer! You are now prepared to correctly pull out your key pass. It dawns on me as I get to the clear glass doors which guard my office that I’m standing there holding a set of car keys, like an idiot. I plunge them back into my pocket, this time able to pull out my key pass with nary a problem.

See? Practice.

Oy.

Rural Idealism Fruit

February 24, 2010

So, lately I’ve been lamenting the rural and suburban life after having moved out of my darling city into the Not So Great Beyond—the greater Jolietland area (Sounds weird, doesn’t it? Why do we say ‘greater Chicagoland area’?). And frankly, all my whining about it is actually nauseating me. I get it, I get it; it’s not as busy out here, not as walkable, more conservative, less possessing of independently owned restaurants or new things to do, I’m more conspicuous here, and nearly everyone moves at a glacial speed, regardless of what they’re doing. Yes, I know. It’s not a glittering metropolis and cultural haven.

The thing is, truthfully—it’s not so bad. In fact, parts of it are really nice. Especially when the crazy snow/ice/winter thing stops and the cabin fever ends, the daylight lasts longer, and I no longer have to wield a snow-scraping device of any kind for another 7 months. Probably.

It isn’t bad. It’s kind of…errrm…quaint. Kind of comfortable in a way the city is not. So. In the spirit of positivity, and in order to counter the darker parts of my brain that continually make lists of the things I loathe about residing outside of the city, I am going to list a few of the things I do actually really enjoy (I initially typed “brian” here instead of “brain” and almost kept it, because I sort of relish the idea of possessing a brian who has dark parts and makes lists for me of things that irritate him. But that would sadly be a lie. I do not possess a dark, list-making brian. Christmas? Anyone?).

1.) This morning I went into the gas station at an ungodly early hour to use the ATM during a commute of ridiculously bad traffic on Route 6 and another day of mind-numbing snowfall (thank you, February). On my way out, an older gentleman I don’t know was coming in, saw me, and held the door open for me. After I thanked him and was making my merry way out, he smiled warmly at me, and not in a quick hold-frozen-fake-smile-for-three-obligated-seconds smile—a genuine expression. Then he turned around before shutting the door to wish me a really nice day and to tell me to be careful not to slip out there; it’s an icy one. This does not happen in the city, and if it does, I’m convinced it’s rural people who’ve gone up there for one reason or another to gaze and reckon about.

2.) While you don’t generally have the convenience of walking everywhere, you always have the convenience of driving. And if this doesn’t sound as nice, consider this when you’re sick, when you need to get to someone who’s sick, when you have a headache, when you’re exhausted from work, or it’s 30 degrees, or 20, or 2, or you need to get somewhere fast. Think of always having some parking spot you can grab in a matter of minutes where your car won’t get towed. Think of no city tickets, no meters, no L seats with a hand-written sign on them that says “I think this is urine; Don’t sit!”. Think of leaving your windows down and cruising around in the summer with the radio going, not concerned about having your purse in a car with an open window. Think of driving for long, relaxing stretches of time when traffic isn’t slowing you down. Bloody fantastic.

3.) I can go to certain grocery stores out here and buy spices for a dollar each. A dollar!! And that is the tip of the frugal iceberg, my friends. The frugal, frugal iceberg.

4.) If you get antsy at night, most of the bartenders around here will remember your name and your drink, often as you are walking in, and beers are frequently $2.

5.) Community theater. I went to a play down at Bicentennial Park with my darling male escort last week, and it was great. I mean, you know…community theater…but great. Ah, how I miss it.

6.) I love country roads. I love looking at the cornfields for long periods of time. It is calming, restorative, quiet. Alternatively, if you’re not driving through fields, there is green everywhere. And I’m not an outdoors enthusiast by any means—most things that exist in nature will make me turn into a human Braille plate with hives if I touch them or breathe next to them too heartily. Nonetheless, the greenery is much more relaxing than concrete, no matter what soothing reaction the Art Deco statue on top of the concrete is meant to evoke.

7.) The number of places I can legally walk barefoot (or at least where people hardly notice) is exponentially higher. Yes, I have hippie feet. No, I’m not a hippie. I just like maintaining a well-calloused foot; sue me. I assume I’m conditioning myself to swiftly climb trees in the event of a ground assault of some sort. Hey. I’ve seen When Animals Attack.

8.) I’m not terrified to listen to country or oldies music loudly or with the windows open when driving out here. Not that I listen to country much at all anyway (I pretty much just love the Chicks and a few others), though I do enjoy oldies quite regularly. It’s an irrational fear, probably, that keeps me from doing this in the city. I’m not sure why I’ve always felt that I couldn’t—I have this very convincing fantasy that I’d be parked at a stop light in the city, a song that seems glaringly out of place would come on my radio, and every pedestrian, bus driver, and car owner would turn to stare furiously at me. Possibly bullets would fly, and impassioned people would start mobbing my car’s feeble frame. I think when you get used to the great gaping anonymity that the city easily provides you, you get all comfortable holing up in it. And anything that breaks that anonymity is startling and sort of shatters this little mini-environment you maintain as a 50 or 100-yard radius around you wherever you go. This mini-environment you create to feel contained and at ease, to keep your stasis when lights, people, and blaring noises assault your senses at all conceivable moments. You learn to sort of tune them out of your immediate mini-environment, or tune them down, and go about your business without the notice or scrutiny of others. But breaking your anonymity also ruptures the boundaries of your environment, and everyone suddenly looking at you leaves you feeling alone at the mercy of the elements for awhile. Umm, that’s the best way I can explain it. Irrational fear of having loud country music is eliminated when out of the city. Big plus. Moving on.

9.) People only ever honk at you out here when they’re about to run you over. Consequently, I buy less ibuprofen.

10.) This area has the monopoly on people I love per square foot, and a few of them in particular. So, logically, I have a greater mathematical likelihood of running into someone who doesn’t piss me off me than up in the city (this, of course, takes into account my notion that I’ve probably met everyone I’m ever going to like already, and so all strangers count, for this equation, as people who would piss me off). Irrefutable logic.

There. A list of things I like about it. May I plant this seed of optimism into the…fertile soils of…collective consciousness and hope it bears fruit sooner than later. Rural idealism fruit. The…most…succulent of ALL fru—okay, I’m done.