On a cold, rain-laden Seattle morning, I somehow found myself at my bus stop a full five minutes early. I am pretty sure that this is the first time I've arrived at the bus stop with anything more than thirty seconds to spare, and therefore felt a bit apprehensive: just what on Earth am I supposed to do for five minutes?!
The short answer: get wet. I tightened the hood of my raincoat around my (big) head and tried to remember whether or not my backpack is waterproof. A sharp, wet breeze blowing north from Lake Union stung me in the face, and as I turned to let my right flank absorb the blast, a large mass suddenly loomed in the corner of my eye.
"Oh yeah. There's a bus shelter here!"
Usually, I try not to talk to myself. At least, not out loud. With a big, goofy smile painted across my face, I meandered around puddles to the shelter. There were several commuters making use of the shelter already. Most were in my situation: like good Seattlites, umbrellas were left at home. We were all trying to display some tough exterior ("Rain? What rain?") with our R.E.I. raincoats. I moved to make my way in, planning a position that would at least get me out of the rain (I'd convinced myself by that point that my backpack was indeed waterproof), without getting too close to my fellow Seattlites (I've learned that Seattlites, while polite, don't like getting too close to me... and they tend to pitch a fit when I accidentally touch them).
But, no one made room for me.
"Excuse me," I said to the closest fellow, hoping he'd get the message and take a giant step back.
His reply: "Sorry. No room."
No room?!
Let me be clear here: even without packing these fools in sardine-style, you could comfortably accomodate three of me. Four if I was allowed to abandon Seattle's ridiculous unspoken rules about "personal space." Or maybe just two of me and a baby Panda. I'd need the extra room in that case because everyone would want to pet it.
Panda or no, they weren't letting me in. I could've put up a fight, but I shrink from confrontation. Instead, I put on my best that-doesn't-even-pass-the-laugh-test face and attempted to stare them (and their ample room) down.
But, they pulled out the secret weapon that many of my fellow citizens in this town are quick to do: they refused to make eye contact with me.
Thus, cold, wet, and a little hurt, I went back to my original perch near the bus stop sign.
Though, I turned just in time to see a yellow school bus, laden with children, speed past the bus shelter, and the large puddle in the street that had formed right next to it. I grinned ear-to-ear as all of those sheltered souls were drenched, stem-to-stern, with cold, fetid, and oil-slicked rainwater. As a bonus, the man who so firmly denied me a space in the shelter had his mouth open in a self-righteous yawn at the time, and received a generous mouthful.
At least, that's what I fantasized happening to them as I stood in the rain. Instead, unfortunately, the yellow school bus slowed to a gentle crawl as it passed the shelter, so the tsunami I hoped for pittered down to a few tire-induced ripples. The school bus driver even waved at the shelterites and cheerfully announced from the window, "Didn't wanna get you folks wet!"
Fortunately, my disappointment was interrupted by the arrival of my own bus, creeping up behind the yellow school bus. I was the only person at that stop boarding. I stopped on the first step to give the commuters in the shelter one last cold stare. Again, they pretended to look in other directions. But, the original gentleman who forbade my entry into the shelter, apparently angered that his own bus hadn't arrived yet, stepped out of the shelter momentarily, raised his hands to he heavens, and belched through his purple, bloated face: "Where's the f***ing 26!?!?" His fellow sheltered commuters nodded tersely in frustrated, silent agreement.
Sitting in my own warm, dry seat on the bus, I said a little prayer: "Whoever's up there, I'll give you two thumbs up and a high five if you delay the 26 another half hour."
Friend: "What did you have for dinner last night?"
Me: "Frozen pizza and white wine."
pause
Friend: "Freak."
Yesterday, I spent a good deal of time explaining to a friend the impact of recent findings concerning the increased melting rate of the Greenland ice sheet and the increased rate of greenhouse gas release into the atmosphere. When I eventually got my point across, she stated her intent to keep driving alone to work, rather than taking the bus.
"But, the buses are just fine," I argued. "You've time to read, vegetate, rest, clear your mind... the ones in your neighborhood run on electricity rather than gasoline, and they're usually on time."
"Usually?" my friend asked.
"Yeah. Give or take five minutes," I replied.
And then, this morning, I spent forty-five minutes waiting for a bus. When I asked the driver why no bus had shown up in the time frame in which no less than three buses should've shown up to take twenty commuters to work, he looked at me with a gleeful grin on his face, and shrugged with such blissful ignorance that I resisted the near-overwhelming urge to place my head in my hands and weep for the Greenland ice sheet.
