For some people, the prospect of weekend automobile maintenance is an undertaking to be relished, a soothing way to end a long workweek and tinker with a cherished piece of machinery. It is a ritual that is two parts hobby, one part upkeep, and one part vanity, where a beloved vehicle is polished to a radiance with naught but a jar of Turtle Wax and a raggedy shirt. That’s how it is for some people, anyhow, because I’m absolutely not one of them. In fact, this Friday promises to test the very limits of my sanity.
I have to change my headlights. Technically I only need to replace one of them, but folk wisdom suggests I swap out both, a convenient mythology no doubt perpetuated by the very manufacturers of these bulbs. The last time I had to do this, my car sat in King Calm’s driveway, hood popped, necessary tools splayed on the lawn, and the support of an entire village behind me. Let me explain. What should’ve been a 20-minute ordeal sailed right past minute 90 and counting, when the Swedish bolts secured by Swedish secrets confounded one would-be claimant to automotive prowess after the other. The open car was like flypaper to all the dads on the block, with theories and failed attempts aplenty. How many dudes does it take to change a light bulb? I have empirical data.
There will be no reinforcements this time, though. It will be man versus machine, and I’ve steeled myself by acknowledging how this must be done. I don’t have a choice. Already I’m recalling important factoids about this exercise, like how you shouldn’t touch the glass on these halogen bulbs, even with clean hands, lest trace amounts of skin oil cause them to explode after installation. I guess I forgot about the fucking bomb squad I need for the procedure, never mind the advanced degree in applied physics. But this kind of vehicular know-how is expected of me. It’s a tenet of masculinity, situated roughly in the same realm as knowing what draft beers to order or which inning is best for a field goal.
You gathered around, once upon a time, and beheld my greater theorems on housekeeping, the highlights of which illuminated the destructive nature of cleaning and the payoff of a good scrubbing delayed. I still attest to the validity of these claims, make no mistake, but I’d like to add to my body of work–a new reason, specifically, for tidying up your living space. It’s the idea of cleaning for the sake of other people.
This might not seem earthshaking to you, but for me, it’s revolutionary, much in the same way penicillin–which, frankly, was discovered because somebody didn’t bother to clean–changed the world. At a bare minimum, you keep your living arrangements tidy to maintain quality of life. I’ve been cultivating an appreciation for sociability recently, and part and parcel with this is a desire to rework my townhouse so I can entertain at a moment’s notice.
It’s a tall order, though, because I’m missing key components such as a television, standing supply of alcohol, and a speaker system (or “music holes,” as we country folk call them). And then, more importantly, there’s the question of corralling warm bodies into this place. Sure enough, after my three-, four-week people bender, I need to recharge. There just comes a point when I don’t want to shake hands or give a shit about opinions. But I’ll be back on the horse in another week or so, and all my efforts thus far haven’t gone to waste. My baseline for interaction has increased. I’ve got to stay the course, heed the mandate to expand beyond what I am, constantly.
Marketing: the communicative reconciliation between truth and profit. I cobbled together this definition when I was fresh out of college, head still spinning as I tried to make sense of a career I had accidentally chosen, and now, years later, I thought it’d be neat to revisit it. It’s been easy to settle into a reflective mood recently, since training inherently calls for you to know exactly what you’re imparting, and after mulling over it, I’d like to update my definition. Marketing is the act of steering the conversation to your desired end.
It’s a colder, more pragmatic interpretation, I know. When I reread the original one, it comes off as genuine, yet overly academic, a greenhorn’s attempt at grasping a larger world with one hand while desperately clutching a newly minted diploma in the other. But as cynical as my new definition of marketing may be, my take on corporate citizenship has set up shop far on the other end of the spectrum. Here is the sharing part I mentioned on Tuesday.
My old man once held forth on how best to operate in the private sphere. He subscribed to the notion of guarding your skill set closely in order to preserve your marketability. I promptly repudiated this school of thought–more to be contrary, honestly–and since then I’ve championed full disclosure. Every Excel trick, every negotiation tactic, every copywriting tip, and every best practice I’ve cultivated is readily divulged upon request. Naïve? Perhaps. But such knowledge is publicly available, and enshrouding your job security in it seems woefully thin and inadequate.
What sets you apart, instead, is your industry. Your ideas. Your relationships. These are uniquely yours. These are the things you jealously guard. It’ll be interesting to see whether I still hold to this belief in a few years. I’m not even going to try to prognosticate, though–absolutely no five-year plans. Heck, five years ago, I would’ve never guessed I’d end up here, now, in this place. That said, I’m currently wrestling with this idea of being thankful–thankful for being employed, for instance, and having a roof over my head–but never content, and it’s a conceit against which my Baptist upbringing recoils in horror.