Hurry up. Wait. Repeat. Energy expended in the hope that what we’re waiting for is worth the hurry. When the best things are the slow ones. Memories made of softer stuff. The rush is tempting. But what’s on the other side but something fleeting. And when the ripples fade, we’re ready to hurry again.
Hurry up. Wait. Repeat. Energy expended in the hope that what we’re waiting for is worth the hurry. When the best things are the slow ones. Memories made of softer stuff. The rush is tempting. But what’s on the other side but something fleeting. And when the ripples fade, we’re ready to hurry again.
Had a workout plan for this morning. It was a good one, something I’ve done before when I’ve traveled. Then I got to the hotel gym. None of the equipment I’d planned to use was there. So I had a choice: Back to bed Figure something out That 2nd one can be a treat with a neurodivergent mind. But I came up with something. Got the session in.
Gas station coffee. Still not a phrase that evokes wonder, joy. But thanks to a Seattle-based coffee vendor, even gas stations have elevated their coffee game from the double carafe system that produced something closer to what you’d put in your engine vs. your intestinal tract. The bar is raised, game elevated. And while I’m not personally enamored with the accessibility of over-engineered coffee drinks, I do appreciate that it’s meant that coffee everywhere has gotten better.
In the spring of 2020, I bought the last 24kg/53lb kettlebell from a Dick’s Sporting Goods in Arlington, Texas. Changed my life. Or at least changed how I trained. What started as an aborted attempt at the 10,000 swing challenge as a response to gym closings thanks to the pandemic has turned into what promises to be a lifelong journey into these cannonballs with handles. What followed that initial purchase was the usual rabbit holes when I start a new special interest: lots of internet research, YouTube videos, Reddit dives.
Got the upgrade. Not my first time in first class, but near enough that the experience was notable. Made the miles I’ve racked up to get that status worthwhile. Short flight, but still, I get why classes exist. They’re designed to other us, to separate those in steerage from those of us fortunate enough to have glassware cups and flight attendants offering multiple rounds of snacks. Not saying I didn’t enjoy it.
Got the upgrade. Not my first time in first class, but near enough that the experience was notable. Made the miles I’ve racked up to get that status worthwhile. Short flight, but still, I get why classes exist. They’re designed to other us, to separate those in steerage from those of us fortunate enough to have glassware cups and flight attendants offering multiple rounds of snacks. Not saying I didn’t enjoy it.
Reality is fleeting. This construct forever moving from tomorrow to today to now to then to yesterday and beyond. We’re keyed to be in motion, to moving through time and space, to the point where we don’t (usually) take the time we could be to be present. To be in the now. In the moment, in all its glory. Glory here being subjective, and highly so. Sometimes we’re lucky enough to know that the moment is momentous.
Nostalgia can be big business. Just ask Cracker Barrel, an establishment that’s built an empire around the idea that things were better back when there was a peg puzzle on every table and a Mayberry RFD boxed set in every entertainment center. Some nostalgia is more acceptable than others. The Army veteran in a baseball hat proclaiming his service gets a free burrito at least once a year. But the former quarterback wearing his high school jersey is either a candidate for a TBI study, or that guy everyone avoids at the Chili’s bar.
Reality is fleeting. This construct forever moving from tomorrow to today to now to then to yesterday and beyond. We’re keyed to be in motion, to moving through time and space, to the point where we don’t (usually) take the time we could be to be present. To be in the now. In the moment, in all its glory. Glory here being subjective, and highly so. Sometimes we’re lucky enough to know that the moment is momentous.
Nostalgia can be big business. Just ask Cracker Barrel, an establishment that’s built an empire around the idea that things were better back when there was a peg puzzle on every table and a Mayberry RFD boxed set in every entertainment center. Some nostalgia is more acceptable than others. The Army veteran in a baseball hat proclaiming his service gets a free burrito at least once a year. But the former quarterback wearing his high school jersey is either a candidate for a TBI study, or that guy everyone avoids at the Chili’s bar.
