Mail

Driving home from work today, I see a man; perhaps he was not yet elderly, but the hobble in his gait shows me that he's seen some time pass him by. He is thick in the stomach, thin in the arms, and has slight bits of brown peering out from the thin layers of white hair on his head, atop which are perched reading glasses, unused but waiting. 

He is just coming to the end of his driveway, arms fully outstretched to the plain white and rusty box atop brown and crooked post wherein he expects to find laying his mail for the day. He does not take the extra painful step to stand fully in front of the treasure chest, but leans dangerously from the side, flipping the door open and giving inside a longing glance. From the caving of his shoulders, the hang of his head, and the heave of an exhale, I know there is no mail for him. He inches closed the small door and pushes his hand down onto the mailbox for stability as he turns to head back to his house. 

 As the road curves and I leave him behind me, I spare him a quick glance in the rear view mirror to see the effort he puts into his steps; surely he cannot not make the excursion to his mailbox but once daily, for he seems to ache with every movement. He has been looking forward to receipt of something, anything, with great expectation, and was disappointed, just as every other day. Our lives juxtaposed, the phone in my pocket buzzes and the sound of another piece of junk email arrives to my inbox, the ease of only a fingertip's flick away and screaming for my attention. The accessibility of trash is unnerving, and my shoulders cave and my head hangs as I exhale, knowing my inbox is overflowing with things I don't want to read. The old man would be ecstatic to find a single piece of crinkled paper in his mailbox.

Make Life Interesting

Sometimes, life is pretty boring. The routine of everyday life grinds away at one’s physique and mind, depressing those whose childhood dreams of grandeur and adventure are no longer even shadows on the horizon. The aspiring astronaut is now nothing more than a dock worker, the princess a bank clerk, and the police officer a café manager. Not always amazing and exciting, true, but more often than not, life is a comfortable lull like floating on a raft down a lazy river. I had been working and going to school for years on end—a boring eternity it seemed—never breaking routine, never missing a day, never waking up with excitement in my stomach, or a break in schedule to look forward to. But the rapids were ahead. 

BAM! All of the sudden, with no warning, I found myself falling out of a plane. The door opened, the noise of the wind rushing by suddenly grew louder and intense, and the strong sturdy ground to which I had become accustomed was now but a pattern of different colored patches like the quilt on my mother’s bed. Very far away. The first few seconds of the fall were wild, twirling, whirling, spinning hours as I saw the ground seemingly not come rushing at me from 10,000 feet away, then the horizon, then the plane silhouetted against a bright blue sky, then the ground then the sky, then the ground.  As my fall stabilized and I got my bearings, I realized that I should probably start enjoying myself. Then, a kind of peace. Oh, I was still moving, and very quickly at that, but as I reached terminal velocity, the nearly 60 meters a second I was moving towards the ground, I felt no impact on my body, for we can only interpret a change in speed or direction. I was floating, weightless and carefree as the cold wind rushed by me and numbed my hands. A smile formed. The parachute opened.

But back to the routine I went; the work, the school, the drudgeries of life. For a few days, my life was enhanced as I told people of my experience, but the excitement was soon dissipated and drowned by those people who had not had an amazing experience to lift them out of their dull lives recently. I was soon quickly pulled back to the lazy river. But again, my life was about to change. Even having been skydiving, the biggest adrenaline rush I’ve ever had was with my two feet on solid ground, on a patchy grass pitch in Fullerton, California. A mere week earlier, my good friend and house mate, also a foreign exchange student from Switzerland had approached me. 

“Matt,” he said, in his very thick Swiss-German accent, “let us go play Rugby.” I laughed and the words, 

“I don’t know the first thing about Rugby.” formed in my mouth. 

“Neither do I.” he said. So we joined the Santa Barbara City College Rugby team. I had been to two practices and was still completely unsure of the rules when game day arrived. The drive to Fullerton from Santa Barbara was a couple hours of traffic, stuck in a van with my teammates legs squished up against mine as we all tried to nap after the huge breakfast we had all downed at IHOP. We did a lap, then warmed up, and I took my place on the sidelines to watch, knowing full well that my lack of experience, knowledge, and skill would have me there until I proved myself. A few minutes in, the coach called my name. 

