Spring Break Chronicle Part I

Note - Here is the first part of a narrative I am writing on my spring break. From the looks of it, its going to be pretty long and boring, but hey, I need the writing practice. 

Part I - An Unnecessary Introduction

My high school yearbook features a page showing me curled up on a classroom floor in a blanket pretending to dream. Above it, a caption explains that if I could be anyone in the world for a day, I would be Lions quarterback Mike McMahon. The amount of information contained in that morsel of knowledge is huge. It shows, first and foremost, that I was an idiot (note: not “was” as in am no longer, but simply that I unequivocally was a documented fool). Secondly, it provides an extraordinary example of the Lions perpetually awful rotation at the quarterback position. And finally, it acknowledges that for some reason recently, which even I honestly can’t remember, I was leafing through my old high school yearbook (weird).

            However, this fact came to my attention when I recently considered how much I would love to be Bill Bryson. Really, Bill Bryson doesn’t have an extraordinary job. Rather, I feel like he has established a unique craft that has allowed him to carve out the niche job that I would love: writer about whatever tickles his fancy. He is largely known as a travel writer, and rightly so. However, he also has written works on the history of the world (literally the whole thing), his childhood imaginary super powers, Shakespeare, and a few quite enjoyable titles on the English language itself.

            And finally, from my high school yearbook to Bill Bryson, I found myself on the Appalachian Trail for the second consecutive Spring Break (yeah, that’s right, I’m still in school and the words Spring Break still mean something to me). Anyways, I read Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods while traveling in Spain and Morocco with my sister. I’m not sure if the experience was heightened due to the fact I was currently in travel mode, but the book quickly became one of my favorite reads. I even flirted with the option of hiking on the Appalachian Trail last summer before the medical-school-ambition-vampire convinced me that I should probably do something for my curriculum vitae (note: I still have no idea why medical students don’t call this a resume like the rest of the word, but I’m sure there is some archaic reason that tradition won’t let go of).

Click here for Part II

Argyle socks and Road Rage

***Disclaimer: I don't tend to write about religious themes too often, so just a warning that I dip a toe into that realm here***

I have a friend who sends me socks in the mail every year for my birthday. I love getting socks in the mail from this friend for many reasons. Every man needs dress socks, but I don’t know any who particularly enjoy purchasing them. Second, I get fancy socks with argyle patterns on them and that aren’t the kind with the gold thread in the toes that I would always pick out. And finally, every time I wear those socks I remember that my friend got them for me and I feel special for about the first ten seconds of that day.

The trouble is, I soon forget that my socks make me feel special once I spill my first sip of coffee on the dress shirt that I bought for myself. And you might not believe it, but a year is a long time to go between getting new pairs of schmancy argyle socks. The socks get holey. And recently I have begun noticing that I am in more and more situations wear the holey socks just look downright tacky, despite all the argyle decor they boast.

Yet, I can’t bring myself to throw out the socks. Instead, I keep them in the drawer until I eventually forget they have holes in them and wear them until I go to dinner at a fancy house where my toes are again denuded. So I resolve that I will throw the birthday socks out the moment I get home. But, I don’t. Instead, I tell myself I will wash them once more, then cut them up and use them as fancy rags for when I do fancy cleaning things like dusting. Despite the obvious problem that I have never felt the spontaneous impulse to dust, I am also confronted with the reality that it is hard to tell (or remember) that socks have holes in them until you are wearing them in above classy dinner situation.

I feel like sometimes, when I ask God to forgive me for something stupid I’ve done that I don’t want to do anymore its just like what I do with my argyle socks. That is, I don’t throw the deed away. Instead, I try to wash it and convert it into some other semi-functional deed that may be of some service. So, after I lose my temper because some jerk with sunglasses got in my lane and then slowed down in front of me so I have to disrupt my oh-so-finely-calibrated cruise control, I ask for forgiveness for the incident (maybe, days later, if I remember for some reason) and go back to driving the same way.

I expect, that since I asked for forgiveness, the next time I place myself in the same situation with the same jerk drivers with sunglasses that my reaction will be different. And it isn’t. I just keep finding that I am still wearing the argyle socks with holes in them on my feet.

