I am obsessed with my computer keyboard.
Well, more accurately, I am obsessed with getting rid of what is lurking within my computer keyboard.
Have you ever turned your keyboard upside down and pounded the side? A lot of debris comes floating down. A lot. It reminds me of that scene in Breakfast Club when Ally Sheedy’s character puts her fingers in her hair, leans her head over her sandwich and vigorously shakes causing it to “snow.” And it’s just as gross.
I shake and pound my keyboard until nothing else comes out. Then I fold a piece of paper multiple times and shove it between the keys – sweeping forcefully back and forth – to loosen any stubborn hold outs. Then I turn the keyboard over again and shake and pound anew. To my immense satisfaction more disgusting tidbits tumble out.
Experience has taught me that a piece of paper folded multiple times works better than the sticky end of a post-it. At first I thought using the sticky part of the post-it would pick up more stubbornly lodged keyboard flotsam and jetsam, but while sticky, it is too fragile and limp to have the desired effect. The thickness of the multi-folded paper makes it sturdy enough to extricate the bits cowering in the corners as well as those that cling to the bottom with opihi-like tenacity. It is also flexible enough to get under the keys as well as along the sides.
Those pressurized air canisters are also a great tool in this effort, but they can be kind of expensive. Blowing a concentrated stream of air works just as well (I have good lungs…another reason not to smoke, kids!) Just be careful about getting dizzy and the potential to hyperventilate. Oh yes, and remember to blow at an angle, or else the debris will pelt you in the face.
It is fascinating that no matter how many times I run my folded paper through the keys, debris continues to fall. Sometimes I need to pound more vigorously. Sometimes just one or two pieces fall…but to my delight (and yes, I know that’s weird), something almost always comes out. I think part of the reason is because while it is easy to sweep horizontally on the keyboard due to the alignment of the keys, thus quickly dislodging anything in the horizontal path; digging vertically through the keyboard is more difficult and there are more places for the debris to hide. So there’s always a little bit you missed.
One reason I have so much debris in my keyboard is because I eat while I work or play on the computer. Hmm…have I just upped the gross factor? Or are we beyond that point already? However, that cannot account for all the junk I find in there when I clean. I do not know what that other stuff is or where it originates. It just gives me immense satisfaction to watch its departure.
I realize many may find this strange and disgusting. Perhaps even a bit OCD-ish. Why am I so captivated by cleaning my keyboard? It is odd, because I am not a neat freak. I am actually quite comfortable with a certain degree of messiness around me. I think it may be because while the “getting my keyboard clean” aspect of this appeals to me, the main attraction is more about seeing the debris fall out. It is kind of like popping a pimple or squeezing out whiteheads from your nose. You are glad that gunk is not inside anymore, but it’s more interesting to see that white stuff extruding out of your pores.
Or is that just me?
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
Busload of Pride
I missed my bus today.
That in itself is not a significant event. (Although it bothers me that if I had left my apartment building one minute earlier I would not have missed it.) Rather, what my missing the bus today represents is of more significance.
I might have made it . . . if I had run. I chose not to run. Not because I am unable to run. Not because I was too exhausted to run. Not because I knew another bus would get me to work on time (I was a tiny bit late to work this morning). But rather, because of pride.
Now, when I see people running for the bus, I do not think less of them. In fact, I am rather sympathetic in a removed sort of way. I do not pity them, but a mental “bummers,” comes to mind and then my brain is off to another topic.
Running for the bus is not beneath me. If it was my first day at work, I would have run (at least I think I would). If I had a meeting and by missing that bus I knew I would be late, I would have run.
For some reason, I would feel embarrassed and odd if I ran to the bus and boarded it out-of-breath and knowing that people in the bus probably saw me running. Even worse than that would be if I had run and the bus had taken off without me. I would have run in vain. Yet, it is not the expended effort with no reward that troubles me. It bothers me that people would have seen me run and the bus leave without me.
