We spoke about a war of words a few Tuesdays ago, a conflict fueled by phone calls and electronic mail, and from it I’ve emerged victorious: sixty-odd bucks salvaged, countless minutes wasted, and a misguided sense of accomplishment that, at least in my mind, far outweighs the monetary benefit. These prolonged arguments always feel slightly dirty, for some reason, especially when you’re in the thick of it, but the path usually involves digging in and taking a cold, detached approach to laying out your responses. The crowning moment was asking the property management company whether time travel would be required to contend with their ridiculous payment process.
The long-term goals of this self-betterment plan are to counteract the wiles of work, to live a little, to fashion a reliable way to stay sharp, and to meet some people. Violin and chess have been deposited just south of Probably and Not. Cooking has been reduced to the artful microwaving of oatmeal and raisins at varying lengths of time, though a recent brainstorm of edgy, almost dangerous entree names–like the Tunabomber, Al Fryda, Pitas and Hamas–may very well save this ship.
Tennis, the one thing to which I’ve cleaved faithfully three times weekly, is the only thing left, then, and accordingly the local tennis association is what’s next to consider. When you obstinately refuse to drink, your possible outlets for social interaction suddenly become extremely manageable. It’s true that community is a construct I like to avoid–never liked the stuff, really–but at this juncture, stubborn insistence is not a choice readily afforded.
There is a threshold through which no man, living or dead, should trod, unless there is a grave charge–or, in this case, a baby registry–to be fulfilled. I’ve never been to the store, never had occasion to be there, but in a season when families appear to be the thing to do for friends, Circuit City can no longer serve as a one-stop shop.
Certainly my Spartan upbringing drew upon a balanced diet of computer chips and the comforting glow of an 85 Hz refresh rate, with regular sessions under the UV lamp for vitamin D, but I realize not all human babies may follow the same prescription. What I didn’t realize, and what I still don’t understand, was how much pink can be contained in a single store.
Storefronts usually swoosh open to the things you want: a blast of air conditioning, great deals, sanctuary from a storm. But when the doors part ways to reveal a pastel wonderland, a velour dystopia rich in cuteness and poor in the reassuring hum of consumer electronics, it doth, as Shakespeare once said, kicketh thou in the teeths.
“Where…where is the Imaginarium?” I asked a kindly old woman, the half-dozen registry pages clutched in my hand as a makeshift lifeboat.
“That would be toys,” she gleefully replied, amused beyond reason at the situation.
On the way to the Imaginarium, I spotted a puddle of–what, urine? A leak from the ceiling, claimed another associate, except I didn’t recall it raining yellow the night before. Couldn’t blame her for lying, though, because they say in depths like these your soul is consumed, and in its place simmers 14 ounces of Boudreaux’s Butt Paste.
Whoever’s responsible for trafficking adjectives and their meanings must have, in a misguided moment, swapped the definition of “asinine” with “inane.” The inane frequently shoulders the burden of the asinine, and it certainly sounds the part. But as far as proper usage goes, well, if this paragraph persists any longer, you’ll see inanity unfold before your very eyes.
Stylish Efficiency, with a capital “E,” is the aesthetic that appeals most to me. What it is and where it happens took a good long while to connect, but I think I’ve got the framework down. It’s about ensuring your actions do double–or triple, even quadruple–duty in a timely, off-the-cuff manner, sort of like a kinetic improv. As for where it happens, try everywhere.
Take wordplay, for example, where a double entendre serves its primary function as a more delicious subtext pulses underneath. Or how about a route decided on-the-fly, quickly but no less elegantly charted to avoid traffic and cruise through all the stops on your list? Maybe it’s an action flick where Jason Bourne beats the Peter, Paul, and Mary out of some guy with a magazine, then jams another magazine into a toaster to feed a gas leak. Even something as mundane as housecleaning turns slightly less mundane when you reach for that dishrag on the floor, use it to scrub the spot next to it, turn up the thermostat as you make your way to the washing machine, then drop the rag in with one hand while picking up the vacuum cleaner with the other.
How to make these two- and three-chains is simply a matter of being aware of what options are available to you at a given moment, followed by stitching together the pieces that readily fit to give the most benefit. The ultimate goal? To turn your daily routine into a kind of Rube Goldberg device, at which point you’ll also be able to wear a straitjacket and roll into your padded cell in one smooth motion.