Lessons

The last time I was on roller skates was years ago before I upgraded to roller blades and then abandoned said blades, so at least 12 or 13 years. I've forgotten a lot in that time.

• The only way to get anywhere to to get out there. Sitting on the sidelines and watching people fly by is unsatisfying at best.
  
• You may fall, it's true, but more likely than not, you'll wobble, adjust, and move on, pride the only injury.
• Let the glide take you, as scary as that feels to relinquish the illusion of control. You may not go in exactly the direction you wanted, but fighting it is an invitation to stumble or unbalance yourself.
  
• Don't think; do. Skate, and don't stop to over-analyze because that too is an invitation to falter.

Of course I'm still talking about roller skating. Whatever else would I be talking about?

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Now playing: Soul Asylum - Runaway Train (live)
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Familiarity

Earlier in the summer, some weeks ago, I started taking regular walks in the evenings. They started as rambling strolls through a local park. I got a pedometer and was excited to see how far I could walk, further than I realized I could comfortably walk. Then I started timing my walks and was more thrilled to discover how briskly I could walk. I try each evening to either meet my personal mark or exceed it, whether the walk is 2 miles, 3 miles, or 4 miles.

On these walks, I started seeing some familiar faces--the mother and father with the child carriers on the backs of their bikes, the son on dad's bike, daughter on mom's. The joggers. The husband and wife; he never waves, but she waves in spite of the walking stick she's got propped behind her head with her arms drooped over it.

They come and go. I don't see them every night I go out there, due in part to a number of factors--sometimes I only get out a few nights a week, sometimes I rush at the last minute and finish just at the cusp of dark, and other nights I head out early. But I see one guy just about every night I'm out there. He's a bit of an older gentleman, greying hair, always in the same almost-uniform--white T-shirt, black shorts, black sneakers, sunglasses and baseball cap. He seems grim, or perhaps just determined, perhaps out walking to ward off the threat of a heart attack. He never waved back when I did as we inevitably passed.

Until a week ago or so. I've been trying to build running into my routine. 45 seconds, and I'm winded. On a good spell, I can hit a bit over a minute before I have to stop. On one such evening, we crossed paths, him walking steadily, me running and running out of steam at that. I raised a hand in acknowledgment as I passed. I don't know what changed things, but now when we pass, he raises his right hand in a half wave.

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Now playing: Ani DiFranco - Everest
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Dork badge, plz.

I gleefully bought Pride and Prejudice and Zombies almost as soon as I heard about it. I devoured it as a zombie devours brains: with relish (figurative, I might add, not literal). Zombies aside, it was quite faithful to the original novel.

I can only hope the forthcoming Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters will be as delightful. I shall find out when I purchase it in September.

Frilly

I've tossed practicality to the wind if only for one crochet project: I made a doily.


Now it's back to more practical things. Still, it was an interesting experience and not a painful one as I half expected it to be.

Piece of history

Thirteen--or possibly fourteen--years ago, I remember hearing my parents' voices drift up from the basement. They were up to something, and there was a sheet-covered lump which I was instructed not to look at in the corner room of the basement. I was actually a pretty obedient child; I didn't look. I was also the sort of child to be delighted with something perhaps not many other children would be so delighted by: a desk of my very own complete with a matching chair. In retrospect, I think it may have also had a lamp with a swively neck, but it's been long gone.

It was a simple, small affair, white top, black metal legs and shelves underneath. It wasn't much, but it was mine, and I got quite a bit of use out of it. For years, I did my homework on it--the last of elementary school, the bit of middle school I did under my mother's tutelage, and the high school I did through correspondence. In the high school years, I think, I moved my desktop PC onto it, still getting quite a bit of use out of it. High school became community college, which led to university and grad school. Still my desk was there, ready for use. I eventually moved the tower to the floor, leaving some room to sprawl my papers out as I worked. At the end of grad school, I got a laptop, conserving more space and allowing for greater sprawl and spreading out of papers, both my own and those of the students I was beginning to teach. Grad school ended, I continued teaching, quit teaching, then went back to teaching, and I did a bulk of my prep work and grading at that same desk I got as a child.