Part of the problem is that I “know” these people. Not like their names or their trials and tribulations, but in the way you “know” people that you see often, but never interact with. Like, if you go to the same neighborhood venue a lot, you will often see, but not speak with many of the same people. At the bus stop, there is usually middle-aged glasses guy, Wisteria lady, girl my age, mom and daughter, tall Japanese lady, young blonde guy, gay bag guy, etc. I see these people (usually) five days a week. I would always be the person running for the bus as it drove away.
I realize that I am giving this a lot more thought than anyone in the bus would. Perhaps they would not even notice that I ran for the bus, much less remember me. Still, something within me stopped me from running. I thought about running, then immediately dismissed it.
As I was walking toward the bus stop, an older lady waved her arms to the bus driver indicating she wanted him to wait as she slowly waddled to the bus. At this point I was sure that if I walked quickly, I would have made it. I started to, but as I put my hand in my sweater pocket, I realized I could not feel my bus pass. I immediately slowed down and went to sit at the bus stop. By the time I fished around in my pocket and found the bus pass, I still had time to make the bus, but I was already sitting down.
I remained seated. The bus doors closed and the bus roared away. I sat there thinking I must be an idiot or incredibly vain. I did not rule out a combination of the two. I still have not.
I would rather think it was a passive-aggressive move to avoid going to work, than to believe I am that vain. Or lazy. I can live with lazy. But vain? I think my pride is a bigger problem for me than even I realize. It is probably the most influential thing keeping me from pleasing God, too. I mean, there are a myriad of things, but my pride is obviously the largest of the stumbling blocks.
It is strange, because I do not think of myself as a prideful person. For example, when going out in public, my standard is try to be as clean as possible under the circumstances. I occasionally use hairspray, but I do not wear make-up and have no real fashion sense (No stains on my blouse? I’m good to go!) I do not feel I embarrass easier than the average person. I do not think I go around singing my own praises, although others may disagree.
But, I guess there is a difference between a boastful pride and a more subverted, less obvious pride. The second type is probably more insidious because it can be hidden not only from others, but from yourself as well.
I goeth before the fall? Better make sure I’m not walking in front of you.
Now that’s prideful!
That in itself is not a significant event. (Although it bothers me that if I had left my apartment building one minute earlier I would not have missed it.) Rather, what my missing the bus today represents is of more significance.
I might have made it . . . if I had run. I chose not to run. Not because I am unable to run. Not because I was too exhausted to run. Not because I knew another bus would get me to work on time (I was a tiny bit late to work this morning). But rather, because of pride.
Now, when I see people running for the bus, I do not think less of them. In fact, I am rather sympathetic in a removed sort of way. I do not pity them, but a mental “bummers,” comes to mind and then my brain is off to another topic.
Running for the bus is not beneath me. If it was my first day at work, I would have run (at least I think I would). If I had a meeting and by missing that bus I knew I would be late, I would have run.
For some reason, I would feel embarrassed and odd if I ran to the bus and boarded it out-of-breath and knowing that people in the bus probably saw me running. Even worse than that would be if I had run and the bus had taken off without me. I would have run in vain. Yet, it is not the expended effort with no reward that troubles me. It bothers me that people would have seen me run and the bus leave without me.
Part of the problem is that I “know” these people. Not like their names or their trials and tribulations, but in the way you “know” people that you see often, but never interact with. Like, if you go to the same neighborhood venue a lot, you will often see, but not speak with many of the same people. At the bus stop, there is usually middle-aged glasses guy, Wisteria lady, girl my age, mom and daughter, tall Japanese lady, young blonde guy, gay bag guy, etc. I see these people (usually) five days a week. I would always be the person running for the bus as it drove away.
I realize that I am giving this a lot more thought than anyone in the bus would. Perhaps they would not even notice that I ran for the bus, much less remember me. Still, something within me stopped me from running. I thought about running, then immediately dismissed it.
