Ode to joy
Life is funny. You get caught up in the day-to-day routine. Ebb and flow, up and down, there’s a rhythm in which you never go too high or too low. It’s not really better to burn out than to fade away, Neil.
Mo and I have had endless discussions on creativity and how it fades with age. I contend it’s because when you’re young you have such extreme emotions. Love, hate, new experiences, passion. Ecstasy and darkness. As you age, you and your peers become content and happy and forget about those extremes.
Until yesterday.
Longtime readers will recall the conversation in which my co-worker explained the whole sex thing to me. I guess it was more than a theory in his case, because he showed up yesterday as the proudest papa I’ve ever encountered.
He has been pregnant for a long time and I knew he was excited about becoming a dad. But while I was on holiday last week, things got crazy.
I’m not much on Baby Theory, but apparently the pregnancy got scary, they didn’t know how it was going to turn out, the kid arrived really early (unthinkable for copy editors) and they didn’t know if he was going to be OK.
And now he’s doing great.
His dad came into work for the first time afterward yesterday. His smile was twice as big as his face. He alternated between laughing and crying. And then both at once. He had just been through the absolute worst time of his life, followed by the unimaginable best. I tried to shake his hand and he gave me a bear hug. I likely have Baby Cooties now.
His name is Beau. Beau Beckett. You know how copy editors love their alliteration. Dad said he tried out several names on the preemie nurses and Beau won in a landslide. Gonna be a ladies’ man, he said.
He had just assembled a crib at home when Beau showed up, so maybe the timing wasn’t so bad at all. He’s gaining weight every day and the docs say he’s remarkably strong for a kid arriving so early. I’ve watched his dad on deadline a million times so I know where he gets his toughness.
Dad can’t stop smiling as he talks about the future. Baby steps. That was the hardest part, he says. Now just another 18 years.
I point out that with the new economy, kids stay at home till their 27. I can see him doing the math in his head as to whether his crib is big enough for that. Oh, well. Plenty of time to work out the details.
It’s odd. You sit in a newsroom day after day, dispassionately watching the world go by. Triumphs and tragedy are just things you put headlines on before hitting the button and going home. Odd to encounter one in real life.
Joy. They say the central desk is one big family. I’m a pretty damn proud uncle.
Welcome aboard, Beau …
Filed under margarine
It’s all relative
It’s 4:30 a.m. I’ve been off for a half hour. I’m feeling pretty damn sorry for myself.
I worked the crazy late shift putting out the Siberia paper, with mysterious deadlines that stretch into the wee hours. I’m sitting here revved up like Dale Jr.’s car before his engine blows in the second lap. And I’m thinking my life is pretty sad indeed.
Then I glance up at the TV. “I Love Lucy” has made way for the early CBS news. On the screen is Gabrielle Giffords, who is bidding Congress farewell so she can concentrate on learning to, in her words, speak in paragraphs again.
Can anything be worse than the late shift? Um, yeah, I guess taking a bullet in the brain in a horrific shooting rampage is worse.
So now it’s 5 a.m. and I can’t feel sorry for myself. Or think in paragraphs.
The moral: Never turn off the Lucy channel. Safer that way.
Thanks, Ms. Giffords. On a day when it’s a bit embarrassing to be a former Arizonan (yes, I’m talking to YOU, Jan Brewer), you did the state proud. You are a reminder that resilience and optimism aren’t just words. You should marry an astronaut or something.
I hope you find those paragraphs soon …
Filed under margarine
The Hanson training method debunked*
There are no baby pandas on my running course.
I guess I’ve known this all along, the sad truth lodged deep in the back of my head in the pile of stuff you don’t want to acknowledge, sitting there with “Maybe MmmBop isn’t that great of a song after all” and “What if Belichick really IS the antichrist and a Patriots Super Bowl win will signal the start of the apocolypse.” Things you suspect but fear to think about much.
But today my defenses were down. I went out to test the sea legs while deep in the throes of the grunge. The neighborhood loop brought me the same joy you have when you’re in a hurry at the 10 items or less lane and the customer ahead of you thought it said “100″ items or less. (And yes, it should be fewer. Damn copy editors.)
Then it hit me. I had just watched a particularly downbeat newscast. Many bad things happened recently, most of them with video. But at the end of the newscast, they showed totally pointless footage of a baby panda. Suddenly, all was well with the world.
So I’m running this loop and feeling like crap. I’m hoping I get hit by the postal truck so I will have a “not rain nor sleep nor running over a slow guy” story. But nothing. But what if, at the mile marker, a baby panda was munching on a bamboo stalk? That would be a glorious run indeed. Even with tire tracks.
But, no. One dog, a couple of startled cats, a woman with an electric mower. No inspiration.
Maybe that’s been my problem all along. I never really cared much for running. I was just in it to see a baby panda. Now that I finally realize it’s not going to happen, I’m done.
Oh, well. I guess it doesn’t matter much. The Patriots will win in a couple of weeks and the world will end anyhow.
I hope baby pandas get to go to heaven. Jury still out on the Hanson Brothers …
* It’s just fun to say “debunked,” no?
Filed under running
Work conversation, Part 23
co-worker: Do you have a cold?
me: Maybe. Or it could just be allergy. I tend to get this around the start of the year and I may just be allergic to something. So if you become allergic to something in a couple of days, you’ll know what it is. Or it could be a cold.
co-worker: That’s way too much information.
me: Sorry. Just cut from the bottom.
Filed under margarine
