Explorations of Getting Sore and Writing Blogs, with a Title Nearly Longer Than the Post Itself

One of my favorite things about working out is getting sore and feeling sore the next day, except that that also reminds me that I’m out of shape. On the other hand, if I don’t feel sore, I feel like I didn’t work out hard enough. It’s the worst catch 22 ever.

I have still not read “Catch-22.” It should be next on my list. I know approximately five people who declare it is their favorite book.

One of my favorite things about writing a blog post is seeing the little “12-hour hit monitor” go skyrocketing in the first hour after I post. It makes me feel important and loved and funny. On the other hand, about six hours later, I stop getting more than three or four hits in any given hour and then I feel sad, like I’m just a flash in the pan.

According to “The Phrase Finder,” the phrase ‘a flash in the pan,’ may derive from the California gold rush. It means either something that is disappointing in that it builds expectations and fails to meet them or something that occurs once and quickly (depending on whether you trust the free online dictionary or the Phrase Finder). More likely than California, the phrase probably originates from Flintlock muskets, which apparently sometimes flashed (lit up the gun powder) without actually firing a bullet. All very interesting but entirely unrelated to blog posting, from what I can tell.

Somehow, I’m talking about all of this because my arms and abs are aching. Awesome.

A Life Reflection — Back by Popular Request (the Obama Campaign and a Voluntaryism-ist)

Apparently I am more enjoyable when writing about myself than anything else. Awesome. So I can just be a huge narcissist and people will read it up. (Get it? Like, instead of “eat it up?” Ha…ha…ha…).

Ok. There are so many things I could write about. Like, I worked for the Obama campaign in Colorado. I could write about that. Except I can’t really remember what happened. It’s just a blur of 90-or-so-hour weeks filled with calling people I didn’t know on the phone and having the same conversations over and over again. Not to suggest that I didn’t enjoy the repetition of conversations about whether Obama was ahead or behind in the polls, except, well, I didn’t.

I ate a lot of ramen. And a weird assortment of vegetables and one or two homemade pies provided by volunteers (no, I was not in the routine of baking anything given that I basically fell into bed every night). I lived with people who were wonderful Democratic supporters and we were all communal and familial and it was nice, if exhausting.

And about halfway through, they even gave me my own office — cool, right? My red county voted 40% for Obama, which was significantly better than predicted. Oh, rural folk, you are close to my heart.

In any case, it was an exciting deal. I like organizing things and having precise instructions. But it makes me wonder if I will ever have a long-term position in my life. Because most of what I’ve done thus far (professionally or in volunteer work) is bit-sized, small chunks of bigger projects.

Just now I was trying to think of the right parallel word for professionally in terms of volunteer work and it reminded me of a strange anarchist type person that I met in a pizza shop while I was registering voters. Of course, he and his brethren insisted they were voting for Gary Johnson, and by the end of the conversation he ended up sending me a link to the definition of the philosophy of “voluntaryism” that suggests all forms of human association in groups should be voluntary. It’s not a concept I’m completely at odds with, but then I also sort of think it’s a child’s philosophy (i.e. we should never have to do anything we don’t want to do), and I think there are real benefits to growing up (i.e. responsibility for one’s actions, making contributions to public goods even when we don’t really want to, etc). Granted, I have not read extensively about voluntaryism. But Wikipedia offers a offers a peak at it that only too clearly suggests it’s not much for social welfare. I’m pretty big on social welfare, social responsibility, that sort of thing.

What I’m really trying to show you is what my job was like, every day. When you start walking up to random people, registering them to vote, or trying to get them to actually follow through and vote, you open yourself up to all sorts of exposure to their ideas and world view. Sometimes they’re nice/thoughtful/grateful. Sometimes they’re opinionated/angry/confused. Almost always, if they open the door to having a conversation with you (literally or figuratively), people want to tell you what they think. And that is both interesting and occasionally mind-numbing.

If nothing else, I learned a great deal about things like voluntaryism, and I heard a great many personal stories about felons voting rights, veterans’ disabilities, shut-ins’ lives, oxygen tanks, illegal immigration, health care reform, Obama’s desire to alter the American flag, adoption, and religion.

So maybe I remember a few things.

To Dream of Jungles

I am one of those people who likes to talk about dreams. Although I don’t tend to weight them too heavily in making life decisions, I like thinking about what they mean — I like the idea that dream interpretation could have significance, that our inner lives might actually be reflected there with some relevance to our conscious lives.

Recently, I’ve been unpacking and sorting through the stuff/clothes/junk I’ve accumulated over the six years since I graduated from high school. A couple of nights ago, I had a dream among the tins of old broken jewelry and perfume samples, I found a stash of green onions and broccoli, which was obviously of some concern given that these things have been packed away for a good amount of time. My interpretation? It’s time to use the green onions in the refrigerator that I bought for making peanut sauce about a week ago. It’s time. And I might be craving and increased broccoli intake.

Then last night, I stayed out late with old friends and when I got home, I almost fell asleep before falling into bed, which is definitely dangerous. Sleeping standing up is uncommonly difficult and I’m pretty sure the dangers are similar to those of having seizures or fainting suddenly.