As I was walking toward the bus stop, an older lady waved her arms to the bus driver indicating she wanted him to wait as she slowly waddled to the bus. At this point I was sure that if I walked quickly, I would have made it. I started to, but as I put my hand in my sweater pocket, I realized I could not feel my bus pass. I immediately slowed down and went to sit at the bus stop. By the time I fished around in my pocket and found the bus pass, I still had time to make the bus, but I was already sitting down.
I remained seated. The bus doors closed and the bus roared away. I sat there thinking I must be an idiot or incredibly vain. I did not rule out a combination of the two. I still have not.
I would rather think it was a passive-aggressive move to avoid going to work, than to believe I am that vain. Or lazy. I can live with lazy. But vain? I think my pride is a bigger problem for me than even I realize. It is probably the most influential thing keeping me from pleasing God, too. I mean, there are a myriad of things, but my pride is obviously the largest of the stumbling blocks.
It is strange, because I do not think of myself as a prideful person. For example, when going out in public, my standard is try to be as clean as possible under the circumstances. I occasionally use hairspray, but I do not wear make-up and have no real fashion sense (No stains on my blouse? I’m good to go!) I do not feel I embarrass easier than the average person. I do not think I go around singing my own praises, although others may disagree.
But, I guess there is a difference between a boastful pride and a more subverted, less obvious pride. The second type is probably more insidious because it can be hidden not only from others, but from yourself as well.
I goeth before the fall? Better make sure I’m not walking in front of you.
Now that’s prideful!
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
*Hmph!*
I am annoyed. I am irritated. I want to roll my eyes, but I am a tiny bit concerned that my eyes will get stuck that way, thus changing my field of vision forever. I imagine myself constantly tripping over things on the ground, because I am unable to see them. That would be even more annoying. But I digress.
Why am I annoyed? Irritated? Valiantly trying not to roll my eyes?
Well, you know the answer to the last question. But as to the first two . . . does it really matter? Are you truly interested to know why I am annoyed? By my writing this, are you becoming annoyed when you previously were not? Have I served to spread my annoyance like an air-borne computer virus?
Perhaps you are now trying valiantly not to roll your eyes. If you do not have the fortitude to control yourself, do not blame me if they get stuck that way. I explained why it might be dangerous. Are you, at this moment having to tuck your chin into your neck to continue to read this drivel? Or have you already given up and I am writing into empty space (as empty as it can be with all these words all over it).
If I write it and nobody reads it, have I written anything at all? Like the tree falling in the forest or the one hand clapping. Such are the deep, philosophical questions of our day. Frankly, pondering all this is giving me a headache.
Now, I’m really annoyed.
Why am I annoyed? Irritated? Valiantly trying not to roll my eyes?
Well, you know the answer to the last question. But as to the first two . . . does it really matter? Are you truly interested to know why I am annoyed? By my writing this, are you becoming annoyed when you previously were not? Have I served to spread my annoyance like an air-borne computer virus?
Perhaps you are now trying valiantly not to roll your eyes. If you do not have the fortitude to control yourself, do not blame me if they get stuck that way. I explained why it might be dangerous. Are you, at this moment having to tuck your chin into your neck to continue to read this drivel? Or have you already given up and I am writing into empty space (as empty as it can be with all these words all over it).
If I write it and nobody reads it, have I written anything at all? Like the tree falling in the forest or the one hand clapping. Such are the deep, philosophical questions of our day. Frankly, pondering all this is giving me a headache.
Now, I’m really annoyed.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Exercising for Dummies
Recently, several friends shared that they have begun exercising regularly. I guess my friends and I are at the age when regular exercise becomes more of a “must” instead of an “it’ll be nice if I can find the time” type of activity.