I’ve recently realized that there is a difference between what I see as forgiveness and what God wants in repentance. I don’t know exactly how the machine works on God’s end, but I know on mine, that God wants repentance, and when I ask for forgiveness and stop there, I never quite get to repentance.

In order to stop finding myself in embarrassing situations showing of my big toes and their finely maintained toe nails, I had to throw out the argyle socks. If I tried to wash them, I’d end up wearing holey socks again and I did not want to do that. In fact, I wanted to not wear holey socks on my feet more than I wanted to somehow save the special socks. That’s the only way that I can stop wearing holey socks.

I think repentance works in the same way. I can ask God to forgive me for getting angry on the road a million times, but if I head out onto the road as the same person I was the last time I blew my top at a driver who inconvenienced me, chances are I’ll find another annoying driver and lose my temper again. What has to happen, is that I want to not get angry with my brother so badly that I determine that I will stay in the right hand lane of the highway, expect to be behind a slow semi-truck, and enjoy the radio for a change.

Just like I throw out the holey socks the instant I realize they are holey (or the instant I get home from the fancy), I have to throw out the behavior that leads to me becoming angry with my brother. Namely, I have to stop trying to make the best time possible on the freeway, because that behavior, not the idiot drivers I encounter, is what leads to my anger. And until I want to stop being angry so badly that I don’t care if it means that I have to stay in right lane behind whoever may happen to be there, I will never truly repent.

The truth is, another set of pristine socks with even classier argyle patterns will come soon enough, and until then, I can deal with the golden toe variety I pick out for myself to get my by. And the music on the radio is strangely much more enjoyable from the view of the back end of a semi truck than the view of the back of my hand as I try to restrain a pesky finger from popping up in the middle of my hand. 

On the bright side

I have been getting over a stupid chest cold that I've had for the past week and I realized, you know what, there are some plus sides to being sick. Here they are in no particular order:

#1) You can wear whatever you want. (I mean, I usually wear sweat pants anyways, but when sick I found it hard to augment my robe with anything)

#2) The food. Not only did I not have to make anything most of the time because I didn't feel like eating, but strange things became irresistible. Case in point: How could I forget how delicious buttered toast is. Furthermore, my diet the past few days consisted of the following meals (in no particular order): Frozen pizza, toast, yogurt, toast, Rahm Schnitzel (so I made it out to a German pub in the early stages of the ailment, waffles, grilled cheese, toast, and grilled cheese. Not only were all of those things strangely delicious and easy to make (save grilled cheese, which I still haven't figured out how to make with out burning the bread. And if anyone writes to tell me to butter the bread first, save it).

#3) No guilt about taking extended study breaks.

#4) No guilt about taking extended sleeping breaks. I slept for over 12 hours for the first time I can remember in ages. That's seriously embarrasing. I mean, there's no way it should have been that long since I last slept twelve hours (or as a I like to call it, took a halfdayer)

#5) You appreciate feeling healthy to an unbelievable extend (Also substituted here could be the fact that death is an unavoidable consequence of life). Seriously though, how awesome does just no feeling miserable seem when you are sick? However, when I'm healthy, at no time in my day do I ever say, "man, I'm so happy that I don't feel like I'm hitting myself in the head with a shovel right now."

#6) I can now feel justified for buying cough syrup just because it was on sale. Five dollars well spent.

#7) On a related note, how delicious is Dimetapp. They should make a beverage flavored after it. Oh wait, they do: Grape soda.

#8) While I completely missed the experience this time around, how incredible is it to watch Bob Barker when not feeling well. I think Dane Cook did a bit on this already, but if I want one person to comfort me when I'm ailing its that gray-haired, plastic-surgery riddled host. Okay, that came out a bit creepy.

#9) I am even more appreciative than usually that I splurged on Kleenex Cottenelle this month. (No, not that, my nose just isn't raw).

The economics of sweatpants (not really, but its a better sounding title than sweatpants and the economy)

Ok, so I suck at consistent blogging. However, here is a list of some recent world (read: the Doyle-centric universe) happenings that are completely un-noteworthy.

The Daily Doyle on sweatpants:

-The event: Since all lectures are uploaded digitally to the web, I am required to leave my home extremely infrequently.

