Creature Comforts in Many Shapes and Sizes

When I was in college, Mac n'Cheese and the Pizza Truck were my sole sources of comfort during late nights spent studying and pounding my head against a wall.  While I could have pursued more noble and inspired forms of comfort like reading the Bible, meditating, or otherwise pondering the meaning of life, I instead tried to solve all of my problems (or simply to escape them) through these simple, inexpensive, and far from healthy means of injecting oft-unneeded calories into my body.

Decades later, those calories have become even more unneeded.  Even though I have escaped from the clutches of my undergraduate program, I am still a big fan of earthly forms of comfort when stress sends my emotional, mental, and spiritual well being skidding down a slippery slope.  Just as I did when I was younger, I make these choices for comfort despite the fact that they may be unhealthy for my body, pocketbook, or both.  I justify consuming a vast array of comfort "foods" as emergency stopgap measures to stave off impending insanity or mental breakdown.   

For example, Thai food has replaced Pizza as the preferred take-out comfort food. There is nothing like multiple stars of heat combined with a flavorful curry to distract me from all things that begin or end with the word deadline.

For cooking at home, throwing a hamburger on the grill has replaced throwing macaroni in a pot of boiling water.   A thick, juicy hamburger fresh off the grill sandwiched between two halves of a bun whose carbohydrates can't be found in any diet book anywhere is just the right solution to temporarily ignoring a to-do list that extends out the door, down the road, and into the next county.

Or for all those things that are annoying (and yes, this includes a fair measure of people), settling into a new fresh cotton t-shirt offers warmth, comfort, and an extra measure of patience necessary for diplomatic, professional, gentle, and other manner of kind responses that might otherwise be overshadowed by a sarcastic retort or rolling of the eyes. 

And for all those things that anger me, I turn to my suite of lawn maintenance equipment.  The weed whacker in particular offers comfort during those times that a seemingly endless list of bureaucratic tasks stands in the way of getting anything meaningful done.  The lawn mower offers a different and simpler type of comfort -- an escape from one meeting after another after another, and after another.

And for all those times that I feel like a task mule rather than a female of the species, I give thanks to toe nail polish and the quiet moments spent doing little more than adding color to my toes, one at a time.  Seahawks blue, then green, then blue, then green again.  Only six more to go!

And for those times that the events of the world are too much to bear, a hot bath with somewhere between a million and a million and a half bubbles residing within will take the edge off, if only for a little while.

And for those times that grief closes in and surrounds me, giving me no easy way out through any of my favorite creature comforts -- crying is my only choice.  Salty rivers that could fill a dozen bottles hold some of the unbearable weight of loss until exhausted and spent, I fall into the deep comfort of sleep.

But crying makes it so hard to grill burgers, paint my toenails, or pick up Thai food.  In fact, crying can make operating lawn maintenance equipment downright dangerous.  And, there's no easy way to blow the nose while in a bubble bath.

So, like any self-respecting American, I put off crying for yet another day.  Instead, I turn back to creature comforts of many shapes and sizes, cultivated from years of practice in managing the unmanageable -- emotions.   

Fog, Molasses, and a Bag of Bricks

Here's a typical work day during the pandemic.   These days amount to just about seven per week, since the apocalypse was declared and certain professions deemed essential assumed that all persons employed in those professions were suddenly superhuman, devoid of any needs related to rest, relaxation, or recuperation.   

I wake up in the morning feeling like a pile of bricks.  My body feels so heavy that getting out of bed using my available muscle strength seems to be violating one or more laws of physics. It has been another busy, busy night supervised by a brain that is scrambling to complete multiple repairs of my psyche before it's time to get up and go again.  Some of that overnight repair job is submarined by stress dreams like the one where I'm late to the airport and run into every obstacle in the world en route, ultimately missing a most important flight to who knows where.  Some of my sleep time is devoted to more ordinary nightmares where fear, anguish, and grief trade hands with one another over a story with no real plot but enough emotion to sort out and organize whatever lay heavy on my heart the evening before.  Since the pandemic began, however, these dramatic dreams are often overshadowed by moments of terror where I am trapped in the middle of a horrifying situation while paralyzed by my brain which is preventing me from running out the door into the yard and down the road while still sleeping.   Exhausted from all these machinations that go on in the night, I fall into deep dreamless sleep shortly before it's time to wake up and get moving again.   Of course, my body is at odds with my schedule and fights to keep me in bed, piling the bricks on one by one in the hopes that I'll take another hour to sleep and recover my strength.

