April 09, 2008

11:47 p.m.

Fish at Midnight

Nice school show yesterday morning, for which I got up at 4:30, thank you very much. Took a long nap in the late afternoon and woke up groggy; called Wes in that state and left him a message and completely forgot about it until tonight when he emailed me and said, "Sure, tomorrow's fine! I'd love to go for a walk!"

When I got into the car after the school show and looked at the clock, it was 11:11. I am not making this up. That's at least four instances of noticing 11:11 and one of 1:11 in the last month.

Tomorrow is weigh-in day: one week of counting points. I'm having a midnight snack of pollock, cooked lemon-pepper style on my new Foreman Grill with removable cooking plates. I've hardly even had any sugar cravings, to my surprise, except for the second night when I had this whole fantasy of the dessert smorgasbord.

Celebrancy class is almost over; just one more session next week. I still have two assignments due after that, so the work will be intense for a bit. But I'm so pumped now about marketing it. I am not a natural marketer. I fear it, I hate calling people, I can demonstrate a singular lack of confidence when trying to sell myself. And yet... I feel like I have a handle on what tools I'll need for this now. And I get all the fun of designing stuff -- brochure, logo, website. Meanwhile I do feel on the threshold of some life-altering events this year, this amazing year.

Today I did two hard things. �I've been feeling lately that life right now is best described as, "Scary and great!" �I'm very excited and happy, but also pushing the envelope of what I'm used to doing -- on the brink of making something new of myself, which the world doesn't even suspect yet. �So maybe because of these fears, I started doing hard things today. �The first thing was, I pulled out of a parking lot and saw a homeless vet with a cardboard sign asking for help. �Half a block later I was compelled to turn around and go back -- and not only give him $10, but go up and talk to him for a while. �I have NEVER done such a thing. �But I realized I always have the same thoughts and feelings when I see a homeless guy with a cardboard sign, and suddenly I didn't want to think and feel those things any more. �So we had this conversation -- he was filled with anger and irritation, at his mother and his life, but he was sane and needed to talk. �And he was grateful that I cared enough to come up to him. �

He was in fairly good shape, clean, but thin. �He had some disconcerting crud in the corners of his eyes, but his eyes were clear. He was an older guy, maybe late 50s. �He said he lives under a bridge in East Hartford. �The clothes on his back are all he owns -- except for a cat. �Someone threw this kitten out a window and it hit the ground near him under the bridge. �Its leg was broken. �He found two popsicle sticks and splinted the leg, and now, six months later, the cat is fine and running all over the place. �He takes care of it. �I think it might have saved his sanity.

He said he hopes that next month the rules at the VA will be adjusted so that he can get some back benefits for his PTSD.

Finally I wished him well and left him on the corner.

The second hard thing was that I went to Guitar Center and bought a djembe. �This sounds easy, but as I don't play yet, I'd been putting it off because I didn't want to look like a spaz in the store, trying to play an African drum when I have no idea what to do with my hands. �I really want to get proficient on it during my retreat and pull it out as a surprise for the band in late July. �But I've always thought of myself as a stringed instrument player -- not a percussionist. �Can I really get down with this thing? �Fortunately I got a great salesguy who could play and he demonstrated a few for me and answered all my questions. �Best of all, he gave me the business card of a friend of his who does drum circles every month, and encouraged me to contact him and go to some. �I ended up buying a drum that was a little bigger and a lot heavier than what I expected to get. �As I muscled it out of the store and into the parking lot, feeling like a dweeb, a young guy gathering carts out on the sidewalk looked at me, looked at the drum, looked at me, and said, "Cool!"�and gave me the thumbs up. �(I let him think I was a great player.)

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In other news, Dar heard a program on NPR where they interviewed a well reputed scientist who has done a study on polyester and its effects on fertility. He made little polyester pants for lab rats, with drawstring waists and holes for the tails. I am not making this up. After wearing the polyester pants for a certain time, the rats did exhibit a drop in fertility.

I asked if the pants made their butts look square. Dar said they didn't mention it.

We agreed that no female rat in her right mind would fall for a guy rat in polyester. ("I can't go to the water bottle in this! I'll be the laughingstock of the whole cage!") I suggested that the humiliation alone would affect fertility, to say nothing of self-esteem. Rats are people too, you know.

So I've finished my fishy snack, and now I go to bed and dream of all my upcoming success.