You’ve heard of muscle confusion, I imagine, an idea recently grafted onto the vernacular by the “300 Workout,” the final stop in a punishing regimen used to train the actors in that ridiculous movie. It’s a fascinating idea, and I think there are clear parallels between the benefits of muscle confusion and, until I can think of a better term, cranial confusion.
I’m not talking about walking into old people or willfully shoving both feet through a single pant leg. That’s stupidity. Cranial confusion, if you’ll allow me to go all Merriam-Webster on you, is the measured intake of varied stimuli in a short span of time. Take this discussion we’re having right now, for instance, or, more to the point, all the discussions we haven’t had. I effectively severed an avenue of mental engagement by choosing the silent interim, and I’m certainly none the better for it.
See, if you spend too much time immersed in a single thing, like work or an impending move, you just get dumber. Oh, initially you may feel sharper, more cognizant of all the nuances in your chosen focus, but then you hit the other side of the bell curve, where the grooves of your brain are slowly made smooth by the grind. This is precisely how I’ve been feeling in the past few weeks, and it’s going to stop. Here’s one such mental outlet. Tonight’s discussion ran solely on selfishness. And that’s a sustainable fuel.
Well, it happened. I got slammed with a speeding ticket today, along with a hefty fine for– Haha, I’m just messing with you. What would’ve made a fitting sequel to our previous discussion will have to wait, but let me be clear: the anticipation of a reckoning overdue is there, lodged in the day-to-day, and it’s unnerving.
We’re not just talking about inevitable automotive trial here, or carma for short, so much as the idea that the intensity of a bad day is commensurate with the length of the good streak preceding it. Your routine can only go smoothly for so long until–uh oh!–it’s time to visit Shits Farms, but this time you have to remember to bring home the burlap sack o’ 20. The house eventually collects, you know?
And there’s this hope that by writing about it, by publicly avowing it, I can somehow extend the streak and avoid collection a little longer. These are exciting times. I’m closing on a townhouse in a few weeks. I’m told this should be exciting. I finally hopped on the healthcare bus, after five years of avoiding all doctors. No cavities. Eyesight’s improved. Wisdom teeth never existed, the secret of which is simple: tack hammer. The plan feels like it’s coming together, and that’s usually when the parts unravel straight into the ground.
People from the Orient, and we’re talking about my people here, traditionally don’t fare well when faced with modifying their cars. You’ve met the type, I’m sure. Dresses in black. Wants those mad, mad eProps on Xanga. Loves, above all else, souping up that Civic LX with tinted windows, sweet rims, and a bitchin’ hydraulics system.
Certainly I can’t be culpable for the fake spoiler on my previous 4-door sedan–it rolled off the lot along with the car–but a part of me still cringes when I recall that vestigial slab of plastic. A spoiler, I’m told, harnesses airflow to keep the back of your car flush against the pavement at high speeds, but what if the spoiler in question sits, like, a quarter of an inch above your trunk? It’s useless, out of place, much like an H2 pretty much anywhere in the U.S., since we’re on the topic of car peeves. I don’t understand why a repurposed military vehicle should exist in this setting, but what do I know? These are dangerous times. You go fight the good fight at Sears.
I’m guilty, however, of clipping this to my windshield recently. My excuse is it’s practical. Necessary, you might say, because we all know the speed limit is more of a quaint suggestion than law, even though cops will sometimes disagree. The unit isn’t infallible, of course, and its instruction booklet freely admits as much, cautioning you to engage in some common sense and, y’know, look around once in a while to see if you’re being trailed.
The top-shelf detectors easily cost a few hundred dollars, so accordingly the 560 misses some things. But for what it is–a basic Geiger counter for auto vice, as long as we’re being honest–it gets the job done. I don’t know if anybody, short of EMTs, really saves that much time by speeding. It’s the feel of it, through and through, and preferably not through a bus.