“Alright Matt,” he said in his thick Aussie accent, “You’re going in at the next break of play.” I started to protest, unsure of myself, but he said, “The best way to learn is to do.” So I found myself on a field with 29 other men, most bigger than myself, holding a large, strangely shaped ball and running not knowing what the hell I was doing. The game progressed. Then, I saw him. He was on the other team and he had the ball. He was big, much bigger than myself—probably had 100 pounds on me, and it was 100 pounds of toned muscle, not blubbery fat. He was running straight at me. He wasn’t stopping. There are few things more frightening than seeing something much bigger and stronger than you are, coming at you full speed. Suddenly, everything became very bright. The noise of the crowd and the players around me disappeared. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The animalistic part of my brain shouted “Flight!” but my will overcame. Fight! Feet planted. Arms Spread. Back lowered. Mouth biting on mouth guard. Legs coiled like a spring holding tension, ready to explode at any second. Closer he came. Now! Go! Legs pushed forward. I wrapped. I held. He kept going. Not tackled by me, no, but I slowed him down enough for three of my teammates to catch up and finish the job. Quick, get up! Back in position. Hold! Run! Tackle! Hold! Run! Tackle!  I’ve been in love with Rugby ever since.

Funnily enough, another adrenaline rush comes from something that those who have not experienced it would not believe. It is not a physical feat, nor a dangerous act. Weeks of effort have been put into this day, this moment. Hours of fretting and strange looks on the bus as I hold the pieces of paper that have been highlighted over and over again. Now though, I hear the voices of the people in the other room hush as the lights dim. Instead of the drone of a hundred people, suddenly there are only two speaking clearly with each other. They speak. A laugh from the hushed people. More speaking. More laughing. There it is, my cue! I feel my legs pulling me onto the stage. Bright lights blind me as I glance into the audience and see only silhouettes of heads. My line, say it! It’s been practiced so many times and I say it. A laugh from the audience. My line, my partner’s lines, my lines. Oh shit! I don’t know my next line! What is it? It’s my turn to speak. The other actors look at me expectantly. WHAT IS IT? My mouth blurts it out; thankfully, correctly. I know I have something else to say after this, but I’m still not sure what it is! Again, my mouth blurts it. Muscle memory is an amazing thing. The scene continues, so surreal. I can feel myself doing things without thinking about them. This is acting. I’m someone else. The scene finishes. We leave the stage. We smile and share hugs, just thankful we didn’t screw up. Somehow, I’m in control again and I’m myself. Being on stage is like a possession, and finishing the scene is the exorcism. A tough battle that, when won, feels so freeing. 

A break from every day routine to experience an intense flash of emotion is too important to pass up. It reminds us that life doesn’t have to be boring, and gives us something to look forward to as we drudge through our everyday lives. Even those who aren’t adrenaline junkies like me should still find the things to pull themselves out of the boringness that is everyday life so as to keep their sanity. While we spend the majority of our lives doing mundane things, we need something to keep us looking forward to so that we don’t get lost on the lazy river, feel our raft bump into the shore in shallow water, and let complacency overrun us as the water rushes over the sides. 

Fireworks

I like watching fireworks. There's just something about getting your senses stimulated that is pleasing to the body and the mind. I like seeing the pretty colors as the light blossoms across the sky, each little flare's pathway quickly rises and reaches it's apex, shattering the night sky and afterwards following a lulling, lazy arc towards the ground as it's work is finished. Their lives are short and end in dead ash, but they are brilliant.

I like to hear the pops just a split second after I see them; the less time the better, cause that means I'm super close. Sure, the sights and the sounds are amazing, but the part that I really enjoy is to FEEL the sound hit me. It sets off car alarms, vibrates the roof that I'm sitting on and the people around me, and I can feel it pierce into my bones as my whole body is saturated with the firework's power.

