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| Well I'll give this a shot, though I'm not sure I'm in the mood to write. I don't suppose that should be something to stop a serious writer...or me, for that matter. Unfortunately, the first thought I had when mulling over a theme for this episode was not a particularly engaging one, but it will nonetheless be the one upon which my lazy self will expound.
I was recollecting yet another supposedly comical exchange which happened in the breakroom today at work, with a co-worker whom I actually do like and respect (a rare occurance, to be sure). I was, as is sometimes the case, minding my own business after lunch, when this person made reference YET AGAIN to an assumed obsession on my part with keeping salt and pepper shakers together. Now, I admit without hesitation that this reputation was started by Yours Truly, and that I had some fun playing up my reaction the first time I could not find the salt to go with the pepper, but Oh my God! Why is this still haunting me over a year later??? It was one time, I was joking, and I've tried to down play this annoying mistake ever since. Somehow, though, the myth has spread and people I hardly know have taken the damn thing to heart.
It's just an indication of a much larger problem (?) I face. It would seem that I have painted myself into a corner of one dimensional (ok, two at best) personality perception. This same Salt and Pepper Man thinks that I am perpetually in a foul mood (hence his moniker of 'Happy Howie' for me so often), others label me as 'mean' and 'dour', and when I do speak enthusiastically about something, the mood is immediately broken by a chorus o' voices expressing disbelief that I could possibly like anything. On another front, I am considered the ultimate geek, often compared to the Comic Book Guy, because I actually do get excited when talking about certain sci-fi, gaming, and science issues (and of course when I mention Egyptology as well). All of this was started by me, mostly in an effort to amuse myself through the reactions of others, and I take the majority of responsibility for the way in which things have unfolded. I have noticed, however, that people have quickly gotten out of control with their exaggeration of these aspects of who I am. I've become the Johnny Appleseed of the dark side, sowing seeds of negativity and peculiarity wherever I go.
So my question is, how much do I actually care? Granted I must, or why would I bother writing? But how much? I don't really care about most of the people at work beyond a professional level, so does it really impact me in a lasting way that they have such an overblown, simplistic perception of me? No. But it does annoy me after a while, making me wonder if people have lost the ability to let lame jokes go. Or maybe they don't think it's so lame....the place at which I work is not the most stimulating environment, I'll grant that.
Of course, the answer which I'd prefer to overlook is the one that brings me face to face with the possibility that I really AM as people perceive, and nothing more. Maybe I'm the last person left who's too blind to see that I have all the depth of a quote from Paris Hilton. That would explain why I'm still single at 32 in a far too uncomfortably tidy way...
No, I refuse to believe it. Everyone else is to blame, not me. I hate them all. Only my Lord of the Rings action figures truly understand me.
I think I'll go watch the Science Channel. | | |
| Recently I watched a movie titled "What the &$^# Do We Know?!". Surely many of my more dedicated readers (yes, I know it's been a while since you've sated your appetites for my delicious prose) have seen this movie, and will agree with me that its blend of hard science, somewhat softer science, philosophy, and religion is fascinating. I will freely admit that I found much of the material worthy of taking to heart, despite vague chagrin stemming from an unshakeable feeling that I was buying into a mild form of cult mentality....especially if one happens to take a look at the second side of the DVD in question. Despite my reservations in this regard, I decided to apply what I had taken from the movie to my own life, stopping the cycle of addiction to feelings of negativity, frustration, and the like. I decided to create my own reality, as the movie suggested.
I think it worked. I felt pretty good. I was a little more content, was able to find things to appreciate in any given situation much more easily than I was used to, was able to take a clearer perspective on potentially frustrating situations. I was (to ensure that I do, indeed, sound at least somewhat cult-influenced) a little more at peace with myself and the world around me.
That was last week.
Right now, I am at the National Latin Forum in Columbia, Missouri.
It astounds me how the teachings, advice, and observations of some of the world's elite thinkers, touching on a wide range of disciplines, can so quickly bend over and grab its ankles in the face of dealing with hundreds of children and adults alike who run the risk of needing an underwear change at the prospect of discussing the passive periphrastic, or perhaps debating the finer points of the life and times of Sejanus.
No, that's not quite accurate. Given my own obscure and laughably nerdy interests, it is not this extraordinary level of commitment to an ancient language and culture that I have a problem with. In fact, I respect anyone who is willing to openly shun popular expectations and declare their love of the uncool. I have to, else I certainly can find no way to accept and respect who I, myself, am.