-The implication: The only way I could wear sweatpants more often is if I put on a second pair at some point in the day. Think about it. And don't think I'm not thinking about implementing that strategy on chilly mornings.

-The event: Medical students study alot.

-The implication: Not everything done in sweatpants is enjoyable. But definitely marginally improved from doing them in other apparel (except maybe the robe, when my sweats are dirty).

The Daily Doyle on The economy:

-The event: well, you know, recent happenings

-The implication: I threw away a bottle of Miracle Whip today because it was past its date. Normally I would throw caution to the wind, but lets be honest, if something that unnatural has an expiration date, you better listen to it.

-The secret hidden meaning behind the implication: I always mixed tuna with miracle whip and since I haven't seen a tuna can for under a dollar in ages (and I'm not even talking about the schmancy albacore kind that actually causes dolphins to spontaneously proliferate), the result is my miracle whip goes a-begging.

-The domino effect: Since I haven't been eating as much tuna, I have to find alternative sources of fuels. So I pretty much stock up on Frozen Pizzas when there's a sale.

Bad decision Wednesday (and Quaker Oats)

Today, I made a series of poor decisions which only compounded themselves. Below is a brief chronicle of how my day continually spiralled downward (literally at one-point, locked in a staircase spiralling downward).

My day began ominously as I had a required event at 7 am. For the individual who usually has literally nothing required on his schedule, this was quite a chock to my system. 

In order to prepare effectively, I set my alarm for an early 6 am wake up, which I subsequently ignored until 6:14 (Bad Decision #1). In a rush to get in and out of the shower, I made a quick mental inventory of my morning routine which I would not participate in (Note, because I rarely leave my house before noon, I had quite an extensive amount of paring down to do). I immediately eliminated anything taking place after I was dressed (including preparing and enjoyiong a delicious bowl of steaming hot oatmeal garnished with a generous sprinkling of Domino brown sugar. This was Bad Decision #3; Although it had no direct fallout, I think that the impaired decision making from this point on was a result of Quacker Oats deficiency).

I also eliminated shaving from my routine (Bad Decision #2; fallout of BD #1). A few minutes later I am sitting in line at said required event, waiting for my number to be called (literally and figuratively). When I finally am ushered into the official prep room for my "Respirator Fit Testing" (read: glorified how-to on how to put a simple mask on your mouth). However, as our lovely assistant was passing out masks, she hesitated by me, look scrutinizing at my chin, and stretched a skeptical index finger towards my face. She proceeeded to gently push on the hair of my chinny-chin-chin. Literally. She then informed be that because I was not clean shaven, I could not participate in the fitting (What? I swear these masks came in small, medium and large. I promise my man-stubble will not interfere with the proper generic sizing of my mask).

Nevertheless, I obliged, left my group behind me, and proceeded to exit the building. Feeling, limber, I decided that I should climb down the four stories (BD #4) instead of taking the elevator because I am still a young buck (okay, so I got lost and couldn't find the elevators. Sue me, I didn't get my morning sustenance). Once in the stairwell, I quickly realized, this was not an ordinary stairwell. That is, I could get down to the third floor, no lower, and I passed a door that clearly led out to a rooftop terrace (and I'm not talking about one that would likely have a pleasant view in Italy. Like the little Red Bar on the door kind).

Anyways, I tried to exit on the second floor. Of course, the door was locked. I tried the third floor. Locked. The fourth floor, from which I entered. Locked. Luckily, there were some uber-strange hallways connected to the third floor. I walked down the hallway (yes, there was a weird hallway in this parallel stairwell universe) continually waiting to get mugged. Finally I found a door that would open into the back of what looked like a physicians office on the third floor. Fearing I would end up Being John Malcovich, I stepped through the door and found my way to the elevator bank.

Oh, that I would my adventure be over. I found the elevators, gleefully stepped on, and travelled to floor number 1 (BD #5, not really my fault though). Anyways, once on the bottom floor, I realized. Hmmm, either I ended up way far away from where I started, or I am not on the floor I want to be on. I think the tunnel resembling the sort of thing you travel between airline terminals in should have been a give-away.

