Well, that’s a mite draughty now, isn’t it?
Modern life is complicated, you know? There’s so much to think about. Like, every day I have to get up and I have to remember to make sure there’s a towel in reach of the bath, and I have to remember where I left my wallet and keys and phone, and I have to remember to open the window so my west facing room isn’t 95 degrees when I get home, and I have to remember to take my high-tech-elevator-activation-badge-o’-doom with me, etc., etc., etc., and that’s just to get to work. Then on top of all that - and this is the kicker - I've got to always be thinking about all the stuff I’ve got to be on top of just to make all of the above possible, like setting my alarm the night before, and charging my phone, and picking up my laundry from the cleaners before I run out of clean shirts, and dropping off the dirty shirts the week before so’s I’ve got something to pick up, and not accidentally leaving my wallet on the top of some shelf somewhere, and paying my bills, and keeping gas in the car, and checking the WSBA job page every week - again, etc., etc., etc.
How do I do it? How do I stay on top of it all? How does anyone?
Habit.
We go on autopilot. I keep my badge in a pocket of my backpack, always, so even if I don’t remember to clip it on before I leave the house I’ve always got it before I reach the elevator. I keep a towel near the tub so there’s always one in reach. I unconsciously frisk myself 50 times a day to make sure I’ve got my wallet, keys, and phone right where they’re supposed to be. I charge the phone every night, instead of every third night the way the manufacturer would recommend to maximize the overall life of the battery, just so I never forget. I set about eighteen skajillion alarms all over my room just to be sure. But what if these ingrained patterns of behavior just vanished one day? What if even one of them did? What would you do? How would you function? You’d suddenly have to keep conscious track of so much more stuff. And if one pattern went out the window, how could you trust that others wouldn’t follow? You’d have to put your whole life back on manual, and then you’d be mad within the week.
An hour or so ago I started thinking about all this stuff as I walked out of Batman Begins into the refreshing evening breeze. “My, that’s refreshing,” I thought. Only, you see, it was refreshing in a place I don’t usually expect to be refreshed in public. And then I got to thinking about how long it’d been since I’d put on my pants, and how many things I’d done since then. Like, I’d gone out for a late lunch, and sat outside by the harbor where I could enjoy refreshing afternoon sea zephyrs and iced tea, and I’d stayed and ordered dessert (ice cream sundae - I was craving it), and I’d done some shopping after, and then I’d gone to the movies, which involved a lot of standing up and sitting down, as a surprising number of people wanted to get past me back and forth, and I’d made an extra trip to the concession stand, and I’d walked out with the crowd of people from the theater and past another crowd of people waiting in line to buy tickets.
My, that breeze was refreshing.
Friends, it turns out that at some point in the last three months one of my habits, one utterly fundamental to my everyday life, one that I’ve been developing since probably the age of four and have since been practicing many times each day, has become lost to me.
It saddens me to inform you that I can no longer consistently remember to zip my fly.
Probably half a dozen times (maybe closer to a dozen times) since I stated working downtown I’ve suddenly found myself aware of just how refreshing life can be somewhere between the time I leave my house and the time I reach the office. Sometimes I notice my wardrobe malfunction before the bus arrives, but generally I don’t notice my exposure before 4th and Seneca or so.
What am I going to do about it? I don’t know, but I do know one thing - I ain’t never going commando.
I’ve got tons more stuff to write about, like about how this week was largely unsatisfying in pretty much every conceivable way, or about how dames is grief, or how I wrote a love letter to the King County Metro Transit Authority, but the dull ache of repetitive stress injury in my arms - the one that has me swearing off computers and mice outside the office (Dear reader, I risk my health for you with every post) has suddenly and strangely become a shooting pain from my left wrist up my arm and into the side of my neck. This strikes me as inauspicious. So I’m going to sign off now, before I lose the use of my right arm, too. Ain’t life a bitch?
How do I do it? How do I stay on top of it all? How does anyone?
Habit.
We go on autopilot. I keep my badge in a pocket of my backpack, always, so even if I don’t remember to clip it on before I leave the house I’ve always got it before I reach the elevator. I keep a towel near the tub so there’s always one in reach. I unconsciously frisk myself 50 times a day to make sure I’ve got my wallet, keys, and phone right where they’re supposed to be. I charge the phone every night, instead of every third night the way the manufacturer would recommend to maximize the overall life of the battery, just so I never forget. I set about eighteen skajillion alarms all over my room just to be sure. But what if these ingrained patterns of behavior just vanished one day? What if even one of them did? What would you do? How would you function? You’d suddenly have to keep conscious track of so much more stuff. And if one pattern went out the window, how could you trust that others wouldn’t follow? You’d have to put your whole life back on manual, and then you’d be mad within the week.
An hour or so ago I started thinking about all this stuff as I walked out of Batman Begins into the refreshing evening breeze. “My, that’s refreshing,” I thought. Only, you see, it was refreshing in a place I don’t usually expect to be refreshed in public. And then I got to thinking about how long it’d been since I’d put on my pants, and how many things I’d done since then. Like, I’d gone out for a late lunch, and sat outside by the harbor where I could enjoy refreshing afternoon sea zephyrs and iced tea, and I’d stayed and ordered dessert (ice cream sundae - I was craving it), and I’d done some shopping after, and then I’d gone to the movies, which involved a lot of standing up and sitting down, as a surprising number of people wanted to get past me back and forth, and I’d made an extra trip to the concession stand, and I’d walked out with the crowd of people from the theater and past another crowd of people waiting in line to buy tickets.
My, that breeze was refreshing.
Friends, it turns out that at some point in the last three months one of my habits, one utterly fundamental to my everyday life, one that I’ve been developing since probably the age of four and have since been practicing many times each day, has become lost to me.
It saddens me to inform you that I can no longer consistently remember to zip my fly.
Probably half a dozen times (maybe closer to a dozen times) since I stated working downtown I’ve suddenly found myself aware of just how refreshing life can be somewhere between the time I leave my house and the time I reach the office. Sometimes I notice my wardrobe malfunction before the bus arrives, but generally I don’t notice my exposure before 4th and Seneca or so.
What am I going to do about it? I don’t know, but I do know one thing - I ain’t never going commando.
I’ve got tons more stuff to write about, like about how this week was largely unsatisfying in pretty much every conceivable way, or about how dames is grief, or how I wrote a love letter to the King County Metro Transit Authority, but the dull ache of repetitive stress injury in my arms - the one that has me swearing off computers and mice outside the office (Dear reader, I risk my health for you with every post) has suddenly and strangely become a shooting pain from my left wrist up my arm and into the side of my neck. This strikes me as inauspicious. So I’m going to sign off now, before I lose the use of my right arm, too. Ain’t life a bitch?