This morning I woke up dreaming that I had been employed to design jungles — yes, like the Amazonian things in the arena of the equator where it is hot and sweaty. My job was to create jungle space everywhere. (An overwhelming task given my complete lack of jungle-building knowledge and also, in my dream, the apparent resistance of most communities to the artificial creation of jungles in their neighborhoods.) I think this might be a sign that I’m concerned about global warming. In addition, it might be related to some job search anxiety and my sense that I am underqualified for a variety of the jobs to which I’m currently applying.

Either way, I’m enjoying the dreams. Keep ‘em coming, subconscious. And I will draw a picture of a jungle for the twins.

Armpit (and even less glorious) Hair

Did you know that when you shave, when the hair grows back it can be split and you can have multiple hairs growing from the same root? Did you? Did you?

According to a lady who waxed my eyebrows it’s true. Which means you can get all bushy in the armpits and “down there” if you shave a lot. It might have been a ploy to get me to wax my entire body instead of just my eyebrows, but then I started examining one of the armpit hairs in question and I am telling you, they’re like little groves of hair trees in the armpit hair forest. Unacceptable.

I don’t know what the answer is.

The Convenient Truth (Convenient because it’s Truth)

Twitter is awesome. (Thanks, Katay, for really introducing me to the concept).

More truth: I have a writing bug at this time of night. Despite being truth and therefore inherently convenient (for a blog post), this is simultaneously not convenient because I really like waking up early. I loved 8 am classes. It’s sickening, really, but morning is so much better than anything else. Except for night. Like around 11 or midnight. So that’s a super frustrating set of preferences to have. It’s like I need two nighttimes, and by nighttimes I mean sleeptimes. And both should begin around 1 or 2 and last until 5 or 6 (morning and afternoon, obviously).

That would work, right? I could become a super-in-tune-with-my-body-yogi-type-of-person. Maybe that’s not exactly what a yogi is. Uhh. Whatever.

Sometimes I like to do yoga in the morning, for about ten minutes. See? I’m well on my way.

Aside: Mailman, the mutinous kitten, is currently in a fight with something in the bathroom, which is awesome, because it just sounds like someone banging and crashing around and I appreciate that, while I’m alone in the house. I have a completely insane cat to protect me and surround me with noise and joy.

 

So last night, I had a bizarre sci-fi nightmare, which made me feel significantly less like a yogi. Hold on. That is very likely the question of the century. DO yogis have nightmares? It wouldn’t be very… I don’t know… calm of them. Still, this is an important question.

But my sci-fi dream involved a super psycho and malevolent woman (shocking, right? there was an evil mastermind) who would basically turning people into zombies (I’m not even into zombies — I have NEVER seen “The Walking Dead” or any of the all-the-rage vampire movies).

Cat update: Earlier today, he ran straight into the post that resides in the middle of the cabin. It was hilarious. Sometimes he climbs like a fourth of the way up it and then realizes the endeavor is useless. It’s cute. Now he is hiding behind the vacuum cleaner planning his next attack in my vicinity.

The point is that she was just injecting them with something, or forcing them to ingest something — you know, like a date rape drug — and then a little while later they would go all nutso, get crazy strong and eat the people around them. We’re talking Hulk-like, shirt-ripping strong and a ghastly amount of Beast-face transformations among my inner circle of friends. (Ok, subconscious, this is officially my message to you to get a little more creative when you have free reign).

It sounds corny here, I know, but when you’re dreaming and you’re supposed to be the hero who saves the world from all of your best friends who have been date-rape-drugged into eating your flesh, life is less than super fantastic and being cynical or critical is not exactly a cakewalk. What tv show is it where some character decides to change the usage of cakewalk? (I cannot remember proper nouns to save my life).

So I woke up and texted people who I hoped were in approximately the same time zone to reassure me that none of them were zombies and if they were, could they just get on with it, please? Because it’s five in the morning and I really need to sleep or die and that’s just the whole real deal. So follow the path to my blue elephant nightlight — yes, I sleep with a blue elephant nightlight because it’s scary having a mad cat in the house — and devour my flesh asap. K great thanks.

Mad Cat update: Mailman has become distracted by the vacuum cleaner and forgotten to attack my vicinity. Maybe he wore himself out racing around the carpet and running into walls.

I guess maybe all of this means I wasn’t meant to be a yogi after all. And that is the truth. Another truth? I would like all of you to cross your fingers for me. I’m not going to say why, but if you do it and it works, I will. Oh, mystery, what better addition to a free associative blog post?

Less Mad Cat update: He totally forgot the attack and came to purr on my lap. Ferocious. Wow.

Finally, we have come to the end of the free association. Now you know new things about me:

1. I do ten minutes of yoga in the morning when I remember, which is usually when I’m sore.
2. I nightmare about my friends turning into the Hulk (but weirdly, with faces sort of like the Notre Dame guy — pretty sure this is a politically incorrect detail).
3. I sleep with a large blue elephant nightlight.
4. I have decided that nightmare should be a verb in the way that dream is a verb.
5. I appear to have a fairly inaccurate concept of what a yogi is.

Ta DA

Oh, and these are my favorite babies in the whole world: