Out-Dated

© EverythingsshinyIt’s springtime. When a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love. Or whatever. I think most young men these days are thinking of a different four letter word, but I’m not young, and I think springtime is mostly a muddy slop, though that’s only because I’m curmudgeonly and this morning I found more grey hairs in my head than I did yesterday and to put it plainly, I’m simply not ready for more grey hairs than yesterday. But I do remember being young and chasing equally young girls. Mostly to no avail. So in the spirit of finding more grey hairs than yesterday, here is Part One in a series of First Dates that went belly up, and probably reason why I started getting grey hairs in the first place.

The following are all true. Except the names. Maybe. 

God. No.

The Girl: “Rachel”

Here was a girl so fair and pure, I wouldn’t have doubted if somewhere in a nearby castle, some wretched queen was admonishing her mirror for so fallaciously claiming she as not the fairest in the land. 

The girl was quiet and simple, with an appealing sense of vulnerability. I was honestly smitten right away; her smile so rousing, I lost my senses. 

For the date, we met, as many do, in a restaurant; one of those chained, themed hot-spots with too much flair on the walls and not enough variety in the menu. 

It didn’t matter. We were riddled with expectancy; neither of us capable of completing a single vocal thought without dousing nearly every sentence with honey words. The usual volley of flirtations passed the first hour quickly.

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Next, Please

A recent longitudinal study from a reputable and respected group of social science experts revealed that the average person will have stood in line for more than 13 years by the time they are 45 years old.

And when I say reputable and respected group of experts, I mean, of course, me. And by longitudinal study, I mean about fifteen seconds of reflection on my own life. 

And 13 years, from the estimates of any sane person having finally reached 45 years, is, in no uncertain terms, a highly conservative number. 

But so it goes. Standing in line. There’s no escaping it. It’s a part of our lives; in every sector of our social interactions . . . we are waiting. When we leave our homes to obtain anything - anything at all - be it a morsel of bread straight to the finances required to house the very place where we will eat that bread, it will undoubtedly necessitate forming ranks behind someone who beat us there. 

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Ten Questions for my Ever-Waking-Brain

© EverythingsshinyDavid - So let’s put this on the table straight off. You know were all wondering about it. This thing with refusing to sleep . . . is it the genetic disorder most are calling it? 

My Brain - (Laughs). No. Nothing like that. I’m just an ass. 

D - Ha. Funny! It’s good to know you have a sense of humor about it. 

B - No, really. I’m an ass. It’s my nature. The way I see it, I have one job, David. Never. Stop Thinking. It’s what I do. 

D - Kinda selfish, right? I mean, you have myriad responsibilities: upper respiratory regulation, glomerular filtration management, epiglottal articulation. Isn’t sleep like one of the most important things you need to keep in top form? I’m sure I read that somewhere. 

B - Malicious propaganda from the Mattress and Bedding Council. Don’t believe a word of it. 

D - Well, some critics have suggested you are deliberately using the night hours for lavish and excessive extracurricular activity instead of using this precious time for its express purpose - the arrangement and filing of newly-stored stimuli, redeployment of important body chemicals, preservation and enhancement of select memories, etc. How do you respond to such accusations? 

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Momentary Changes

© EverythingsShinyBy luck, I spent two years of college on the first floor of my dormitory. I say luck because the first floor had only four rooms on each wing compared to sixteen anywhere above. Four rooms, eight guys. We were like a club, closer than any eight guys anywhere on campus. At least in our eyes. 

T.K. was a ladies man, the quintessential quarterback, big, magnetic, rowdy, and impossible to slow down. Bob did all the drugs. Lee was an anarchist and made his own teeth. Really. Scully was trying to be Springsteen. John liked kung fu movies. Chris was a rebel with a motorcycle. Frank knew everybody on campus. 

And I was trying to be like all of them. 

T.K. was better alone than in a crowd. Bob laughed stronger than anyone I’d ever met. Lee showed me punk wasn’t just a song style. Scully taught me to really listen to music. John made Saturday afternoons fun. Chris pushed me to step out of line. Frank made sure I was never standing alone.

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Limited Potential

© EverythingsShinySo, lately I’ve developed this odd habit where I assign everything a life. Well not actually life. That’s a little broad. Fulfillment is more like it. Or maybe destiny. I’m not sure. Either way, it’s this sense of purpose I see in things, this reason for existence each and every thing possesses.  A plastic bag, a pencil eraser, a shoestring, whatever it is, it was made  for a reason, to do something unique. And when I notice that reason fails to come about, a little part of me feels crushed. Sometimes devastated. The other day I was putting the last of a bag of frozen blueberries on my yogurt and one of them decided to cling to the inside and remain. Initially, I didn’t give it a thought and tossed the whole thing in the bin, only to have that lone, little berry linger - no haunt - my breakfast . . .

“Well this is it boys! We are the last. It’s been a great ride. We’re finally gonna complete our journey from seed to breakfast. And it’s yogurt! Fantastic. Look at us go! We’re really doing this! We’re really . . . um. Hey. Hey, hold on! I’m kinda stuck up here. Not moving! Seriously. Can’t. Get. Free. Bit of ice in the crease! Gotta give it a tap! Don’t just look at me, mister! Work with me! Not the trash!! Not the trash! My destiny!! MY DEEEESTINYYY!”

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