And mind, it is a child's desk. My knees haven't fit comfortably under it for a long time, resulting in some not-so-pleasant knocks if I got up too fast, and the scant cushion on the chair has long worn thin. I've been thinking for a while to upgrade to a larger, sleeker model. I made up my mind to do so, changed it, and reversed course yet again. I half-heartedly skimmed ads and perused floor models when I saw them. Nothing shrieked at me, so I let it go.

Until today. I found a desk worthy of my patronage. The chair isn't the first one I fell in love with, but it's cushier than the old one by far. I hope I get a good 13 (or 14) years out of this one too. And I also hope, given that there's a lot of life still in that old, small desk, that someone else will love it as I have.

The art of conversation

What I am about to say will probably sound cynical. So be it. I do offer the disclaimer that I am not stating this as absolute fact nor am I stating it as applicable to 100% of conversations, merely 98%. Give or take. You know these conversations--the ones you do to be polite. Ready? Here goes.

The art of conversation lies not in how much you can say but in what you do say. In fact, the less you speak, the better.

The art of conversation lies in turning all your conversation toward the other person. Few people really want to get bogged down in the banalities of what you've been up to or what you think on an issue, regardless of whether they ask for said information. Do not assume that "How are you?" is an inquiry of your general state of wellness; it is merely the set-up for "Fine. And how are you?" which is an infinitely more suitable conversation topic than your domestic stresses or flare-up of rheumatism.

Listen with rapt attention to how poor Fluffy had to be put down, how your acquaintance's boss is an ass, and how his or her classes are going. Ask about his or her fondest Fluffy memory, the details of said boss's ineptitude, and whether acquaintance's profs are difficult. Follow up with appropriate croons of sympathy, appropriate righteous indignation at the gall of some people, and appropriate reassurances that you're certain this will be the semester to regain that 3.5 (or 2.5 or 2.0) GPA.

Does the above sound taxing? No worries; you needn't respond with full questions to each and every question or piece of trivia. Nod, smile, or even make noncommittal responses that suggest rapt interest. As a rule of thumb, consider the 37-1 rule. For every 37 words your acquaintance utters, supply one of assent or encouragement. They needn't be spaced at exact intervals; use your discretion to determine when response is required, and if you're damn good, when such prompts assist in the dramatic arc of the unfolding life saga.

Use the above advice, and I guarantee that your social acquaintances will find you a wonderful conversationalist. Just be careful lest they seek you out. Greatness has a cost, and the cost of conversational greatness coupled with cautious politeness is the danger of many lost hours. People can talk for hours about themselves*.

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Now playing: Thrice - The Lion and the Wolf
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* - Says the blogger. At least I admit to it.

From the "duh" files

I heard this story on the news the other night: The city of Brookville, FL has enacted a new dress code. City workers must meet these unreasonable criteria: wear deodorant, wear underwear, and make sure that when they wear underwear, it does not show.

And there went my relocation and new career goals.

Honestly, that is such an imposition. My armpits are my own business, and geez, but do they plan to do a monthly underwear inspection to follow up?

Righteous indignation aside (the mayor apparently feels the underwear rule "takes away freedom of choice"), my response is one of wry bemusement. The mayor has a point in that choice bit. However, it's clear that this would never have become an issue if it weren't for people abusing that choice. If you wanna go commando, by all means do. That doesn't mean you should go around flashing folks. As much as this pains me to admit, the apparent need for stating the obvious in dress standards fits with this generation's obliviousness to etiquette.

And as a college instructor who has seen her fair share of thongs and boxers*, I hereby suggest all college and university campuses endorse a similar rule.

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Now playing: Chuck Ragan and Austin Lucas - Hold My Bed
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* - I have seriously had to repress the urge to tell said fashionplates to resist the ultra-low-rise jeans and/or just hitch up their britches. In one case, my fingers were twitching to fix one young lady's shirt as she leaned over her (male) classmate's desk. I did not need to know just how color-coordinated her outfit was....