To bring a rambling story to the end, I finally ended up finding another stairwell, which I hesitantly entered and found my way to the lobby after a few brief embarrasin run-ins: 1) you know those bloody hospital doors, that you have to press a button before you open them? Yeah, well sometimes its not crystal clear exactly what one should do. 2) Anytime you are dressed in street clothes and have to travel through a hallway where everyone else is dressed in surgical scrubs (and those dang masks that I had too much stubble to be fit for) its probably bad news. I suggest averting eye-contact and running towards aforementioned door.

Finally, I made my way into the daylight and had a moment, pretty much identical to Andy's after obtaining his Shawshank Redemption (well, minus the rain, feces, and shoes in a plastic bag).

Nonetheless, I learned my lesson today. And that is, of course, when a Quaker offers you a delicious bowl of hot, steamy, quasi-liquid/quasi-solid hearty goodness, you do not turn him down. And if you do, prepare to face his wrath.

The e-mail signature

I understand the necessity of the automatic footer at the bottom of the e-mails that people send out. Occasionally, it is nice to have their tittle, phone number, fax number, e-mail (even though they literally just sent you the message its at the bottom of, though I guess its nice for the absolutely resource-less), home phone number, address, and a smattering of other details that could be adequately summed up as superfluous.

One phenomenon I don't understand is the quote at the bottom of the paragraph summary of your life in bullet form. That is, I'm all about living with a mantra, heck, I have phrases I thoroughly enjoy and may even utter unnecessarily when the situation warrants it. Yet, I don't lay them after the stocatto discourse of my life's locus at the bottom of the e-mail.

Today, I received an e-mail with the tagline "fortune favors the bold" or something of the like. As a phrase, I like it. But the implications of that are serious. That is, if I ever meet this faceless e-mailer, he better be the boldest guy ever. In fact, I hope that I don't even need to introduce myself, I can just be like, "hey, uber-gutsy guy. I think you sent me an e-mail once." I just think a phrase at the end of an e-mail would be a  burden I don't want to carry.

Next up, I'm going to take some swings at bumper stickers. Because its waaaay easier to sit back here and nitpick from a blog than actually do something productive.

Black Friday

Every year, the day after Thanksgiving, I am reminded of one thing: People are crazy. Not that I exclude myself from the masses, because I am included in the craziness. 

That said, I haven't left my house (which is less than a mile away from probably the busiest mall in the greater metro-Detroit region, purely based on my speculation). I don't want to leave my house. Yet, I know I will end up heading to at least one store today.

As much as I like to sneer at the tradition, the reality is, this is another tradition that I just don't get. And I like to make an effort to "get it." So this year, I will go with my sister to REI and Barnes and Noble because I like those stores.

I've made the mistake in the past of trying to go to one of the busier stores to experience the day. All I end up experiencing is chaos. If I go to a mall, I find myself endlessly circiling the cosmetics mirrors trying to find my way out of the perfumerie onslaught and getting into the actual mall. Eventually, I fail and retire back to my car to sit in mall traffic.

My other tactic has been to try one of the independent stores (i.e. not part of an internal mall), such as Kohl's. When I went clothes shopping Kohl's was my destination of choice. However, on the day after Thanksgiving, I would usually select one item I thought would be good to purchase, walk towards the register, realize purchasing the $10 four-pack of uber-nice socks would cost me not only Alexander Hamilton's likeness, but part of my soul (as I waited in line for hours, and attempted not to let the 17 year-old female conversations drive me insane).

But the reason why I can't exclude myself from the craziness is because I feel like Black Friday (which term I just learned two years ago) is a cultural rite of passage. Something everyone simultaneously hates, complains about, gets fired up for, and in some form or another deliberately participates or non-participates.

So when that pile of ad sits on my kitchen table, I can't help but rifle through them. I find myself desiring to purchase peacoats and accent rugs that I know I'd never actually use. I'll peruse the Parisian ad, before devouring the deliciously stimulating ABC Warehouse ad/sensory onslought on newspaper form (the Parisian to ABC Warehouse transition is like reading the National Enquirer after the New Yorker, by the way).