As I watch, my mind wanders to the physics of fireworks, and the chemistry, and the work and money it takes to put such a show on as well as other things indescribable. An eighteen minute show that wasn't too shabby, and probably the best finale I've ever seen in my life leaves plenty of time to think about life.

As the whistlers go up, up, up, and I feel the shock waves from the multiple fireworks exploding simultaneously, I'm glad that these are merely meant for entertainment, and not actual shells meant to fall on American soil. So many works are fired, that the sky is lit and I can see clearly, almost as bright as day, all my surroundings. It brings such new meaning to the words "And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there."

'Murica, I guess you're alright for now. Happy birthday.

Parking Spots

I've felt it finally.  The power. It feels so good. You see, the parking at my school can be rather nightmare-ish if you are trying to get a good parking spot. I mean, sure, there are tons of spots available to those who are willing to walk a good 10 or 15 minutes across campus to the parking lots out in the boonies, but who wants to do that--really?

It feels so good though, as I'm walking to my car after class, late morning or mid afternoon. I've been up early enough to  get a good parking spot, so  I deserve the  good ones. I'll be walking, and I'll hear it. The sound of the cars behind me. First I'll hear the car way behind me, going slow enough to be reasonable for the posted speed limit, but definitely faster than the speed limit. Then, the sound will suddenly die down as it creeps up behind me, going slower than I walk, just so it can stay behind me without appearing to scope me out and piss off the other drivers who certainly saw me walking first, and are speeding over to be the first in line behind me. There is soon a triad or more of vultures hovering behind me, waiting for my parking spot. When they realize that my pace isn't slowing, they become impatient and head over to the next bloody carcass to scavenge.

Sometimes, if I see a particularly large line of cars following me, i'll bend down to meticulously tie both my shoes and check my backpack to make sure I haven't forgotten anything. Occasionally I'll stop, looking perplexed, pretending I've forgotten where I parked my car (sometimes not actually pretending), and even more occasionally, I'll get into my car and sit there for a few minutes while the line backs up. I'm evil. But I like the power.

It feels good to know that I have all these people willing to do anything for my spot. They will follow me around as long as it takes, so long as they have an opportunity to fight for my spot. Five or six people at a time, waiting in line, just for me. I could do anything I wanted, flip them off, moon them, take an hour, and they would still want my spot.

I guess now I know what it's  like to be a woman.

Adding Up Those Bucks

So, after writing my Just a Buck entry, I started thinking about the things you can buy with a dollar. It's pretty sad, actually, but even going to a dollar store, the things that are actually a dollar are few and far between. I kind of want to start suing every dollar store that I find for false advertising, but I'm too lazy.

Now, I like  nice things, don't get me wrong, but I also hate spending large amounts of money on things that I could buy for cheaper. Ok fine, I guess that makes me stingy, but I like to think of it as thrifty. I was amazed, as I was grocery shopping the other day, to see a semi-large pack of licorice on sale for a dollar, so I quickly grabbed it and threw it in my basket along with my staples. At another store, I saw these "throw blankets" on sale for a dollar each, and it seemed like a great steal so I grabbed two of those. Hey, just a dollar each, right!?!

Finding something to buy that is actually a dollar is like finding a little treasure, and something in my brain just goes "You MUST capitalize on this NOW!" So I do. Well, before I knew it, I'd probably spent $10 on one dollar items. Those sneaky stores! They are really good at finding ways to take my money.

I wonder how much money I've spent on one dollar items when it's all added up. Probably at least a couple thousand dollars in my life.

I guess every buck really does count.

Just a Buck

I don't carry cash very often. Occasionally I'll pull a twenty out of the ATM when I know that I'm going to a poker game, a restaurant where I'm going to need to tip, or a place that I know only accepts cash, but for the most part its plastic only. The last time I got cash out of an ATM was probably 2 months ago.

