Reality bites back

per·ceive
[per-seev]

verb (used with object), per·ceived, per·ceiv·ing.

1. to become aware of, know, or identify by means of the senses.

I recently had a discussion with a friend about something I have given a lot of thought to lately:  perceptions.  My friend had pieced together a few facts and decided to fill in the blanks on the rest to form a conclusion about me.  This seems like coming up with a solution before all the parts of the equation are revealed.  When I pointed out that just because she perceives something to be true does not mean it is, in actuality, fact.

“Well, perception is reality,” she said.

Perception is reality.

I have always had a problem with this phrase, regardless of how personal the context is.  Many people perceive many things, and many times those perceptions are wrong.  Someone may perceive you to be moronic, for example, so does that make it reality?  Are you moronic?  People perceive gay marriage to be immoral and wrong, but that’s not reality.

Translation: “OMG, Equality.”

When my friend countered with “perception is reality,” all I heard was “I believe it, so it is the truth.  There’s even this nice little phrase to prove my point.  Case closed.”  It made me feel hopeless and that it was out of my control, like someone had just rewritten facts about me and there was nothing I could do about it.  My blood was boiling like a tea kettle resting on a blazing stove.  I could practically hear the whistle.

But I didn’t fully understand all the connotations that come with this phrase.  Thinking about what perception and what reality means  to me helped me to understand my friend a bit.  What I discovered is this:  There are two types of reality.  The first one is the reality that can be determined from the senses, as the definition above tells me.  This reality is of the physical world, one that tells me when I touch the aforementioned boiling tea kettle that it is hot.  I perceive it to be hot by touch, so it is.  I perceive that my niece needs a major diaper change by scent, so she does.  That’s reality.

The second type of reality is one that cannot be determined by the senses. This reality is subjective and is determined by experiences, knowledge, attitude, upbringing, etc.  It is these things that affect someone’s perception on the intangible things, like, say, gay marriage.  Keeping this in mind while thinking back on the conversation with my friend, I am able to gain another perspective on the phrase I once gave a stank eye to.

Mad Black Teapot

Perception is reality.

Just because one person believes something to be true to them, does not mean that that same thing is true to you.  That is not my reality.  And that’s OK, because conversations about reality and perceptions will be forever debated and can be looked at as a sign of growth.  For example, I can get upset that a large percentage of people perceive gay marriage to be wrong, or I can be hopeful in the fact that the discussion has reached a national level.  Is that enough?  No, but it is growth.

Your perception is your reality.  My perception is my reality.  Case closed.

Reality bites

The days were drenched with a mix of red wine and rain, and it worked its way through the cobblestone streets of Florence in perfect patterns, like dough through a pasta press.  We ate, we drank, we searched endlessly for “Free WiFi” signs, and our haggard, broken Italian undoubtedly made people uncomfortable.  The last day of my Tour of Italy, which confusingly is not the same thing I saw on that Olive Garden menu, had come out of nowhere, like a fresh basket of bread sticks.  Reality, a place I regularly avoid, was just a 10 hour flight away.

Hoping to rid the perpetual garlicky taste on my tongue, I thoughtfully bought a small tube filled with German mints in between connecting flights in Frankfurt.  After all, I know first hand that no flight attendant appreciates a coffee request met with a wave of odoriferous mouth funk.  I waited patiently as the 200-plus passengers, filled with glee over seeing the final destination’s mousy mascot, boarded the massive plane.  My name was called, my seat was assigned, and Lady Destiny once again was strolling next to me as we made our way down the winding jet bridge.

Mid flight, while growing tired of the pint-sized pretzel bags and anticipation of meal service, I nonchalantly chomped down on a handful of the mints von Frankfurt with a shock.  A quick bolt of lightning rushed through the left side of my mouth, the pain fleeing my tooth as quickly as it struck.

Not surprisingly, I didn’t happen to be anywhere near a dentist 3,000 miles over the Atlantic, so I decidedly returned to my in-flight programming, circa 1998, and didn’t give the occurrence another thought.  Eventually, the shuddering 747 pulled into its gate in Orlando and I cautiously returned to the real world.

The next day, whilst innocently gorging myself with American pretzel chips, I noticed an absence in my mouth.  I immediately ran to my sister (because, who else?) and demanded a close tooth inspection.  Turns out, about a quarter of my tooth indeed had vanished, most likely into the mysterious fathoms below of my belly.  It now resided with whole jars of peanut butter floating in an ocean of coffee, and that fake marshmallow I ate at a few years back at an Anthropologie that, let’s face it, isn’t going anywhere.

Reality had bitten hard, like a jet-lagged American chomping down on a sturdy mint.  Apparently, superior German engineering does not only apply to BMWs and Volkswagens.  After spending the day in the dentist’s chair, I groggily stumbled out to my car as the harsh light of day illuminated the amount of time and money I had just donated to the dental industry.  Where was my gelato-soaked, Italian sun?

It was then, standing in the empty parking lot under the beating Florida sun, that I realized that my reality is what I make of it.  I could be angry about the grand I threw down in the name of a tooth that, honestly I am still not sure that I need, or I could be thankful for having a shiny, new tooth.  A stronger, better, soldier in my arsenal for my never-ending battle against food.  It was then I once again grabbed Lady Destiny by the hand and rushed back to my own version of reality.

Spring cleaning

It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.

- Aristotle

I am in my head.

It’s dark and it’s dreary.  I would like to say that it is neatly organized like a card catalog, where all my thoughts are filed neatly away and easily accessible via alphabetical order, but this is not the case.

*cash not included

It’s more like one of those money booths, with my thoughts, fears and desires all being blown around as I frantically try to grasp and hold on to one that’s worth something.  I wager I’d get more worth out of the process with actual dollar bills.  There used to be many things to do in order to distract myself from my self.

For one, I could drink.  I would flood my mind with alcohol, blurring the anxious edges of my relentless thoughts.  That did the trick when I was younger, but my mind has developed a tolerance and now functions at an accelerated level when booze is added.  It turns into the funhouse mirror room, everything distorted and freakish.  The stuff clown nightmares are made of.  This one’s not the answer.

Next, we have the option of “eating your feelings.”  This is a popular method of making oneself feel better by eating until a food coma is induced.  WARNING:  May also result in a food baby.  I used to be able to eat a whole Totino’s Pizza, to which I would add a myriad of my own toppings, such as

*party happens in toilet

assorted meats, cheeses, and/or beans.  Since then, I have reformed my former big girl ways, and doing this today would just result in me lost in a cloud of self pity and indigestion.

I always have exercise.  A nice, brisk run set to a mood-appropriate soundtrack always does the trick.  Or a quick-moving circuit workout will incinerate those pesky, unhealthy thoughts floating in my head.  And guess what?  This option will not give me a hangover from hell or leave me pregnant with food baby twins.

Alas, while I may be provided a temporary high lifting me above the chaos of my brain, I am bound to be dropped back into the fray.

The only remaining thing for me to do is to let everything out.  Whether through talking or writing, showing or acting upon; the medium doesn’t matter.  Once I get the crazy goings-on out of my head, I can clear the path for newer and healthier thoughts, whatever they may be; about the insecurities, the silly, the future, the inconsequential, the all-encompassing.

So, I am in my head.

I am opening the drapes, cracking the windows and throwing out all the junk.  And all of a sudden, the money booth halts, the floods recede, and the high returns.  And I will enjoy it while it lasts.

This post is deeper than a well full of metaphors

May your past be the sound

Of your feet upon the ground

-fun.

Turns out, there are just 3 horsemen:  the past, present and future.  They are all necessary anxieties of evil.  The past is your anchor; used correctly it can keep you firmly grounded or treacherously stuck in the mud.  The future is your high-speed train, not stopping where the track has yet to be laid.  And the present is a game of tug of war between times preceded and time impending.   The slightest tug can make the thin rope SNAP.

Who knew the scale holder was modeled after me? Ahem.

Being a Libra, the zodiac has given my hesitant sign the mascot of the scale.  Although I am not a dedicated follower of astrology, I do believe this is where I acquire my need for balance in life.  As with all of us, it can be a constant struggle to keep the scale stable.  Some days, my anxiety for the future outweighs my focus on the present.  And sometimes I inadvertently load that scale up with a heaping helping of past regret.  How do we give all three of these influences a positive force that will drive us boldly into the unknown?

I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately, and how our past, present and future play such a strong role in relationships, jobs and even simple day-to-day activities.  I like to think of them in terms that a functioning alcoholic (which I am) would understand.

The past is a shot of Jägermeister.  You don’t have fond memories of it, and you definitely don’t try to entertain the thought of it anymore.  Sometimes, you forget about the strength of Jäger and partake in just a tiny (hopefully free) shot.  But all it takes is a Sunday morning belch, a little taste of the past, to set your mind straight again.  I consider that a slight life hiccup.

The present is my current drink, a vodka and soda with lime.  I don’t drink it for the taste, I drink it because it’s here, it’s cheap and it’s easy.  For the time being, it will do until I get where I am going.  It’s nothing fancy, but it enables me to keep a relatively clean palette and clear mind.

The future is a beverage that I have yet to find.  I know it isn’t anything having to do with Jäger, because I have been there and now realize it is not for me.  Its not the vodka and soda with lime, because I have recognized I want better for myself someday.

Is it a fun-shaped glass filled with something fruity and frilly, perhaps with a tiny umbrella and lots of garnishes?  Maybe.  Is it a refined, simple yet classy tumbler of one of those god-awful variations of whiskey?  That could be also.

I don’t exactly know where I will end up, but I do know where I have been.  All I can do at this point is enjoy my drink and wait to see what the bartender serves me next.

For your entertainment

I can’t think of a single job that doesn’t come with its fair share of monotony.  With professional baseball players its bench time, with doctors it’s the physicals administered to unattractive people, and with accountants it’s every hour that is not lunch.  Except for maybe Kathie Lee & Hoda on the Today show, who are usually drunk by 11am, every occupation has a certain level of tedium.

“Grab your ankles and hold onto your f*$#ing hat.”

With flight attendants, it is the safety demonstration before takeoff.  As frequent flyers can attest to, recurrence of this 4 minute routine can have you donning your life vest (before assisting others!) in your sleep.  But every once in a while I am shook from my seatbelt instructing coma.  The other day, as I was dutifully placing my oxygen mask over my nose and mouth, a young, pig-tailed little girl two rows in front of me was unaware of the masculinity of the flight attendant towering in front of her.  In a perfect stage whisper, she asked a question very cautiously.

“Mommy, is that a boy or a girl?”

Surely, she could not have referred to the extremely male specimen hovering in front of her.  I was already convinced she was referring to the homely woman in the front of the plane, until her mother gave her the discreet answer: “It’s a boy.  Shhhh.”

The evacuation of air from my lungs had me reaching for the fake oxygen mask.  Suddenly, I was no longer in the routine of the safety demo, but a whole new routine.  Now, I was a sideshow freak of an undetermined gender.

The difference between optimism and realism.

Step right up and see the astonishing bearded woman! 

Guess the stewardess’ sex and receive a waived baggage fee!

I obviously needed a rebuttal for this hurtful fire spewed from this little so-and-so’s hate spout.  Unfortunately, everything that came to mind was neither age nor job appropriate and I forced myself to swallow her words like a warm glass of airplane milk past expiration.  Once again, I was bested by someone less than a third my age.  At the end of the demo, I received a half-hearted applause and even a meager “whoop Nate!” from a few random passengers, solidifying the fact that I was no longer here for your safety, rather for your entertainment.

Another quick vacation from Blandville happened again in the middle of the cabin, when while crouching down to retrieve my trusty safety information card out of the demo kit, I split my pants.  The resulting sound got a chuckle out of the gentleman seated to my left, who I was convinced thought I had passed gas.  Needless to say, I felt compelled to explain myself by showing him the rip, which travelled from tip to crack.  Now that I think of it, I really should’ve received a compliment letter for that one.

The point is, it’s easy to get lost in the monotony of day-to-day tasks in my job, and sometimes the only way to survive is to relish the interruptions (or humiliations, in my case) and accept them as a welcome break.  A bump-free road is the real banality, and while a cloudless sky makes for a smooth flight, sometimes a little turbulence is needed to jolt you awake.

Someday’s Gone

Someday, I’ll go back to school.  

Someday, I’ll be doing what makes me happy.  

Someday, I’ll have a career and not just a job free of care and movement.

I’ve been repeating these phrases in my head for years, thinking ‘just enjoy your life’ and ‘live in the now, like Oprah says.’  But as an unnamed parental figure so deftly pointed out recently, I am “not a spring chicken anymore.”  This thought was fortified by the other unnamed parental figure, in a falsely consoling manner:  ”Well, you’re not reaching for the rope quite yet.”

First of all, I’d like to object to these statements on account of unnessecary dramatics.  Secondly, I am in my twenties.  OK…very late twenties.  If my twenties were a carton of milk they’d be reaching their expiration date.  But Joan Rivers I am not.

And thirdly, “reaching for the rope”?  Is this one of those popular phrases from the 60s that I hadn’t yet come across?  I knew I needed to be watching Mad Men.  I am wagering the rope is my skinny tie with which I will hang myself.  But fret not, Nate!  You still have one more option before “hanging” it all up.  

“Bourbon and broads, son. That’s what its all about.”

I do get what they’re hinting at.  They are about as good at bluntness as a dead horse is at taking a beating.  That is why, after years of libra-style deliberation, I will resume my scholastic studies in writing.  Now I will be able to blog about useless things in MLA style!

With this comes a flurry of decisions to be made, the fine print at the bottom of the pronouncement.  The right answers are knocking and I’d be a fool to turn them away.  Am I scared that I may make the wrong choices?  Of course.  Am I scared of the commitment?  Any sort, yes.  Am I terrified of the debt monster?  I will check under my bed every night.  Am I scared of things staying exactly the way they are, having regret about would could have been, and not taking the opportunity to make a better life for myself?  Undeniably.

The minutia of fears about doing this are far outweighed by the 3 ton elephant of regret on the scale of life.  It is time to stop referring to ‘someday’ as a far off time where everything magically happens as it should.  Someday is gone, and today is the day I do something about it.

Gym Etiquette

I have an obsession with people watching at my gym.  I have a membership at Planet Fitness, which to those that don’t know is the home of Free Pizza Fridays and Bagel Mondays.  It seemed odd to me that a health and wellness establishment gives out these kinds of obesity delights, but when I really thought about it I guess it is kind of genius.  Planet Fitness’ official motto is “home of the judgement-free zone,” but I bet in the seedy gym underground it is actually “keep ‘em fat and wobblin’ back.”  I imagine a ruthless head honcho, possibly bald with an eye patch, laughing maniacally and shouting, “More pizza!  More pizza for the fatties!” as he slowly strokes the hairless cat sitting on his lap.

But back to the people watching.  Planet Fitness’ no judgement mantra and “lunk-free zone” signs (sorry, lunks) seem to attract the most novice of gym-goers.  Now, I am no gym aficionado, as I’ve only had a handful of gym memberships.  In this scenario, let’s say a handful equals 2.  Excluding numerous hotel gyms, my inexperience with real gyms has still provided me the proper etiquette in the gym.  I’d like to point out some common do’s and don’t's:

DO – RETURN THE WEIGHTS TO THEIR PROPER PLACE

It’s not a hard concept to grasp, as long as you can match your numbers.  For example, those 15lb weights go back on the rack where it says “15.”  The only excuse I could think of for not doing this is maybe the person can’t read.  And being the judgement-free zone, I guess I can’t judge you for your illiteracy.

DON’T – PERFORM YOUR ENTIRE WORKOUT IN FRONT OF THE WEIGHT RACK

It’s probably not the best idea to do side lunges in front of 5lb through 50lb weights.  People will give you stank face and tsk at you for being in their way, but will not actually say anything to you.  Maybe they will just blog about it.  Passive aggression rules.

DO – WEAR PROPER ATTIRE

This excludes sandals; jeans; jorts; skorts; men’s booty shorts; reflective, neon tops; wife beaters with yellow stains; and anything with fur.

DO – PUT YOUR BELONGINGS IN A LOCKER

Every day that I go to my gym, there is a woman who always carries around her purse, jug of Gatorade and one of those coats with the fur around the edges while working out.  She’ll hang it on the pull-up bar, sling it over a weight bench, or drape it upon herself while doing lunges.  I feel like maybe she doesn’t know about the locker room?  I desperately want to tell her about this wonderful, smelly, woman cave that houses tiny closets for anything you can dream of bringing to the gym.

DON’T – FART

This is self-explanatory.  Most of the equipment already smells kind of farty and it doesn’t need your help.  Farts are for your snuggy to be filled with.

DON’T – BLEED ON THE WEIGHT FLOOR

One gym visit, I was doing my workout and possibly daydreaming about the virtues of having a sugar daddy, when this pathetic sack of turd starting spewing nose blood all over the floor.  It was like a crime scene.

OK, maybe this was me, committing my daily embarrassment.  But that doesn’t make it right.  I told the nearest fitness attendant that worked there what had transpired before darting into the locker room.  He brought me a band-aid.  I wanted to clamp my nostrils shut to show how silly this was, but luckily I managed some self-control.

I have just touched on a few hot-button issues here, but know the list is vast.  I say hot-button because I am sure these issues are just as important to you, right up there with your next state senator or whatever.

Middle state madness

It’s hard to put into words the experience of visiting a nursing home.  It’s hard to put into words a visit to small town Iowa, let alone a place that can be likened to a complete stranger’s dysfunctional family dinner:  there’s uncomfortable yelling, a wiggly food source of unknown origin, and somebody just farted.

This visit was brought upon by my Grandmother, who was skillfully able to coax my Dad, Sister, niece, nephew and I all aboard a discount airplane for 2 hours followed by a lengthy drive into the heart of Iowa.  Well, if not the heart, then certainly somesort of organ belonging to the state.

In Iowa the kids ride in the trunk...trust me.

Upon arrival to the nursing home, my Grandmother began handing out snacks and treats that were hidden inside of her empty bag of tricks labeled “Depends.”  Thankfully, the kids didn’t seem to mind, as they are regulars in the diaper scene as well.  I felt as if we were gaining access to a secret prison stash of Doritos, cookies and Goldfish crackers.  Undoubtedly my Grandma had to trade with the other inmates for cigarettes and sharply carved toothbrushes to gain these precious items, so I eagerly took my share even when she repeatedly called me Dawson and “I don’t remember you.”

You may be thinking she was just confused, but I believe she is more capable than that and called me by several wrong names because I am by far the worst in my family about calling her.  Touche, Grandmother.  Touche.

Baby Mary looking on as the wheelchair races commence

Upon escorting her to lunch, we were able to meet some of her fellow cohorts, including an elderly man who played a Munchkin in The Wizard of Oz.  He jumped up and down on his chair giggling wildly while giving my terrified, 2 year old nephew a high five.  He will no doubt fear that movie for the rest of his life.

“My, you’re tall,” a lunchmate at the adjoining table said to me.  ”Are you going to play basketball?”

“Ugh, no, I don’t think so,” was my meager reply.

“Well why not?  How old are you?” she inquired in an accusatory tone.

“I’m 27.”

“Oh, you’re too old,” she snorted, in the best example to date of pot calling the kettle black.

Back in our hotel room, I asked my nephew to fetch me a glass of water, as I felt he was having too much fun and I was incredibly parched.  He gladly took my empty cup and disappeared around the corner.

“I don’t think he’s coming back,” informed my sister.  But much to my surprise he came eagerly running towards me with a half cup of water.  After thanking him and gulping it down, my sister informs me that like our Munchkin friend, my nephew cannot reach the sink himself.

“Well…then where did he get it?” I ask in a voice of bewilderment.

“Maybe the toilet?  I don’t know,” she answers nonchalantly.  I throw up a bit in my mouth, and make a note to keep in mind this is one 2 year old who is taking a stand against child labor.

We then make our way to the hotel pool, where my nephew spots a legless woman in an electric wheelchair.

“Mommy, where her toes?” my nephew sweetly inquires in the echoing indoor pool area.  ”Her toes go bye bye?  No toes, all gone.”  Kids say the darndest things.  And by “darndest,” I mean “rudest, most hateful.”  Luckily, he is quickly distracted by some diversion of his Mom’s doing.

After 4 visits to my neighborhood Applebees, 2 unbearable plane rides, and 1 cup of toilet water, I finally make it back home feeling plenty confident that my Grandmother does not know my name.