King County Metro, I know you've had a tough few years, but you are not helping.
In the car, Zach's driving:
Zach: "I love this radio station."
James: "It's pretty good."
Zach: "Yeah."
pause
Zach: "Wanna know why I like it so much?"
James: "Uh, okay. Why?"
Zach: "Because they always play that Fleetwood Mac song."
James: "Huh?"
Zach: "You know, the song that was Clinton's campaign song back in '92... and I think again in '96."
James: "I didn't know you kept track of campaign songs."
Zach: "Oh yeah! It's the one that goes, 'Don't... stop... thinkin' about to-mor-row'!"
James: "Oh God."
Zach: "Yeah, isn't it great!!? Makes me think of the good-ol' Clinton years."
James: "Stop."
Zach: "No, Jim. It's 'DON'T stop...'"
James: "No, I mean stop the car. I wanna walk."
Zach, grinning: "Oh, no you don't. You love me."
James: "Despite my best efforts, I suppose I do."
Zach, gleefully: "Sing along with me: 'Don't... stop... thinkin' about to-mor-row!'..."
Maybe the conservatives are right. Maybe our relationship would forever alter marriage as we know it.
Thursday, while I was giving an extensive and rather confusing presentation in class regarding the discovery of the first ribozyme, I kept blanking out regarding whatever-the-hell-I-was-hoping-to-say-next. As is usual for this situation, I panicked and, rather than biting my tongue, blathered my way to the next slide:
"Well, I kinda forgot what I was going to say... this went better when I practiced in front of my cat..."
It happened a few more times:
"Well, in light of moving on to the next slide, I'll ask if anyone has any questions as a stalling tactic until I remember what comes next."
"While this experiment was relatively complex, I'd like to think the next one was simpler... if only I could remember..."
Then, I came to a point of real confusion. My mind broke down and abandoned me entirely. In a split second, I thought, "I'm screwed. I'm really screwed. Sure, I'd been able to talk my way out of the other gaps... hell, A [professor] even laughed at those... and I was able to recover. Not this time... And this presentation is most of my grade for the class. Sh*t. I might as well give up. Only a miracle would save me now."
And then the projector spontaneously shut off. It took five minutes to restart, giving me time to run through the rest of the presentation.
I'm now a deeply religious individual.
I'm quite sensitive about the scents I project to my fellow humans. A childhood propensity to sweat (and having a few extended relatives who took great joy in pointing this uncontrollable phenotype) is at least partially responsible for this quirk. But, though I've heard from both Zach and two guys I dated seriously in college that "there's nothing wrong with your smell," I've yet to believe them. It's yielded a few interesting behaviors, though: I cling to deodorant and cologne like there's no tomorrow. Sure, I may go two weeks without shaving (which is pretty interesting since I can't even manage to grow a full beard), and think it's perfectly acceptable to wear a yellow University of Iowa hoodie that rivals Helios, but there's no way in hell I'll go fifteen minutes out of the shower without an overdose of deodorant and cologne.
Thus, I have for many years bought sticks of deodorant in bulk - usually at least five at a time, fuelled by the irrational fear that I might run out. Running any-ol'-insignificant-errand at a drug store, I invariably wander down the deodorant aisle, imagining the same frightening scenario time and again: dressing after a morning shower (and usually running behind schedule, as King County Metro is unusually on-time on the Fremont-Wallingford run), I'd gasp as I hold an empty deodorant applicator in my hand... the sheer panic giving way to the realization that, though I would've just given myself a thorough cleaning, I'd immediately smell bad. (Sure, Zach always says I smell "just fine"... but, I convince myself that he's kissing up for a foot rub.) I imagine that I'd dress in haste, and temporarily compensate with an extra dose of cologne. Zach, overwhelmed by the cologne fumes, will no doubt collapse in spasms on the floor just as kitty, as sensitive to excess cologne as Zach is overwhelmed by it, regurgitates a lung in a particularly severe asthma episode... but (sorry ladies), one problem at a time. I'll drive to the nearest store, forgetting that it doesn't open until 9:00AM. Sweating when I realize my error, I'd have to resist the urge to weep, knowing that my nervous childhood habit is merely exacerbating an already tense situation. The drive to the 24-hour pharmacy in Ballard would, in the midst of a morning commute, no doubt yield another fit of sweating, and a good deal of cursing. Thus, once I have deodorant stick in-hand (and twelve more tucked away safely in a Walgreen's bag), I'll breathe a bit easier, and head home to apply it.
At this point, you, the reader, might wonder why I have to journey home before putting on deodorant in such a nightmare scenario. Well, as you'll recall, my dependency on deodorant reinforces an illogical psychological scar that has labeled me "one who smells bad." Unfortunately, I'm also "one who sweats under stress" (I'm also "one who has to pee when he's stressed," but delving into those details would no doubt detract from the current narrative) - so, the act of running out of deodorant would produce and aggravate the very problem the deodorant is supposed to prevent. Thus, driving home from the 24-hour Walgreens in Ballard, I'd realize that all my sweating getting to the 24-hour Walgreens in Ballard has made me smell worse than I did prior to showering. The smell, I'd imagine, would have clung to my clothes as well, prompting a fresh shower and change of clothes before I can
1. apply deodorant
2. rejoin civilization
3. take care of Zach and the cat, who are hopefully still alive.
As you, the reader, can probably fathom, my scent and choice of deodorant bleed a significant amount of brainpower from my cerebral output... in fact, it's amazing that I've enough neural know-how leftover to recall why I like broccoli (but really, do I need a reason?). Thus, a persistent reassurance that I'll always have enough deodorant rests with the purchase of deodorant whenever I have the practical opportunity to do so. Zach used to joke with me about my obsessive deodorant purchases. But, once we moved in together this past summer, and a plurality of space in the medicine cabinet was taken up by my deodorant purchases, Zach humbly requested that I hold off on a new purchase of deodorant until I'm "down to two sticks."
He might as well have asked me to carry the weight of the world on my shoulders.
(Actually, it's a good thing that he didn't ask me assume Atlas' position, as the thought of such a heavy burden would have invoked images of sweating, which would have made me think of deodorant, which would have made me stressed about my scent, which would have made me sweat, ultimately prompting a frenzied purchase of... well... you get the idea.)
Somehow, I was able to take Zach upon his challenge, though. Perhaps I was helped out by the change in lifestyle brought on by graduate school. I thought less about... well... everything... as I began the struggle to "muddle through" my first year. (I am, for the record, still very much "muddling through." But, thank God no one's told me that I smell bad.) A week ago, though, I was down to two sticks of deodorant, and the possibility of a purchase loomed as we headed to Target last Saturday.
I've worn the same deodorant since the seventh grade. It's fairly common and easy to find. Thus, while Zach shopped for DVDs on the lower floor of our local Target store, I journeyed upstairs to the toiletries. I scanned the deodorant aisle eagerly, shoving two teenage girls aside when I noticed the familiar label. Reassured, I folded my arms basket-style to permit me to ferry four or five sticks of the blessed (and sweet-smelling) savior to the cash register lines, when two words on the packaging caught my eye:
"for women"
At this point, I should also mention that I'd been wondering why two teenage girls were in the section of the deodorant aisle that housed my manly (yet sweet) scent anyway. Still, sticks of deodorant spilled from my arms as my cerebrum (already burdened with fears of sweating) swelled to comprehend this latest finding.
"Do you mean that I have been wearing deodorant for a woman?!"
Thinking I was the victim of a prank, I looked up and down the aisle. The teenage girls had fled when I dropped the deodorant sticks, and there were no Target managers (led by a grinning Zach) coming by to tell me the whole ordeal was just a huge prank, and they were rewarding me (for being such a good sport, and not sweating or peeing my pants) with a lifetime supply of free deodorant. Yet, I remained alone, clutching "for women" tightly in my hot, little hand.
I stood stone-still for several minutes, imitating Lot's wife, until my pathetic grey matter finally squirted out another possibility, "Maybe there's a corresponding 'for men' scent that you could by..."
Frantically, I raced up-and-down the aisle, convinced that my manly armpits surely haven't been wearing deodorant for a woman for eleven years. I finally found the "for men" selection, and scanned the available varieties:
Fresh sport
Ultra protection
Cool sport
Ultra scent
Ultra sport
Ultra scent?! Sport?! Ultra sport?! The Twilight Zoneness of the situation could've only been topped by a small gremlin-like creature removing the building's structural support columns. I wanted to raise my arms in frustration and yell to the heavens: "For the love of Christ! I do not spend fourteen hours each day pumping iron or whitewater rafting! Don't you have any floral scents suitable for a humble Y chromosome?! Or must we more gentle, yet penis-blessed, varieties of men settle for either doing without or buying 'for women'???"