The hardest thing for us to master is ourselves. Because we are full of contradictions on our best day. And the machine we move through the world in is, by design, meant to frustrate every attempt to move through it more smoothly. It’s the ultimate example of inertia, where the body at rest wishes to remain at rest, in repose. Except a body in its resting state will soon atrophy, deciding that the muscles it fights us to use in the first place should be taken out of service, decommissioned.
I talk to people about their next job a lot. Which means we talk about their last job a lot, too. Funny things, these jobs: in between all the days where we dream of lottery winning and beers on the beach, we get those other days. The ones far removed from mandatory fun, from the breakroom cakes and the training seminars. Days when the people around, your team, find a way to be more than just our coworkers.
The hardest thing for us to master is ourselves. Because we are full of contradictions on our best day. And the machine we move through the world in is, by design, meant to frustrate every attempt to move through it more smoothly. It’s the ultimate example of inertia, where the body at rest wishes to remain at rest, in repose. Except a body in its resting state will soon atrophy, deciding that the muscles it fights us to use in the first place should be taken out of service, decommissioned.
We are selfish creatures. Acting in our best interests, and only ours. Or at least toward our survival, which may or may not be in our best interests. We see this when we travel, airports especially. Humans are in theory normally capable of semi-civilized behavior act as though they’re ready to find Piggy at every slight, perceived and otherwise. From hovering at the lounge buffet like we’re auditioning for the Hunger Games, to the instant expert on airline operations ready to explain to the rest of us why that flight is REALLY delayed, it’s a running exercise in pre-dystopian humanity, fueled by the knowledge that once this kind of thing had a sort of magic.
I talk to people about their next job a lot. Which means we talk about their last job a lot, too. Funny things, these jobs: in between all the days where we dream of lottery winning and beers on the beach, we get those other days. The ones far removed from mandatory fun, from the breakroom cakes and the training seminars. Days when the people around, your team, find a way to be more than just our coworkers.
We are selfish creatures. Acting in our best interests, and only ours. Or at least toward our survival, which may or may not be in our best interests. We see this when we travel, airports especially. Humans are in theory normally capable of semi-civilized behavior act as though they’re ready to find Piggy at every slight, perceived and otherwise. From hovering at the lounge buffet like we’re auditioning for the Hunger Games, to the instant expert on airline operations ready to explain to the rest of us why that flight is REALLY delayed, it’s a running exercise in pre-dystopian humanity, fueled by the knowledge that once this kind of thing had a sort of magic.
It’s just business, not personal. Popularized by fictional Mafia characters in TV and film, that’s become a mantra for those getting laid off. They tell themselves that, because that’s the message the corporation gave them. That it wasn’t about them: not their performance, not their behavior, nothing they could have done differently. It’s a business decision, not a personal one. Except that it is personal, and deeply so. No matter how much we want to believe in work/life balance, until we go full Severance, much of who we are is tied to how we earn a living.
It’s just business, not personal. Popularized by fictional Mafia characters in TV and film, that’s become a mantra for those getting laid off. They tell themselves that, because that’s the message the corporation gave them. That it wasn’t about them: not their performance, not their behavior, nothing they could have done differently. It’s a business decision, not a personal one. Except that it is personal, and deeply so. No matter how much we want to believe in work/life balance, until we go full Severance, much of who we are is tied to how we earn a living.
“Come give us a hug.” We’ve heard it. Probably said it. Nothing wrong with a hug. Better than drugs, they said. Sounds like someone needs better drugs. But putting it that way isn’t asking, it’s telling. It’s not seeking consent, it’s directive. Ordering us to do something, under the assumption that everyone wants/needs/enjoys a hug. It’s a one-size approach that takes no account for the receiver, thinking that because the hugger likes to hug, the huggee (that looks weird) likes them, too.