One friend said her husband used to exercise three days a week, but once he increased to five days a week, he managed to lower his cholesterol. Another friend said she walks around her neighborhood a couple of times a week and that if she misses too many days, she is really able to feel the difference. She feels “so much better” when she walks and “sluggish” when she does not. Another friend does two cardio classes a week at the gym, plus other exercising and yoga on top of that. She too, insists exercising makes her feel noticeably better.
Well, taking stories like these to heart, as well as a heavily suggestive conversation with my doctor about the glorious benefits of regular exercise, I have been brainwashed and bullied into exercising regularly. For about a month, I have been exercising about 30-minutes five times a week. Thirty continuous minutes, mind you. Not five minutes of walking here and there, but actually following an exercise DVD.
I do not feel different. If I skip a day or two, I do not miss the exercise, nor do I feel sluggish. I do not feel more energetic. My clothes do not fit better. I get no endorphin “high.” I am beginning to think I have been fooled. Bamboozled. Had.
Now, I did not expect results immediately, although that would have been nice. I have been at this for over a month. Shouldn’t I see or experience some beneficial gain by now?
I am hanging on by a thread, telling myself that while my outside may not show an improvement, surely my insides are reaping the benefits. I do not know if this is true . . . I guess I will have to wait until I go back to the doctor or take lab tests or whatever. In the meantime, I will continue trying to convince myself that exercising is good.
Will this exercise kick last or will I soon revert to my couch potato ways? Perhaps some of us just were not meant to be exercise enthusiasts. Or maybe I’m looking at this all wrong. Maybe I need to see it as a challenge. I need to be stubborn and dig my heels in (I am rather good at that). Play to my strengths, so to speak.
I don’t need no stinkin’ results. I don’t need to “feel good.” I will continue to subject myself to this thing called “regular exercise,” because no one and no thing will tell me otherwise. I can stop any time I want to . . . I just don’t want to.
Not much of a pep talk, I know. Unfortunately, that’s the best that I have right now.
We shall see, honeybee . . . we shall see.
One friend said her husband used to exercise three days a week, but once he increased to five days a week, he managed to lower his cholesterol. Another friend said she walks around her neighborhood a couple of times a week and that if she misses too many days, she is really able to feel the difference. She feels “so much better” when she walks and “sluggish” when she does not. Another friend does two cardio classes a week at the gym, plus other exercising and yoga on top of that. She too, insists exercising makes her feel noticeably better.
Well, taking stories like these to heart, as well as a heavily suggestive conversation with my doctor about the glorious benefits of regular exercise, I have been brainwashed and bullied into exercising regularly. For about a month, I have been exercising about 30-minutes five times a week. Thirty continuous minutes, mind you. Not five minutes of walking here and there, but actually following an exercise DVD.
I do not feel different. If I skip a day or two, I do not miss the exercise, nor do I feel sluggish. I do not feel more energetic. My clothes do not fit better. I get no endorphin “high.” I am beginning to think I have been fooled. Bamboozled. Had.
Now, I did not expect results immediately, although that would have been nice. I have been at this for over a month. Shouldn’t I see or experience some beneficial gain by now?
I am hanging on by a thread, telling myself that while my outside may not show an improvement, surely my insides are reaping the benefits. I do not know if this is true . . . I guess I will have to wait until I go back to the doctor or take lab tests or whatever. In the meantime, I will continue trying to convince myself that exercising is good.
Will this exercise kick last or will I soon revert to my couch potato ways? Perhaps some of us just were not meant to be exercise enthusiasts. Or maybe I’m looking at this all wrong. Maybe I need to see it as a challenge. I need to be stubborn and dig my heels in (I am rather good at that). Play to my strengths, so to speak.
I don’t need no stinkin’ results. I don’t need to “feel good.” I will continue to subject myself to this thing called “regular exercise,” because no one and no thing will tell me otherwise. I can stop any time I want to . . . I just don’t want to.
Not much of a pep talk, I know. Unfortunately, that’s the best that I have right now.
We shall see, honeybee . . . we shall see.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
HIFF, HIFF, Hooray!
HIFF stands for the Hawai'i International Film Festival. The Festival ran for a week-and-a-half and I managed to see four movies. Every year I tell myself I should take vacation during this time so I can see more movies!
The first movie I saw was called, Fruit Fly. It was a musical set in San Francisco. A performance artist comes to San Francisco via the Philippines (went looking for her birth parents) and Maryland (where she grew up with her adoptive parents). She moves in with a gay male set designer, a lesbian couple and a runaway teen. It was a fun, raunchy, tongue-in-cheek film that had songs like, "Public Transportation" and "Fag Hag." In one scene, one of the protagonist's friends says that she's not a fag hag (she sees it as a pejorative term), but more like a fruit fly. Hence the title. It was a fun way to start my HIFF experience.
The next movie I saw was Made in China. This was a film about a young creator of novelty items in Texas taking a trip to China to make a deal to produce his product. He is scammed by his "Chinese contact" (found on Craig's List) and finds himself befriending a successful business man in a neighborhood bar. Hilarity (sort of) ensues.
The earnestness of the main character really has you feeling for him, yet he seems so naive, you want to slap his head at the same time. Well, not really slap his head (since in general I am a pacifist), but grab him by the shoulders and shake him (in a verbal, non-violent way). It got a bit boring in the middle, but overall I enjoyed it. The actor was there for a Q&A after the movie. He said it was guerilla film making. All filming was done without Government permission and the city shots and scenes with "locals" were done on the fly...so one take only.
The third movie I saw was my favorite. It is called Flavor of Happiness. Except for having a Japanese actor play a Chinese chef, I loved this movie. I guess I can excuse this supposedly Chinese character's very Japanese ways on having lived in Japan for so long. This was a touching, funny and lovely story about a Chinese chef who cooks delicious, simple, quality dishes and the young single mother he takes on as an apprentice after he has a stroke. The relationship between the characters and their performances were so subtle and nuanced and beautiful. And the food looked awesome. You could tell the director loved food. I mean, that's the perfect way to describe it...the food shots were lovingly done. My friend called it "food porn," and while funny, the shots were a bit more...uh...refined(?) than that.
The movie reminded me a little of Ratatouille, where home cooking, done simply and well can evoke memories of the past. A time when the characters felt safe, comforted and loved...feelings that are all too scarce in their adult lives. In the Q&A with the Director and Producer after the movie, the Director said he's a foodie and always wanted to make a film about food. Chinese food is his favorite, and while filming (a different movie) in China, there was this one dish -- scrambled eggs with fresh tomatoes -- that he never tired of, since it reminded him of his childhood. This is the dish featured in the film.
Another great thing about HIFF is that the films shown here are sometimes their American debut. Some of the Asian films have been screened at European film festivals, but not in the United States. That is the case with the last HIFF film I saw, the Japanese remake of Sideways. I think I liked the American version better (I say "think" because it has been awhile since I saw it). Although it was fun to see the Japanese touches in the movie. For example, when the Paul Giamatti character arrives in Los Angeles to meet his friend who is getting married, he talks about some recent disappointment in his life and decided to come to America for the wedding (and this pre-wedding trip) hoping the western winds would help blow away his discontent.
The director of the film was there for a Q&A after the movie and he said that there is a rumor that an Indian version of Sideways will be in the works shortly. There is a trend in the international film industry to take a well-established American film and do the foreign country's version of it.
Although there were many more films I would have liked to see, I am happy with the four that I managed to view. HIFF, HIFF, Hooray!
The first movie I saw was called, Fruit Fly. It was a musical set in San Francisco. A performance artist comes to San Francisco via the Philippines (went looking for her birth parents) and Maryland (where she grew up with her adoptive parents). She moves in with a gay male set designer, a lesbian couple and a runaway teen. It was a fun, raunchy, tongue-in-cheek film that had songs like, "Public Transportation" and "Fag Hag." In one scene, one of the protagonist's friends says that she's not a fag hag (she sees it as a pejorative term), but more like a fruit fly. Hence the title. It was a fun way to start my HIFF experience.