As I contemplated these two possibilities, I began to sweat. In a panic, I swallowed my pride, refused to accept defeat, grabbed one stick each of ultra scent and cool sport, and marched back downstairs to Zach.
Me: "Let's get out of here."
Zach: "Why?"
Me: "I've just found out that I've been wearing deodorant made for a woman."
pause
Zach: "For how long?"
Me: "Eleven years."
I believe that Zach finished laughing by the time we returned home. Careful infestigation of the deodorant sticks I'd bought months prior revealed no "for women" label. Apparently, within the past six months or so, this particular company had suddenly decided that their gender-neutral variety of deodorants should be stamped with "for women", leaving gender-sensitive consumers like myself scrambling for ultra sport in desperation.
Me: "I can't believe they've done this."
Zach: "Done what?"
Me: "Taken my scent and declared it suitable for a woman... that deodorant worked perfectly in conjunction with my cologne... it was the perfect chemistry experiment."
Zach: "Jim, you still could've bought it."
Me: "No, you don't understand... it's the cereal all over again!"
pause
Zach: "Cereal?"
Me: "Yes. Cereal."
pause
Zach: "Have you been drinking?"
Me: "No. One time in college, I bought this cereal that was way cheap and loved it. So, I kept buying it. Then, one day, I couldn't find it anymore, and asked the store manager why. He said it'd been a new cereal that wasn't doing well, and so it'd been pulled. But, they'd put what stock they had left on sale to get rid of it quick."
Zach: "What does this have to do with your deodorant?"
Me: "The store manager also told me that it's a cereal for women. Apparently 'optimized for women's health.'"
Zach: "So, you had been buying a woman's cereal?"
Me: "Yeah. And women's deodorant to boot."
pause
Zach: "Society just has it in for you, doesn't it?"
Me: "Bet your ass it does."
It was damn fine cereal, too.
Approximately two months ago, at the grocery store...
Zach: "What's that you've got?"
James: "Butterscotch chips!!!!"
Zach: "Butterscotch chips?"
James: "Yeah. Like chocolate chips, only they're butterscotch chips. I've never seen these before!!"
Zach: "I think they've been out for awhile."
James: "Sometime, I'll put them in my favorite cookie recipe. I bet they'll be way good!"
pause
Zach: "Is this the cookie recipe that you like best only because it's easy to make?"
James: "Well, yeah."
Zach: "Because you cheat and use yellow cake mix in it?"
James: "Well... yeah."
pause
James: "But don't you think those cookies will be GREAT with butterscotch chips?!"
pause
Zach: "Not really."
You know, I hate it when he's right.
I'm officially halfway through my first year of graduate school.
Well, sort of.
I spend my first three quarters of graduate school taking classes and rotating in labs simultaneously. The full academic year, however, is four quarters (summer), during which I'm also expected to work. But, with no classes, I actually am looking forward to summer as a sort of "vacation."
I'm actually a bit bothered by that attitude. I honestly assumed that I'd adore all of my classes, as I always have. In college, when I'd sit around with friends bitching about class troubles, I'd have to sit on my hands, bite my lip, and generally resist the urge to leap up, spread my arms wide, and exclaim, "Man, I just love my classes!!"
Not that I loathe them now. But, they've been generally exhausting... and I've found persistent labwork actually a bit calming: nice people, interesting work, no competition, and very little pressure.
Anyway, I'm exactly halfway through the winter quarter, which makes me exactly halfway through the second quarter of graduate school, and halfway through the first three quarters in which I'll have classes... and in the midst of a bit of a break, as I'm in between half-quarter classes. One ended Thursday, and the other begins Tuesday.
The class that just ended, however, brought me face-to-face with another (and highly unexpected) Morally Defining Moment in my life.
Zach rolls his eyes each time I describe life as "a series of morally defining moments... with most of life behing what we do in between them... how we cope with the outcomes of previous Morally Defining Moments, and how we try, in vain, to anticipate the next Morally Defining Moment."
Most Morally Defining Moments, I assume, are actually rather small, ordinary events that, when extrapolated, speak volumes about ourselves. I make this assumption since all of the Morally Defining Moments in my life have been simple, small events that, albeit ridiculous, have also been FAR from Earthshattering.
It's not like the middle section of Spider-Man 2, in which Tobey Maguire/Peter Parker ponders whether or not he really CAN live out his life as Spider-Man, saving New York time and again from ill-timed apartment fires/bank robberies/the occasional supervillain at the great expense of his personal life.