Having managed to push the bricks off of me and climb out of bed, I'll get in a couple hours of being clear and focused, before the mental fog rolls in off the cerebral horizon.   An equation that seemed simple suddenly becomes gibberish.  A scheduling hiccup becomes impossible to resolve.  A question from a student sounds like it's uttered in a foreign language.  A simple question about the grocery list might as well be about the theory of relativity.   And with every question or every problem that I can no longer address with any measure of skill or elegance, I feel more dismayed.  Inspired by my missteps, the mental fog grows even thicker.

By mid-afternoon, my battle with the mental fog has sapped most of the day's energy and by the time I've finished class or finished with the umpteenth meeting of the day, I'll find myself walking through a sea of molasses. While transitioning to the next item on the heavy laden to-do list, a headline I only glanced at about death, sickness, lockdowns, or questionable political decisions now slows me down in equal measure to the mental fog that continues unabated.  And, if I dare to take a break and close my eyes for too long, the bricks come back.   And so it goes. Walking the days of the pandemic.

Hauling around a bag of bricks in a thick fog through a swamp of molasses ... sums it up

 

By the early hour of ten or eleven in the evening, my day is done and my gaze is drawn to my bed with the greatest of anticipation as would be expected from the exhausted mere human that I am.  In my tiredness, I've already forgotten about the nightmares and the chaotic dreams of the previous night. I can't wait to collapse into bed and do it all over again.   

Zzzzz........ 

Broken Glass

A field of broken glass lies in front of me. 

As I tried to write about it (and failed repeatedly at doing so), I discovered that the more I tried to generalize the broken glass to a broader audience beyond myself, the more I realized that this particular field was designed just for (and in many ways by) me. It was based on my own unique history, my way of viewing the world, my own judgements, my own biases, and my own limitations.  While millions of Americans faced their own similar fields, the one in front of me was mine to consider, and should I choose to walk forward, I would be alone in the crossing.   

While only a month ago, the broken glass merely reflected a global pandemic and economic calamity, the field has now grown and thickened, as the simmering and unresolved racism that underlies American life has come to a boil after the cruel and entirely preventable deaths of George Floyd in Minneapolis and Breona Taylor in Louisville Kentucky.

Now, the field stretches as far as the eye can see... vast, intimidating, and seemingly uncrossable.   It sparkles sharply, thwarting any attempt I might make to ignore it or distract myself.  Whether I read the daily headlines or not, the steady uptick in COVID-19 deaths, many of them preventable, jerks me awake at the very moment I might otherwise fall into much needed sleep.   And, despite the fact that I have left my overwhelmingly white home county only a handful of times in the past two months, the cruelty, the judgement, and the discrimination handed out to people of color in our society intrudes abruptly into my conscious mind even when I am seemingly immersed in tasks and to-do's that are entirely unrelated to issues of race and ethnicity.   

Some of the broken glass also reflects my history, a myriad set of my own experiences where I could have handled the racial divide so much differently.  I look across the field and see many mirrors.   

So many mirrors.  

Times where I heard stories about how students were being treated differently and did nothing. Moments where I said something in front of an entire class that, viewed through the eyes of some students, felt dismissive and unkind. Lost or faded relationships where I didn't take the difference between another person and myself seriously enough.  Too many assumptions that the headlines must be sensationalized -- surely racism couldn't be THAT bad in this day and age.  