The next movie I saw was Made in China. This was a film about a young creator of novelty items in Texas taking a trip to China to make a deal to produce his product. He is scammed by his "Chinese contact" (found on Craig's List) and finds himself befriending a successful business man in a neighborhood bar. Hilarity (sort of) ensues.
The earnestness of the main character really has you feeling for him, yet he seems so naive, you want to slap his head at the same time. Well, not really slap his head (since in general I am a pacifist), but grab him by the shoulders and shake him (in a verbal, non-violent way). It got a bit boring in the middle, but overall I enjoyed it. The actor was there for a Q&A after the movie. He said it was guerilla film making. All filming was done without Government permission and the city shots and scenes with "locals" were done on the fly...so one take only.
The third movie I saw was my favorite. It is called Flavor of Happiness. Except for having a Japanese actor play a Chinese chef, I loved this movie. I guess I can excuse this supposedly Chinese character's very Japanese ways on having lived in Japan for so long. This was a touching, funny and lovely story about a Chinese chef who cooks delicious, simple, quality dishes and the young single mother he takes on as an apprentice after he has a stroke. The relationship between the characters and their performances were so subtle and nuanced and beautiful. And the food looked awesome. You could tell the director loved food. I mean, that's the perfect way to describe it...the food shots were lovingly done. My friend called it "food porn," and while funny, the shots were a bit more...uh...refined(?) than that.
The movie reminded me a little of Ratatouille, where home cooking, done simply and well can evoke memories of the past. A time when the characters felt safe, comforted and loved...feelings that are all too scarce in their adult lives. In the Q&A with the Director and Producer after the movie, the Director said he's a foodie and always wanted to make a film about food. Chinese food is his favorite, and while filming (a different movie) in China, there was this one dish -- scrambled eggs with fresh tomatoes -- that he never tired of, since it reminded him of his childhood. This is the dish featured in the film.
Another great thing about HIFF is that the films shown here are sometimes their American debut. Some of the Asian films have been screened at European film festivals, but not in the United States. That is the case with the last HIFF film I saw, the Japanese remake of Sideways. I think I liked the American version better (I say "think" because it has been awhile since I saw it). Although it was fun to see the Japanese touches in the movie. For example, when the Paul Giamatti character arrives in Los Angeles to meet his friend who is getting married, he talks about some recent disappointment in his life and decided to come to America for the wedding (and this pre-wedding trip) hoping the western winds would help blow away his discontent.
The director of the film was there for a Q&A after the movie and he said that there is a rumor that an Indian version of Sideways will be in the works shortly. There is a trend in the international film industry to take a well-established American film and do the foreign country's version of it.
Although there were many more films I would have liked to see, I am happy with the four that I managed to view. HIFF, HIFF, Hooray!
Friday, September 18, 2009
Loss
It has been a tumultuous week. Yesterday, my heart was so heavy that all I wanted to do was wallow in my own sadness. There's a certain comfort in wallowing. Perhaps that's why pigs do it.
This week I went to my Uncle's funeral. I did not think it would be as emotional as it was for me...remains for me. I saw family that I usually only see at weddings and funerals. It was nice to see them. It was nice to be together, although I am virtually a stranger to some of them and them to me. Yet, I have known most of them for all our lives. There is some comfort in knowing that you share blood. Odd, isn't it, the power of familial bonds.
After the funeral, my Aunty (the widow) collapsed in the restroom and was taken to the hospital. Later that day, my mom informed me my cousin was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and the outlook is rather grim.
I did not experience a tidal wave of sadness -- powerful and forceful. But more along the lines of feeling myself sinking slowly into the depths of the ocean. Overwhelming, not in a dramatic way, but rather, in a quiet, silent, sensory deprivation type of way. No wailing or sobbing, but as my chest tightens ever so slowly, tears silently seep out of my eyes.