All that to say: I don't get this day. I don't want to get it. But when its all said and done, I need to take a brief foray into the estrogen-driven madess (thats right, I had to slip in a sexist shopping reference) just to remind myself why I shouldn't feel like I am missing out when I am sitting on my couch watching bottom-tier college football today. 

Razors and Blades

Note: Yeah, thats right: I'm going three-for-three in a pre-holiday posting Bonanza.

Throghout the nation, when every young man reaches his official manhood recognition day (none in some circles as the eighteenth birthday) he recieves two things. Number one: A razor from the Gillete Company, a subsidory of the Proctor and Gamble monolith. Number two: A draft card. If I'm in the business world, I jump on the former's philosophy.

I've used a Mach 3 razor for seven plus years now. Why? Because I got one free on the day when I was able to legally obtain lottery tickets and cigarettes. I'm not sure of much else, other than that I've flirted with other brands, fives blades, electric, battery, and going months without shaving (always a better sounding idea than in practice).

However, I, like every man, realized at some point that I am forking over a lot of money on razor blades that I'm not sure is a sound investment. Meanwhile, the Gillete (or P & G) is trying to get me to upgrades so I can slab a couple extra plades on my razor and a couple extra points on their dividend returns. In order to combat this affront, I don't switch razor blades. No, I just use the same one longer. Which doesn't say a whole lot about me, nor the compelling nature of advertisements aimed at the man who desires a close shave.

Anyways, I think George Orwell was on to something when the primary scarce commodity in his groundbreaking 1984 was razorblades. Let's be honest, in my world, they are already a scarce commodity. Also, the coincidence that you get your razor and selective service card around the same time seems eerily ironic. I guess you're always going to be serving the man, one way or the other (or else hairy, but seriously, who wants that?).

Productivity Enhancement

I know of only one sure-fire method to ensure that I will accomplish a task that I have been putting off forever. The only option: Put something I want to do less ahead of it on my internal to-do list.

I'm not sure how everyone else functions, but I have a relatively unidimensial sense of obligation. That is, I can only do one thing at a time, and I'm not even great at doing that well (see the April 27 poset on multitasking). However, what I am pretty good at is doing something other than my primary task. Case in point, I hadn't updated this blog in months, and I had some sort of mild desire to do so, but not enough motivation to actually sit down and type something out. Then, next thing you know, I have three tests in three days and I suddenly have the inspiration and motivation to post on my elderliness and distractability. Unbelievable.

Hopefully, some day, I can just have something really miserable that I have to do looming over my head so that I can do all the other stuff that I kind of want to do, but don't quite get around to. On second thought, lets just hope I learn to complete the task at hand. With that, the books.

How to Age instantaneously

I turned twenty-five last week (or pretty close to it). I know: old. I've already had the obligatory stereotypical conversation with my friends about random aches and pains, worrying about IRA's and healthcare, and friends getting married and having kids (yeah, I'm old, but that is seriously old business I don't even know how to do with). Anyways, I did think back to a few events that I have participated in that should sufficiently qualify me for AARP membership:

1) Attended a condo assocation meeting. Yeah, for my building, not like I dropped in on Grandma's to determine what color the tableclothes would be at her nursing home's Thanksgiving Dinner. I'm not sure whether I should be happy about this or depressed.

2) Drove a Buick. Again, not exactly my Grandfather's. I mean, it was his .  . . then he sold it to me . . .and then he purchased I swear the exact same vehicle with a different shade of upholstery. Anyways, I try not to think of the Century as an elderly man's vehicle so much as an accomplished man's. I mean really, old people have done a lot of stuff. I'm just glad to be among their ranks.

3) Participated in leisure activities. I'm not gonna lie, horshoes, bags (cornhole), and the like are about as much excitement as I desire. Sure I play intramural basketball and such, but really its just something to be ready for shuffleboard season.

4) Reminesced way too much. I can't count the number of times I've had the following conversation with a college roommate, high school teammate, or the like:

Guy 1: Dude, remember (insert year in school here) when we (insert activity such as golf here) every (insert day here)

Guy 2: Yeah, that was awesome

Guy 1: Yeah, yeah it was.

5) Wait a second . . . what was this last item supposed to be again?