I can't leave well enough alone
I have this problem: I like change.
I like change so much that I rarely let things stay the same. I want to modify, improve, alter, abandon and start fresh, upgrade, and rearrange. I do this with furniture, bicycles, guitars, my personality, my relationships, my career, my education. In many cases it helps and improves life (my wife and have the best relationship of any I know; my bike is perfect for my needs; my couch is positioned perfectly for optimal television viewing and guest conversations). There are some cases, however, where this habit of mine doesn't improve but it confuses or altogether diminishes the object or idea of manipulation (I've had amazing guitars and now I don't; studied Psych @ University and now have a hard time finding a career I love).
Insect Surgery
This personality quirk, eccentricity, annoyance, habbit, flaw... this thing is like insects performing surgery on eachother. It's well-intentioned but ultimately irrellevant. The life span of the insect is short and the surgery itself will kill the insect; there is no recovering. It's micromanagement in quinitscence. I admire people who have a well-defined path and contentedly move along that path with measured success.
I can't get no satisafaction?
It's not that I'm dissatisfied in life. It's quite the opposite. Life is good and I'm generally pretty happy. (I think I get my eternal optimism from my mother.) The problem is that my optimism paints everything with broad strokes of opportunity. I see good things with the potential for greatness and great things with the potential for amazingness (case-in-point: the word amazing has the potential to be used in other ways and to make friends with new suffixes, so if amazingness is not really a word then I just made it a word with my optimism).
ADD?
I like change partly becasue I get bored easily. I like constant stimulation, not video games and loud music per-se, but my mind and body need to be engaged... a lot... all the time. I don't believe I have a deficit of attention but rather require many stimuli to be engaged. And when those stimuli fail to engage, then I must create new stimuli to get the job done. Now, I can be distracted with changing a light bulb on the way to doing the laundry and then set the oven the biscuits I'm going to make and pick up some toys and put them away in the meantime, check facebook, and answer an email about a bike part I'm trying to sell (constant bike tinkering is a symptom). Amazingly ( maybe just to me) I generally get all of those things done. I forget, from time to time, about some things on the list but the tinkering continues.
To the point
I am happy. I am happy with how things are and happy to change them too. Most aspects of life are good to great. I like to put a little polish on good and iron some of the wrinkles out of great. Does this make me crazy?
Your turn
A blog is great when it engages. So in light of this post about messin' wit' stuff I'd like to mess with blogging. Reader, can you relate? Do you make yourself or others with your idiosyncrasies?
Do tell...
Friday, 10 February 2012
Monday, 2 January 2012
Handshakes and high-fives; call this a co-op
The Game
As a teenager attending public school in the US, I took some liberties in how I addressed my teachers, my approach towards school work and my general disposition. When I say liberties, I mean that I was rude to teachers and administrators, hated school work and had a terrible attitude. I thought I could argue my way in or out of any situation I wanted, school work included. What really happened though, was that I found myself in trouble… often, with poor grades and a shrinking group of friends.
In my Defense
I wasn't totally off base. I argued against school rules I found unfair and fought against stereotypes (ironically because I was a living teenage stereotype). I also found that I was good at arguing; not just for argument's sake but in developing a decent and defendable position. I was resolute in my belief that fighting against something was better that working with something for change. I had a screamo-metal-band (think Deftones meets Rage Against the Machine) with fans (both of them) who supported our plight. I was convinced I had a good thing going and my way was the rightway. Heck, I even proved a few teachers and administrators wrong with only a detention or threat of suspension as their shield. As a teenager, all I needed was one reason to hold my foolish ways as truth and I was finding several.
Symbolic High-fives
My friends didn't literally give me high-fives. (Except when I played baseball. In baseball, the universal player-to-player show of appreciation is the high-five… or the butt-slap.) My friends laughed at my jokes, relished in how I regaled them with colourful tales of disobedience, and some even payed money for the concerts my band put on. These were the high-fives and the butt-slaps that let me know I was on the right track with my peers.
Handshakes
As I enrolled in college in St. George, Utah in the fall of 1998, I realized that my fanbase had shrunk considerably… to one: me. The band: broken-up, the reputation: nonexistent, the courage: extinct, the fight: a tepid squall within. I was in unfamiliar territory and I could not take the same approach. I learned that no one was impressed with immature contumacy and that, outside of high school, I was a no one.
I also learned that people appreciate other people who are kind, who smile a lot, and who work positively for change. It was earth-shattering. How could this happen? How could I be so far off base?
The Co-op
I was also getting closer to the age of missionary service in my church. I belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and as a 18 year old young man in the church I would be eligible to submit my application (we call it submitting your papers) to be a missionary. This meant I had to grow up and learn to get along with others. This meant I had to live my religion better. This meant I had to prepare to serve others for 2 years, full-time, with no days off.
This meant I had to cooperate!