I cried out to God. Asked for refuge. To hide in a cave. Wanted to continue wallowing. God is good. He allowed some time for wallowing, then He provided real comfort. Thanks, God.
Today is better. My heart is not as heavy and I have decided wallowing is for pigs. My Aunty is doing well and should be going home today. They believe she collapsed from dehydration, so she received fluids and is feeling better. My parents visited my cousin and said he looks well, although he has quite the battle ahead of him.
I miss my Uncle. He always had a ready smile and "hello," and would ask how I was doing. Even when his health began failing and he was weaker and had difficulty getting out of bed. He was soft-spoken and conveyed a gentleness that was welcoming and comforting at the same time. From family stories, I know he could be strict, but I never saw that side.
They showed a video at his funeral, of my Uncle in his wheelchair, singing "Jesus Loves Me" to his great-grandson. Singing in the halting way that older people sometimes do, as though they cannot get enough air into their lungs. But it was sweet and genuine...childlike in the loveliest, most respectful and complementary sense of that word.
I love you, Uncle. You will be missed.
This week I went to my Uncle's funeral. I did not think it would be as emotional as it was for me...remains for me. I saw family that I usually only see at weddings and funerals. It was nice to see them. It was nice to be together, although I am virtually a stranger to some of them and them to me. Yet, I have known most of them for all our lives. There is some comfort in knowing that you share blood. Odd, isn't it, the power of familial bonds.
After the funeral, my Aunty (the widow) collapsed in the restroom and was taken to the hospital. Later that day, my mom informed me my cousin was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and the outlook is rather grim.
I did not experience a tidal wave of sadness -- powerful and forceful. But more along the lines of feeling myself sinking slowly into the depths of the ocean. Overwhelming, not in a dramatic way, but rather, in a quiet, silent, sensory deprivation type of way. No wailing or sobbing, but as my chest tightens ever so slowly, tears silently seep out of my eyes.
I cried out to God. Asked for refuge. To hide in a cave. Wanted to continue wallowing. God is good. He allowed some time for wallowing, then He provided real comfort. Thanks, God.
Today is better. My heart is not as heavy and I have decided wallowing is for pigs. My Aunty is doing well and should be going home today. They believe she collapsed from dehydration, so she received fluids and is feeling better. My parents visited my cousin and said he looks well, although he has quite the battle ahead of him.
I miss my Uncle. He always had a ready smile and "hello," and would ask how I was doing. Even when his health began failing and he was weaker and had difficulty getting out of bed. He was soft-spoken and conveyed a gentleness that was welcoming and comforting at the same time. From family stories, I know he could be strict, but I never saw that side.
They showed a video at his funeral, of my Uncle in his wheelchair, singing "Jesus Loves Me" to his great-grandson. Singing in the halting way that older people sometimes do, as though they cannot get enough air into their lungs. But it was sweet and genuine...childlike in the loveliest, most respectful and complementary sense of that word.
I love you, Uncle. You will be missed.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Achy Breaky Everything
I ache.
Pretty much all over my body.
Getting old sucks. Being out of shape sucks. Being old and out of shape really sucks.
I played tennis with some friends last night, hence my currently sorry state. I suppose getting older is not as bad as forgetting the reality of being older. I did not realize how much more effort is required when one is older. It means those balls you would chase down (and get to) on a regular basis take more effort. It means those knees you relied upon to spring into action are more rusty and creakey than springy. It means the supple wrist you relied upon to make last minute changes need extra support (sports tape) and feel the brunt of no longer being supple.
I realize I am whining and that whining is not attractive. I do not care right now. All I want to do is sit in a hot tub with super-powerful jets and soak my achy breaky body. Then I would like a full-body, therapeutic massage by someone with strong hands. *sigh* That would be awesome. My mouth is now slack and my eyes unfocused as I contemplate fantasy becoming reality. Excuse any spelling or grammatical errors as I drift off into my pain-induced haze.
