ISleepInADrawer.com

Autumn

I've had back problems for the past month. It's not a major incapacitation. I can still mostly move freely, without hindrance from my vertebral column or the muscles associated with it. But, it's still noticable enough that I can't help but think to myself, "Man, it wasn't always this way." Sometimes, nostalgia wraps me up in a blanket and even dares to remind me that, many years ago, there was no pain at all.

I know I harp on these subjects more now since my birthday is approaching. I'll turn twenty-seven soon. Over the past few birthdays, I've tried to take stock of my body's condition relative to other folks near my age. I make subtle inquiries on the state of their bodies and minds. Do they have pain? Do they have trouble sleeping sometimes? Have they started to notice a grim, resigned "adult" attitude about it all?

Of course, I haven't hit the hard parts of aging yet. My boyfriend, who's eight days shy of being exactly four years older than me, likes to think that he's hit the hard parts of aging. But, he hasn't, either. We're both just noticing that things-aren't-as-easy-as-they-once-were. Again, these aren't big changes. Just small, subtle alterations in the execution of everyday acts. Cleaning the bathtub has a little extra discomfort. So does loading the dishwasher, or chasing my cat around to give her medication. Even sex is a little, just a little, different.

I harp on these small differences since I always fixate on the small things. With glee, I drink up the small moments, and weave a tapestry from them. It's not the most efficient way to move through life, but I find it a wonderful way to pass my time on this good Earth. So, since I carve my life out by the small things, I'm of course fixating, with the approach of my birthday, on the fact that my back's been stiff, my knees crack, and my wrists ache. But just a little.

A lot of citizens of this city would likely argue that Seattle's transition from summer (season 1) to winter (season 2), is pretty dramatic. The days shorten dramatically, the clouds arrive with no warning, the temperature drops dramatically, and the rains arrive with an abruptness that leaves natives looking nervously over their shoulders for a giant ark. At least, that's how many of the Seattlites I encounter phrase it. I see this transition as something more subtle - a tip-toe dance away from summer, through a transition, and into winter. I'd almost dare to call it autumn, if Seattlites weren't adamantly opposed to the idea of autumn in Seattle. I've been humbled and lectured on this subject time and again: Seattle has two seasons.

But really, it doesn't.

The days do indeed shorten dramatically. But, the other steps are small, and barely perceptible until they accumulate. A cloud one day. Then two. Some foggy mornings with the sun piercing the afternoon sky. Cool, morning drizzle followed by warm, breezy afternoons. I don't care if saying so does go against a basic tenet of living-in-Seattle, and I don't care if this seasonal transition really is a recent by-product of climate change: Seattle has an autumn. It's shorter and wetter than any autumn I experienced back in Illinois. But it's still an autumn: a little fog, a rainy day, a cold breeze, a little back pain.

Just a little.

Yesterday would've been a good midwestern autumn day, had the air not been moist. It was cloudy, cool, breezy, and unfortunately only a tad crisp (the previous night's drizzle soaked up too much dry air). Still: "Close enough," I said. "Let's go to the zoo."

In sweaters and knit caps, we walked up empty paths. Very few Seattlites braved the almost-but-not-quite-winter weather (Dare I say autumn?), though the other animals were out and active. The tiger cub played, the siamangs hooted, and the orangutans ate like there's no tomorrow. We did, of course, had to go visit our Favorites. For me: the siamangs and the slow lorises. For Zach, the brown bears.

To get to the bears, we had to walk up a long, empty path to the northern stretches of the zoo. As we walked, we'd been talking about our approaching birthdays. I don't remember who made the downtrodden quip: "I'm getting old." But, I do remember my defiant afterthought:

"Zach, race me."

"Huh?"

"I'll race you up to the bears! C'mon!"

We ran, laughing all the way. Zach with his hands in his pockets (he had no gloves), and me squealing in flip-flops (I never did know how to clothe my feet in cold weather).

It was the greatest minute of the day.

Nerd Alert

My boyfriend blogs as well, but about things that are way less cool than my life.

Plus, he doesn't know sh*t about evolutionary biology.

Lay All Your Love on Me

The vast majority of my lab and graduate school responsibilities plant me firmly in not in Seattle's University District, as many have assumed, but actually in Seattle's South Lake Union neighborhood.

My boyfriend has, for the past few years, worked in Seattle's Belltown neighborhood.

I'll soon be able to get to his office (for a midday rendezvous) via SLUT.

Yes, a ride on the SLUT will get me to my boyfriend. Eventually.

Political Identity

A group at the University of Virginia has compiled a test that, apparently, breaks down one's political philosophy into five categories, and provides you a score for each of these categories. It's a fantastic test, with some results that surprised me in three categories. I still think I'm some sort of centrist Democrat/Libertarian. But, take the test for yourself and see how you stack up.

My scores are in green, with average liberals labeled in blue and average conservatives in red.

The Fact Checker

I love The Washington Post so much!

Two Months to Go

My Gods, the wait is killing me.

Always Serve Wine

Our new place is slightly smaller than our old apartment. But, it's newer, nicer, cleaner, has a fantastic view (as opposed to our old place: a basement unit), and has a cat door to boot. Granted, the cat door perk evaporated suddenly this morning when one of the feral cats from the abandoned house/meth lab across the way suddenly figured out how to use the cat door this morning; but still, even with home invasion, it's a nice place.