I pulled a twenty out then, and have been spending it down over the pas couple months at random places when I didn't want to or couldn't use my card. $20 to $15, then to $8, and then to $4, and finally to $1. Just one. No change left over even. A single dollar. In fact, I forgot I had it most of the time. Every time I opened my wallet I would see that single lonely bill just sitting there, waiting to be used. But  it  didn't mean much to me, even the extremely poor college student that I am. I mean, what can you buy with a dollar these days anyway?

A worthless dollar.

However, as I exited the grocery store today to see the fairly well dressed pregnant woman uncomfortably approach me and explain that her credit card didn't work and she needed gas to get back home--even a dollar would help--my mind immediately flew to the single lonely bill. The worthless dollar. The dollar that meant so much to this woman whose watery eyes were begging for anything. I opened up my wallet and gave  her all the cash I had. One dollar. She sounded so grateful as she gingerly placed the bill in her purse and thanked me.

On the way home I was thinking. I carried that worthless bill around for weeks. It started off a beautiful crisp twenty, and as time progressed it  became smaller  and smaller until the single wrinkled denomination became the backdrop to my wallet. But it still had a purpose. The whole time I was carrying around that extra 1.00 grams of paper so that I could give it to her and she could get  home. Every time I went to school, it was with me. Every time I went to practice, it was with me. Every time I pulled my wallet out of my pocket and carelessly tossed it on my desk before I went to sleep, the dollar was in there. Waiting. The  twenty became  reduced because I wanted a pack of gum from the gas  station, and further because of an In-N-Out burger, and even further because of a chocolate bar, but the whole time, that one dollar was saving itself for someone that really needed it.

A priceless dollar.

I know someone out there  is carrying a dollar for me. I'm going to need it someday, and  I'll be very grateful.

Crying.

I'll have you know, I cry a lot. ALL the time. Probably every day. WOAH, stop judging me already, jeeze. It's not like, ALL the time, all the time. Just like, all the time. Or more like, just sometimes. Occasionally. ONCE in a while. I mean, not VERY often, like really, barely at all. Once in a blue moon. Yea, that's the one. I like, NEVER cry. I'm still like, SUPER manly and stuff. I could start going into all the details, but I like to think of myself as not-conceited so I shall hold off for the time being. If you really want to know, just shoot me a message and I shall indulge myself, erm, you, in listing all of my manly qualities. But, back to bawling my eyes out whenever I watch "How I Met Your Mother."

Did I let that slip? Whoops, I meant, back to how I barely cry at all. QUICK! Just imagine me grunting a lot and lifting some heavy things and hopefully the image of me curled up in a blanket with a cup of tea, bawling whenever something emotional happens in that show, will quickly dissapate. Not that that's a real image or anything.

Ok, but really, I do. Just don't tell anyone. I used to never cry during movies. For the first twenty-some-odd years of my life, the only 2 movies that I had cried for were: "The Bucket List", and "Click." Then, along came "Up." and tons of other movies that I can't even think of right now cause I'm starting to tear up just thinking about those first few minutes of "Up." Gimme a second.

Ok, thanks. I'm ready to continue.

I'm not sure what it is that makes me so emotional. That scene is just so perfect and they are so happy and then she dies and he is so sad and it's just...

Ok, no, I need another second. :'(

Ok, ready. Maybe.

Anyway, let's leave "Up" behind lest I start crying again. Onto: "How I Met Your Mother." That show is amazing. I swear this isn't a shameless plug that I'm getting paid for; it's really just amazing. The humor is amazing, and ridiculous, and that was the reason that I started watching it, but soon I found myself crying and I didn't know why. And I kept watching.

It's weird, because even though these characters aren't real, I still love them. Probably more than most actual people I know, but like I said, they don't exist. I mean, I'm sure I could find some people who are extremely similar to the characters on the show, but these characters aren't simply words being personified by actors on a screen, they are archetypes.

I cry for them because each of these archetypes contains a part of me, and I can relate to them so well. I see myself in their situations and empathize with them. The situations that they are put in, though exaggerated, are just like situations from my own life. A little too exact sometimes. It's creepy.

I guess, in the end, when I'm crying for them, I'm really crying for me.