Great, I'm back. Well, it was nice while it lasted.
I currently have many types of pain. Perhaps I will get some perverse pleasure out of identifying the different types. First, there is the sharp jab that startles you (my shoulder when I move it a certain way). Then there is the slow achy throb that just underlies daily life. There is also the pain in which your muscles are constantly tight (my neck). There is also the shooting pain that starts at one part of the body, but ends up at another, like when my lower back hurts, then shoots down to my butt, leaving a trail of wincing pain in its wake.
I'm walking funny, I'm wincing at odd times and must look somewhat odder than usual shuffling around. Although I looked a lot more awkward last night trying to get out of bed and use the bathroom (drank lots of water to avoid leg cramps). Quasimodo would've looked like Fred Astaire next to me. Not to mention what I must look like walking down stairs (note aforementioned creaky knees). Makes me walk bow-legged in an uneven gait clutching the handrail in case those knees decide to give out.
All right, even I am getting irritated with my whiney self. I could have avoided all this if I did not play tennis and spent the evening on my couch watching Project Runway like I had originally intended. Of course, the other option would be to exercise (at least a little) every day so I would not feel this intensity of pain. Maybe then, I wouldn't lumber to the ball and be huffing and puffing after every point. At one point during the set, I actually said, "lumber, lumber, lumber" aloud as I moved toward the ball. Nothing like creating your own disparaging commentary while on the court.
Pretty much all over my body.
Getting old sucks. Being out of shape sucks. Being old and out of shape really sucks.
I played tennis with some friends last night, hence my currently sorry state. I suppose getting older is not as bad as forgetting the reality of being older. I did not realize how much more effort is required when one is older. It means those balls you would chase down (and get to) on a regular basis take more effort. It means those knees you relied upon to spring into action are more rusty and creakey than springy. It means the supple wrist you relied upon to make last minute changes need extra support (sports tape) and feel the brunt of no longer being supple.
I realize I am whining and that whining is not attractive. I do not care right now. All I want to do is sit in a hot tub with super-powerful jets and soak my achy breaky body. Then I would like a full-body, therapeutic massage by someone with strong hands. *sigh* That would be awesome. My mouth is now slack and my eyes unfocused as I contemplate fantasy becoming reality. Excuse any spelling or grammatical errors as I drift off into my pain-induced haze.
Great, I'm back. Well, it was nice while it lasted.
I currently have many types of pain. Perhaps I will get some perverse pleasure out of identifying the different types. First, there is the sharp jab that startles you (my shoulder when I move it a certain way). Then there is the slow achy throb that just underlies daily life. There is also the pain in which your muscles are constantly tight (my neck). There is also the shooting pain that starts at one part of the body, but ends up at another, like when my lower back hurts, then shoots down to my butt, leaving a trail of wincing pain in its wake.
I'm walking funny, I'm wincing at odd times and must look somewhat odder than usual shuffling around. Although I looked a lot more awkward last night trying to get out of bed and use the bathroom (drank lots of water to avoid leg cramps). Quasimodo would've looked like Fred Astaire next to me. Not to mention what I must look like walking down stairs (note aforementioned creaky knees). Makes me walk bow-legged in an uneven gait clutching the handrail in case those knees decide to give out.
All right, even I am getting irritated with my whiney self. I could have avoided all this if I did not play tennis and spent the evening on my couch watching Project Runway like I had originally intended. Of course, the other option would be to exercise (at least a little) every day so I would not feel this intensity of pain. Maybe then, I wouldn't lumber to the ball and be huffing and puffing after every point. At one point during the set, I actually said, "lumber, lumber, lumber" aloud as I moved toward the ball. Nothing like creating your own disparaging commentary while on the court.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