No, what has destroyed my inner peace and acceptance, what has 'deprogrammed' me, if you like, is the insistence that I participate in this affair to the same extent that everyone else chooses to. If you know anything about me, you will enjoy the mental image of me standing in the front row of our Florida delegation, forced to participate in a number of 'spirit chants' in the hopes of winning a bag of Tootsie Rolls(TM). These chants, of course, include Latin-themed variations on Wigolo, Bananas of the World Unite, and many, many other cheerleading gems. It happens each day, and to spice it up we have different theme costumes to wear each time. Please, by all means enjoy the image to its fullest. My gift to you. If you care to embellish the image, add scenes of me rooming with a complete stranger in a freshman dorm room for a week, or being forced by a limited number of outlets anywhere but in the common room area to endure unending attempts by other teachers to engage me in a spirited discussion of this or that cherished facet of Forum, or of teaching in general, all of which trail off in awkward silence and confused looks to one another when it becomes obvious that I cannot even feign a level of enthusiasm that fits into their worldview, despite honest efforts to do so on my part.
There are other things I've endured here as well, of course, but what I've revealed should be enough, and the rest, I take to my grave.
Despite the faltering of my positivism as a result of these experiences, I like to think that this is just a temporary setback, that this unfair level of forced participation so much against the very nature of what constitutes 'me' is just a cosmic test of my newfound philosophy that is simply too much, too soon. I don't want to think that all it takes is one week participating in something about which I am intensely dispassionate to permanently break me. When I get back to my own little place I currently call home, and can undergo an appropriate catharsis at Ye Olde Bilmar Station, I will give it another go. As often happens with traumatic experiences, I have hopes that my mind will simply refuse to accept the reality of what has happened here, and that, if I am ever approached by someone wishing to discuss the intensity of my ole's and the technique of my 'booty shakes', I will be able to offer plausible deniability of the whole affair.
God save my sanity if I can't. | | |
| Amazing. It has been exactly one month since the last time I wrote in this blog. As I have explained several times to my devoted following when the subject has reared its ugly head, my lack of productivity is due mainly to a fear that I have been a bit too negative in most of my posts so far. I think perhaps I tend to come off as even more miserable and pathetic than I like to believe I am. Well, the wait is over. I have good things to write.
As I sit here, I am still reeling from my weekend trip to Boston, and my subsequent 2:30 a.m. return on a school morning. It was an exhausting 3 days filled with an endless stream of 20-minute papers on everything you could possibly think of to ask about ancient Egypt...and then some. What's that you say? It sounds more incredible than the most mind-blowing sex you've ever had (or at least dreamed of having)? Well, slow down there, shooter! I'm not sure I would go quite THAT far with you, but it was indeed mind-blowing. As of this weekend, I have confirmed what I've already strongly suspected for the last few months - namely that the only thing that is really going to make me happy in this world full of jobs that offer security at the expense of happiness is exactly the opposite. What I need is so insanely insecure, it’s like career suicide on crack. What I need is destined to doom me to a lonely life, as any woman in a position to get even the faintest whisper of my plans would run screaming to the nearest Ruby Tuesdays in the hopes of finding a nice, stable accountant nursing a Hot Toddy in an out-of-the-way corner of the room. What I need will lead to prospects for a job that would make the captain of the Exxon Valdez feel good about his chances of getting a job with Greenpeace.
What I need is to go back to school and study Egyptology.
Yes, that's my dirty little secret plan, now laid bare for the world to mock. Not at all a wise choice, I'm sure, and yet, the lack of security involved is inversely proportional to the amount of happiness I will derive from the endeavor. My theory is that more people would find what they were really meant for if they didn’t let pesky things like practicality and responsibility interfere with their choices. Of course, I am in a position where I will not be hurting anyone else with such a cavalier attitude, and I feel lucky for it. I am able to make this choice beholden to no one else, with only the thought of my own well-being in mind. Even the thought of beginning the process has made my life happier. I am thrice...nay, four times the bundle of joy that I was before. What lies ahead of me now is a lot of preparation, studying, and worrying about the chances of being accepted to a program. None of it sounds too bad, though, and I certainly feel up to the task.
And so I now have high hopes for the future. I met some very cool people at the conference, dropped my name to a few important people in the field, and learned some valuable inside information from some current students. I dined among the Harvard elite, and ALMOST talked to the Darling of Egyptology herself, Salima Ikram (hey, not everything works out perfectly. This is real life after all).
In closing, a few things that come to mind that I learned on this trip: $250 does not buy as many books at an Egyptology conference as you might think...Egyptologists are, on average, FAR more attractive than Classicists...it is possible to make a paper topic dealing with Akhenaton, the so-called monotheistic, 'heretic' pharaoh uninteresting...there seems to be a disproportionate number of gay men in Egyptology...walking from the Hyatt Regency to the MFA in dress shoes is a bad idea...and finally, my personal favorite - according to a sagely cab driver, who clearly has benefited from his years of shuttling the crème de le crème of the academic world around Boston, the reason that Jewish women are so unattractive may very well be because all of the attractive ones were taken away by the Egyptians during their years of slavery.
Not all theories are good theories.
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| Well I'm at it again. Match.com is like a bad drug to me. I keep trying to shake the habit, but that sweet siren call of potential mating material keeps dragging me back for one last fix.
One thing I will say for the current potential recipient of fabled Howie-love: I am finding myself writing MUCH longer emails than I have been in the habit of doing for quite some time, and I actually look forward to receiving them from her as well. I am just hoping that it's not one of those situations where the chemistry is somehow intrinsically intertwined with the written word, unable to exist in the font-vacuum of personal contact.
In truth, I am actually most concerned at the moment that I might be using up all of that much-needed first-date conversation material ahead of time by writing such long emails. Come to think of it, maybe that's actually the root cause of most email-to-reality failures. It's great to be able to be witty in a letter, but it's still missing that key ingredient of personal charm and nuance that can be displayed only with body language, intonation, a sexy roll of the tongue across the lips. I think that's as much a key ingredient as the words themselves...at least I like to tell myself that in lieu of having the kind of good looks that make pesky little things like being able to talk in complete sentences overkill.
Well, at the very least maybe I can take Schwaab's dating angst to heart for the lessons it teaches. Maybe, in fact, if we do manage to meet somewhere other than in cyberspace, I'll just forget about trying to come up with strained conversation altogether and just walk up to the table, lay a big sexy one on her, and stride off into the sunset. After all, the kiss is apparently the thing that says it all in the end anyway.
There we go. Problem solved. Guess I'll go put away the 18th century French love poetry I've been frantically trying to memorize as potential fallback material. I won't be needing it anymore. Now I just have to remember to stop by and pick up some nice fruity flavored lip balm on my way to the restaurant. | | |
| All of this time off has me thinking about how I generally spend my free time when I have it. I have not been leading a very exciting life these last few years. It's really very easy to blame this or that thing for getting in the way of doing something more with life. "Man, if only I had the money, I'd take little trips around the state and find cool out-of-the-way places." "Oh, if only I didn't have a bum knee, I'd really be active with running and biking." "But you don't understand! If only I didn't have the world's worst job bringing me down all the time, I'd totally be out there enjoying life!" Of course, even I see through these pathetic excuses, and when it comes down to it I have to admit that I really don't know what has happened to me through the years to get me to this inactive state. I have ambitions to do all kinds of fun things, but I apparently have no intentions of following through on them.
This 2 week break more than amply proves my point. I have enough money. I am healthy. My job is pretty far from my immediate thoughts. And yet my day still seems to consist of sitting in front of the computer playing games or surfing the net, interspersed with such necessities as eating, watching cable tv, eating, and perhaps taking a nap if I'm feeling overwhelmed by this schedule. I have an entire TWO WEEKS off, and I do nothing with it at all. I don't even manage to pick up an old hobby around the house to occupy my time. I WANT to do interesting things, but cannot find the motivation. It's gotten so bad that when my boredom moves me to browse the match.com profiles for the umpteenth time, I actually find myself moving on when I read that a girl is looking for someone who likes to go out and have fun. Uh uh, that sounds just a little to gung-ho for the likes of me.
The thing is, I haven't always been like this. Until the last couple of years, my life was full of activity and adventure. I exercised pretty regularly, was involved in outside activities, went places, and generally enjoyed life. So what has happened? Well, I could say that the various disappointments and tragedies that come with life have gotten the better of me over the years and have sucked the vigor out of me. Instead, though, I think I will blame my friends.
Setting aside some of my computer time to just sit back and analyze the situation, I have realized that throughout my life I have always managed to find at least one person, if not more - be it close friends, girlfriends, whoever - who have been able to motivate me to do things. I do not find people who are annoyingly energetic and peppy all the time, but rather people who like to do things, and who refuse to let my intial reluctance be the final word on the matter. They cajole, mock, demand, even threaten; and if none of that works, they drag my sorry ass along anyway. Because they know that I really do want to do it, and that ultimately it is all about getting past that initial hurdle for me. After that, by god, I usually have more fun than anyone! The problem is, the people who know me that well are no longer in a position to do this for me, and I think I've done a pretty good job since then of developing a persona which hardly suggests me as a motivated, involved person. In fact, I've realized that I get a perverse kick out of such an image, and often find myself encouraging the myth.
How can I change this? Any rational person would say that I see my faults, and I should find a way to change things within me. If I know that I want to do these things, I should stop being a whiney little milquetoast of a man and go do them, regardless of the initial effort! There is nothing of consequence standing in my way, and I know myself well enough to know that I'll truly enjoy the experience. Just work on changing my attitude, that's the solution.
Instead, though, I am just going to blame my friends - both those who are gone from my everyday life, and those who don't know any better now. It's their collective fault, not mine.
Thanks for keeping me down, ya bastards!
Now where's the remote? | | |
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