No metropolis is depending on my less-than-superpowers. (And God help the hamlet that ever dares base its safety and well-being on my ability to thwart evil... think of the first half of The Three Amigos, folks; though, I won't kiss any of you on the veranda.)
As an example, consider one of my first Morally Defining Moments, in which I was dared to eat a paper towel in order to receive a doughnut. I'm not talking about a gentle, Brawny-style paper towel. I'm talking about one of those rough, rugged, brown-with-wood-chips-still-embedded-within types of school paper towels. In fact, I'm pretty sure I had to eat two of them to get the doughnut.
At this point, I'm anticipating that you, the reader, might have one of three reactions to this Morally Defining Moment:
1. If you're sitting here thinking: "Eat paper towels for a doughnut? What's the big freaking deal?" Then, I'm willing to bet that you don't even buy into the concept of Morally Defining Moments - moments in which we reveal our true, core selves to the world (or, at least as true and core as we, as hopelessly-flawed-and-provincial-yet-disarmingly-charming-and-optimistic human beings can be). In which case, perhaps you should stop reading now.
2. If you're sitting there thinking: "Disgusting! I'd never do anything so ridiculous as eat paper towels!" Or, as a variation: "Disgusting! I'd never eat paper towels, unless my-life-or-the-life-of-someone-I-care-for depended on such a fiber-rich consumption. But, how would a situation like that ever come up?" Well, you pass the Morally Defining Moment. You most likely would have refused to eat the paper towel.
3. If you're sitting there thinking: "What sort of doughnut was it?" Then you're me. Or, close enough to me. And, you fail the Morally Defining Moment. You are willing to break the rule and eat-that-which-you-know-you-should-not-eat all for the "reward" of something-that-actually-isn't-worth-the-cost-of-eating-that-which-you-know-you-should-not-eat. Or, at least, you're willing to ponder breaking the rule.
Since I ate the paper towel, without even knowing what sort of doughnut it was, I failed that Morally Defining Moment.
There have been others, with varying results. While the above incident I simply refer to as "Doughnut," others Morally Defining Moments include:
1. The Pantyhose Incident
2. The Old Woman Who Fell Down by the Seattle Art Museum
3. Allision
4. Barefoot in the Waiting Room of the Doctor's Office
5. Underpants at the Desk
6. Typewriter
Most of them just sound like uneventful incidents, rather dull to all but me. But, a perpetual overthinker, I've evaluated and re-evaluated them time and again. I've passed some, and failed others. For example, from the above list, I failed 1, 2, 5, and 6... barely passed 3... and 4 is more of a draw.
Earlier this week, I had another incident, tentatively titled "The Unread Article." The details of the incident are rather inconsequential, except to note that they centered on the last week (this week, to be specific) of the class that just ended, and this Morally Defining Moment counts as one of the few to occur in a large crowd. Though I flunked this moment, it also stands out as an incident in which I got over it pretty quickly... which is odd, since, as the incident could affect my grade in the class, which hasn't been issued yet. But, I received a good deal of sympathy from two mates in the class and, since I've found graduate school a very intimidating experience so far. But, while I still look around in my Wednesday evening class at all of my peers thinking, "My God... I don't know these folks at all...", it's become reassuring to sit near three or four folks who, in their own way, have made me feel like I belong.
I even went out on a limb with them last Thursday night, and proposed a night of dinner and happy hour (not in that order) which descended into me drunkenly yelling loud, inappropriate things... and they still speak with me. Usually one must know me a few years before showing such a Goliath level of patience and understanding.
I'll cross my fingers and test the Pantyhose Incident on them. If they can still befriend me after hearing that, they can sit through a vast majority of my antics without batting an eyelash.
I might even, if given at least four beers beforehand, let them know this: I might've flunked that Morally Defining Incident from so many years past... in which I packed brown, fibrous paper towels in my fat little hands, wedged one in between each cheek, and chewed with cavity-ridden baby teeth, tasting the rough cellulose dissolving to a rough mesh on my broad, rough tongue... in which I eagerly salivated, though the cheap paper products dried and chafed my mouth, greedily eyeing (Augustus Gloop-like) my reward, a vanilla cake doughnut with chocolate frosting and rainbow sprinkles... in which I consumed manmade products for the promise of an empty treat... but, all-in-all, that doughnut was so worth it.