Now, I didn't have to do any of these things but I wanted to do them because I knew they would make me a better person. Deep down in my grinchy, little heart, I knew that my ways were not God's ways and that would need to change.
The Change
When a war is in full bloom, the countries engaged often change their manufacturing plants to produce goods to support their troops. The factory that once produced hammers and nails is now making bullets, bombs and guns. When the war is over, those manufacturers will retool to produce hammers and nails again.
I never made hammers and nails as a teenager but designed my factory, so to speak, to make bullets, bombs and guns. Through missionary service and myriad other experiences, I changed.
I changed and I liked it. I learned to like pleasing people. I learned that my arguing skills could be retooled to be negotiating skills. I learned that I was still good at getting people on my side and I didn't need heavy artillery.
I was WRONG
Most importantly, I learned that I was wrong… the teenage me was wrong.
It's an important lesson that I think of often as I continue to learn new things and view life through various windows/perspectives.
Lesson learned right? Don't argue and try to get along with others, right?
Well maybe this doesn't always work…
P.S. I have some photo evidence of my teenage years that I'll have to scan and put here.
As a teenager attending public school in the US, I took some liberties in how I addressed my teachers, my approach towards school work and my general disposition. When I say liberties, I mean that I was rude to teachers and administrators, hated school work and had a terrible attitude. I thought I could argue my way in or out of any situation I wanted, school work included. What really happened though, was that I found myself in trouble… often, with poor grades and a shrinking group of friends.
In my Defense
I wasn't totally off base. I argued against school rules I found unfair and fought against stereotypes (ironically because I was a living teenage stereotype). I also found that I was good at arguing; not just for argument's sake but in developing a decent and defendable position. I was resolute in my belief that fighting against something was better that working with something for change. I had a screamo-metal-band (think Deftones meets Rage Against the Machine) with fans (both of them) who supported our plight. I was convinced I had a good thing going and my way was the rightway. Heck, I even proved a few teachers and administrators wrong with only a detention or threat of suspension as their shield. As a teenager, all I needed was one reason to hold my foolish ways as truth and I was finding several.
Symbolic High-fives
My friends didn't literally give me high-fives. (Except when I played baseball. In baseball, the universal player-to-player show of appreciation is the high-five… or the butt-slap.) My friends laughed at my jokes, relished in how I regaled them with colourful tales of disobedience, and some even payed money for the concerts my band put on. These were the high-fives and the butt-slaps that let me know I was on the right track with my peers.
Handshakes
As I enrolled in college in St. George, Utah in the fall of 1998, I realized that my fanbase had shrunk considerably… to one: me. The band: broken-up, the reputation: nonexistent, the courage: extinct, the fight: a tepid squall within. I was in unfamiliar territory and I could not take the same approach. I learned that no one was impressed with immature contumacy and that, outside of high school, I was a no one.
I also learned that people appreciate other people who are kind, who smile a lot, and who work positively for change. It was earth-shattering. How could this happen? How could I be so far off base?
The Co-op
I was also getting closer to the age of missionary service in my church. I belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and as a 18 year old young man in the church I would be eligible to submit my application (we call it submitting your papers) to be a missionary. This meant I had to grow up and learn to get along with others. This meant I had to live my religion better. This meant I had to prepare to serve others for 2 years, full-time, with no days off.
This meant I had to cooperate!
Now, I didn't have to do any of these things but I wanted to do them because I knew they would make me a better person. Deep down in my grinchy, little heart, I knew that my ways were not God's ways and that would need to change.
The Change
When a war is in full bloom, the countries engaged often change their manufacturing plants to produce goods to support their troops. The factory that once produced hammers and nails is now making bullets, bombs and guns. When the war is over, those manufacturers will retool to produce hammers and nails again.
I never made hammers and nails as a teenager but designed my factory, so to speak, to make bullets, bombs and guns. Through missionary service and myriad other experiences, I changed.
I changed and I liked it. I learned to like pleasing people. I learned that my arguing skills could be retooled to be negotiating skills. I learned that I was still good at getting people on my side and I didn't need heavy artillery.
I was WRONG
Most importantly, I learned that I was wrong… the teenage me was wrong.
It's an important lesson that I think of often as I continue to learn new things and view life through various windows/perspectives.
Lesson learned right? Don't argue and try to get along with others, right?
Well maybe this doesn't always work…
P.S. I have some photo evidence of my teenage years that I'll have to scan and put here.
Saturday, 17 December 2011
Ageing toward the average
Perhaps it's more about weight than age.
There seems to be a time in a man's life where he gains weight; more than he's able to shuck through a youthful metabolism, a semi-active lifestyle or a morning constitution (and by constitution I mean BM-I have a great story about Battle Mountain, Nevada and the American past time of city names on hillsides). Maybe it's less exercise, maybe it's more calories consumed, maybe it's both.