I can only assume that the sudden influx of "nice place" mood in us - and perhaps an abrupt upswing in the feeling of "coupleness" due to our month-and-a-half old domestic partnership - can explain a recent trend in the life and home my boyfriend and I share: entertaining.

Despite the fact that he's 30 and I'm 26, he has a law degree and I'm trying to get a Ph.D., and we're both fairly stable and responsible enough to keep our asthmatic cat drugged up on steroids and clean my newly-pierced ear lobes, my boyfriend and I never really fit in well with the young-and-hip crowd. I'm bookish, brooding, boring, and am often known to have the social skills of a thumbtack. He's professional, proper, polished, and approximately the same height as Napoleon. So, I guess I'm more likely to spend my evenings reading while sipping cheap wine or watching Star Trek while drinking cheap beer, and he's more likely to sit in his home-office listening to classical music while secretly hatching plots to conquer Europe. All-in-all, we fit pretty well in the description of pasty white guys who just happen, by some genetic and environmental fluke, to be raging homosexuals.

Of course, there's more to us than that. My carriage and demeanour around my boyfriend or my close, selective crop of treasured friends (one of whom, a one-armed lesbian named Miffins, gave me this platform upon which I occasionally practice my typing skills) is dramatically different. Same with my boyfriend. But, since that amounts to about a dozen people spread across North America, I'm still shocked that - recently, very recently - we've started entertaining.

Of course, we're not entertaining others on the same level that you, the reader, likely do. We're still the pasty white guys in bed by 10:00PM (for my boyfriend) or 11:00PM (for me) and up by 6:00AM to drug the cat, listen to NPR, and make some turkey bacon. On Sundays, Zach likes to challenge the devil by sleeping in until 7:00 or 8:00, but that appears to be the extent of his rebellious streak (not counting his "blue hair" period in college, before we knew one another). So, our entertaining episodes have been appropriately mild. Still, the act of letting folks (and feral cats) into our home for any reasons other than catsitting is, I think, headlineworthy (though the Seattle Times and Seattle Post-Intelligencer disagree).

The most noteworthy episodes to date were a "movie night" for myself and some co-workers last week and a small dinner party my boyfriend is orchestrating tomorrow night for some friends of his. Mine was a beer-and-pizza gaggle of scientists watching that childhood classic, Return to Oz. For his, I'm afraid I'll actually have to wear a shirt with a collar - and if so, I'm tying a bow around the cat's neck, since misery loves company. But, I nearly wet myself this morning when I realized that Zach's slightly-more-sophisticated gathering is the perfect opportunity to crack open the biggest Elephant in the Room object we own: the good bottle of wine.

We have a small wine rack, which I keep stocked with a variety of horribly cheap wine. It's horribly cheap because I don't know anything about wine, and therefore see no reason to spend lots of money I don't have (the NIH doesn't pay much for graduate student slave labor) on a fancy bottle, when the cheap one tastes just fine to me. The same goes for beer - though I keep beer in one of the crisper drawers in the refrigerator. But, about a year or so ago, I helped a former associate move his wine collection into a storage facility, and he (very kindly, I might add) gave me a bottle of "fancy wine" (I'm pretty sure it's red, but the label is written in French, which I don't speak). In one of my more ridiculous conversations over Instant Messenger, he gave me an approximate translation of some of the bottle's words. But, since I've no reliable memory, I don't remember much other than "red wine."

So, with such precious cargo delivered into such unqualified hands, that bottle of wine has been sitting on the wine rack for over a year now - and the clock is ticking. The man who kindly gave it to me told me to drink it within two years (I forget why, but I think it has something to do with... how... uh... wine is made). But, I've delayed opening the bottle for several reasons. First, my boyfriend barely drinks - mostly because he has no tolerance for the stuff. Two New Years Eves ago, he was passed out by 10:00PM due to half a glass of (cheap) champagne. Second, I feel this generous gift is my first and last attempt to drink "fancy wine." The rest of my days on this Good Earth, I'll likely stick to my "$12.00 or less" rule. I cannot fathom a single reason I'll ever again get to drink "fancy wine." I won't be having any wedding ceremony, receiving wealthy gifts, or suddenly ascending the social ladder of this stratified society rapidly enough to reach the lower rungs of "fancy wine" level. Plus, should I ever find myself in such a "fancy wine" situation, I'd likely feel naked, uncomfortable, and alone. I still, after all, think in terms like "red" and "white," which I'm told by many in Seattle that such a mindset reveals my poor, humble, and very Southern/Midwestern roots.

So, I need a situation, within the next year, where I can open this bottle, enjoy it with a group of people (since half a glass will satisfy, and possibly intoxicate, my boyfriend). Bonus if it's a setting a little more formal than my default beer-and-pizza-and-random-movie program of entertainment. Thus, tomorrow evening seems like the perfect opportunity to open this bottle and have my first - and last - taste of sophistication. Hell, I'll gladly wear a collar for that.

Except I'm not sure if we have wine glasses.

If Wishes Were Horses