Terminal Singluarus

My name is Nate, and I am single.

Since my move, I’ve met a lot of new and interesting people lately.  And with these many introductions comes the inevitable question:  ”Why are you single, Nate?”

It comes with a high degree of concern, like when your therapist asks you why you ate that entire family sized box of waffles on your home treadmill.  I have spent seconds upon seconds trying to understand the expected answer to this question.

“Because I’ve waited my whole life just for you, you strange person I’ve never met who smells of cabbage!”

Or, “because my undercarriage has rotted away due to years of  under use…”

I have found that this question usually comes from someone who is not suffering from the same tragic condition as me — terminal singularitus.  Have these people been in a relationship so long that they are no longer able to understand the concept of being single?

It’s not that I don’t like being single.  I actually enjoy it and it is definitely a choice I make.  No, that’s not the type of statement that I repeat while crying into my Cheerios.  (That statement would be “no one cares about your rotted off undercarriage.”)  So if I am a happy, functional member of society, why am I not allowed to be alone?  Many feel “alone” and “lonely” go together like peanut butter and my mouth, but this is untrue.  I often enjoy being left alone, not to be bothered.

Much like a committed person can’t grasp the idea of being single, I cannot grasp the idea behind this one question.  You say, “Why are you single?” and all I hear is “Why isn’t there a sleepy unicorn lounging in your underpants?”

You find an answer to that one.

The City Tour of Public Bathrooms

On my way home from the gym this morning I stopped off at a small convenience store wedged between hunkering, red stone buildings to get a drink.  The squat man in line in front of me was inquiring where he could claim his scratch off winnings.  The cashier inquired if the sum was over $10,000, and the man excitedly nodded as the clerk gave directions to some fancy, future rich guy claiming zone.  I imagine it is warehouse full of cash, with new lottery winners doing the backstroke through $100 bills.  I could be mistaken.

While some people may feel the urge to immediately buy a scratch off or lottery ticket after this lucky man, I steer closer to the notion that this righteous jerk has taken any chance of good from me.  Like a Hoover of fortune, he sucked the luck out.

I realize I need to do something to turn this douche of a day around, so I decide to embrace my not-so-inner tourist and take a trek down the Freedom Trail.  Often times, as I am scurrying around downtown pretending to know where I am going, I stumble upon a man dressed in colonial attire, or a woman yelling at a group of people with a Yankee accent.  These good citizens are not, in fact, members of the crazy homeless population, but tour guides for the Freedom Trail.  Ok, sometimes they are just crazy people, but either way they give a good tour.

Notice the minimal amount of cigarette butts. Such a clean city.

I decided to take a self-guided, iPod friendly tour, as the idea of walking around town with a guide brought me fears that he would be unable to break character, and I would be forced to make small talk with a grown man dressed in pantaloons.  Curiously, the first stop on my tour was Dunkin’ Donuts (the poor New Englander’s Starbucks) just as my audio tour guide suggested. I wanted to get the full tourist experience.

Lately, when I approach the counter to order a caffeinated iced beverage, my addiction takes over and automatically orders a ‘venti” no matter where I am.  Even when in my head I am saying “small, black iced coffee please,” what comes out is “venti unsweetened iced coffee!” in a manner that is much too eager.  The coffee mate behind the register got the point and handed me a super-sized cup in a hurry.  Looks like I will be enjoying not only the Freedom Trail but also the City Tour of Public Restrooms.

My propensity to use the loo actually proved useful, as I can now plan my trips around my potty stops when I journey downtown.  The search for public bathrooms (the kind that I don’t have to buy something to use and are not a port-a-potty) in the city is like finding a needle in a haystack.  A haystack that really has to go.

The Freedom Trail itself was actually linked together in 1951 when a red line was added between the many sites and landmarks making it easier for the directionally challenged tourists to navigate. I know Boston has its fair share of history, but I am actually surprised at how packed the 3-mile area is with the links of America’s past.  Thanks to my tour, I would never have seen

this donkey statue...

or this man straddling a globe. I believe it is called "Learning with the world betwixt one's legs." I could be wrong.

And this lovely stat--wait...sorry what's going on here?

Let’s just say there are plenty of sights to see, and I urge all of you to come visit and see them with me.