I have this job where I sit behind a desk, type at a computer, push paper around and then leave after 8 hours. Sure I get up from my desk a few times an hour for various work-related activities but mostly I sit.
Now, I'm great at sitting, a world-class sitter with gluteus muscles molded and shaped for extreme sitting. This activity, however, is not conducive to physical fitness.
Sometimes I run. Sometimes I ride my bicycle. Sometimes I do both in the same week (a real fitness addict, I know). I walk to the train and from the train to work and back each day- 1.5km total.
Eating is different. I eat every day, several times a day. I like eating. I like eating more than exercising and it's beginning to show.
My waist is a little bigger than I remember and my pants allow for. My posture isn't as straight. I get winded rather easy and recovering from illnesses takes longer than it used to.
I'm becoming the average 30 something north American male.
I'm not comfortable with this species. I don't identify with him and in many ways I resent him. I don't like averages in any way, to be frank. I was an average student, grew up in an average town and had an average upbringing. All these combined to teach me that being average was just fine. I have learned that unless we're talking about determining the average for the sake of a statistic, average is bad.
Average is rarely rewarded, goes by unnoticed, merely meets expectations and is, by definition, a signifier of the majority.
I don't know this group. I'm not interested in average anything (except maybe pistachios and cashews, the average nut is delicious). Furthermore, my dad was the average age and gender of someone with the type of cancer he had.
Averages can tell us many useful things about other things and stuff average deals with vagueries and generalities. Boring. Lame. Predictable. Disappointing.
Average, I defy you and the fog of mediocrity you perpetuate. You are peanut and jelly sandwiches, vanilla ice cream, grey 4 door sedans, white sneakers and serial novels for transit users. You bore me and insult me with your expectation that we're friends or even acquaintances. I know your kind and you stink with apathy and ennui. Average, get away from me and my family and stay off my lawn.
There seems to be a time in a man's life where he gains weight; more than he's able to shuck through a youthful metabolism, a semi-active lifestyle or a morning constitution (and by constitution I mean BM-I have a great story about Battle Mountain, Nevada and the American past time of city names on hillsides). Maybe it's less exercise, maybe it's more calories consumed, maybe it's both.
I have this job where I sit behind a desk, type at a computer, push paper around and then leave after 8 hours. Sure I get up from my desk a few times an hour for various work-related activities but mostly I sit.
Now, I'm great at sitting, a world-class sitter with gluteus muscles molded and shaped for extreme sitting. This activity, however, is not conducive to physical fitness.
Sometimes I run. Sometimes I ride my bicycle. Sometimes I do both in the same week (a real fitness addict, I know). I walk to the train and from the train to work and back each day- 1.5km total.
Eating is different. I eat every day, several times a day. I like eating. I like eating more than exercising and it's beginning to show.
My waist is a little bigger than I remember and my pants allow for. My posture isn't as straight. I get winded rather easy and recovering from illnesses takes longer than it used to.
I'm becoming the average 30 something north American male.
I'm not comfortable with this species. I don't identify with him and in many ways I resent him. I don't like averages in any way, to be frank. I was an average student, grew up in an average town and had an average upbringing. All these combined to teach me that being average was just fine. I have learned that unless we're talking about determining the average for the sake of a statistic, average is bad.
Average is rarely rewarded, goes by unnoticed, merely meets expectations and is, by definition, a signifier of the majority.
I don't know this group. I'm not interested in average anything (except maybe pistachios and cashews, the average nut is delicious). Furthermore, my dad was the average age and gender of someone with the type of cancer he had.
Averages can tell us many useful things about other things and stuff average deals with vagueries and generalities. Boring. Lame. Predictable. Disappointing.
Average, I defy you and the fog of mediocrity you perpetuate. You are peanut and jelly sandwiches, vanilla ice cream, grey 4 door sedans, white sneakers and serial novels for transit users. You bore me and insult me with your expectation that we're friends or even acquaintances. I know your kind and you stink with apathy and ennui. Average, get away from me and my family and stay off my lawn.
Tuesday, 13 December 2011
Start us off
When I played baseball as a kid I was usually the lead off hitter. I was small so the pitcher had to be great at throwing strikes to me or I would get walked (which is often what happened). I was also fast so sometimes I would steal 2nd before anything had really happened in the game. This took very little effort on my part. I stood at the plate until I was walked and ran to 2nd when the pitcher threw it in the dirt.
This blog is unlike my baseball experience. It requires considerable effort (more than just standing around holding a bat) and would not be very coherent if I ran while typing.
However, in blogging I must start things off well...
Consider this a walk and next post I'll steal 2nd.
This blog is unlike my baseball experience. It requires considerable effort (more than just standing around holding a bat) and would not be very coherent if I ran while typing.
However, in blogging I must start things off well...
Consider this a walk and next post I'll steal 2nd.
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