Years where I refused flu shots with flimsy excuses about needles.  Many days where I went to work sick, with a clearly inflated view of the value of my contribution and work and a dismissive attitude about infecting someone else.  

And, the list goes on.   Mirrors -- reminders of where I could have and should have done better.   

But, as I stand facing the field of broken glass, I am tired.  I want to change.  I want to grow.  But, that field just looks so much bigger than me.  I don't want to move.

So,

I could easily succumb to the temptation to be still. I could remain in this same spot along the journey of life, pondering the broken glass from my own complacent and safe space.  I could fake being content with such immobility.

And,

I could even rationalize my stillness by burying myself in work and busyness.   If I bought into my employer's message that more work = true loyalty, I could even turn away from that nasty looking field altogether. 

And,

I could throw in a few perks to standing still -- buy a few new toys, indulge in a couple of luxuries, remodel, or redecorate.   I could even ... go on a cruise while the pandemic rages on (oops-- reckless behavior ALERT).   

Or,

I could make a run for it, read a book (or more importantly the Book), watch a few TV programs on the topic of racism and the data behind the pandemic and call it good. I could convince myself that I've done what I can do.  Though, running across all those sharp edges could cause permanent injury to my bare and exposed feet. I might never walk the same again.   

So,

My only real choice is to step forward and walk slowly across the field.   While the glass underneath my feet will cause me pain and be impossible to ignore, it will not cause lasting injury as running will do, nor will it keep me from what lies on the other side, as standing still would do.  

Instead, walking slowly across the field will, in addition to causing a few laws of physics to work in my favor, force time to reflect, engage time to grow, and put the brakes on a life that might otherwise move recklessly forward and whether by poor, impatient choices or by good intentions, cause harm to others.

But

all that glass.  Ouch.  

Maybe, I can just put it off one more day.  

But

that Book I should read far more often than I do is calling me -- to move forward (Job 17:9) and strain forward to what lies ahead (Philippians 3:13).  

Sigh.

Particular Persons

There is a certain type of employee who is ideally suited to the COVID-19 pandemic.  Whether blue-collar or white-collar, retail or wholesale, healthcare or other essential service, this particular person is easily recognizable in the midst of stay-at-home and various other assorted lockdown orders.   I think that like me, you are likely to have seen this Particular Person in your own travels outside the home. 

For starters, the Particular Person has memorized The Rules and is fully committed to encouraging and enforcing those rules, down to every last detail.

For example, one Particular Person caught me red-handed at the self check-out at our local grocery store with more than 15 items.  In no uncertain terms, I was told to collect my 17 purchases and redirect to a more appropriate register supervised by a cashier who would touch my items and breathe on me (and I on her).  I did this because I was expected and required to follow The Rules.   This, despite the fact that there was no one except for me and my 17 purchases in line for self checkout and there was inherently less risk to life, limb, and COVID-19 infection going through self checkout than through "manned" checkout.

Then, there was the Particular Person at the local hardware store, disguised as a cashier but remarkably adept at enforcing several sets of The Rules at once.  She could simultaneously disinfect the credit card machine, ring up a set of purchases, keep all customers standing precisely on the blue tape lines spaced six feet apart, and monitor anyone who was not properly exiting the store. This was where I got myself in trouble again.   Like most homeowners, I was using home improvement activity to reflect and meditate on the pandemic during stay-at-home orders.  And, as illogical as it sounds, I was at the hardware store, choosing colors for my next project and buying paint.   Choosing colors is harder than it sounds and after several minutes of consternation under the harsh fluorescent lighting inherent to most hardware stores, I stepped toward the front of the store to view my colors in natural sunlight.  That was when I caught the eye of the Particular Person at the cash register.  In a single bound, she leapt from behind the cash register to within six feet of my side to inform me that I was breaking one of the Rules by stepping up to the window (apparently the window was in the Do Not Shop -- Enter and Exit only zone).  Confused and startled, I tried to explain myself, but such an explanation was of no Particular interest, and I was herded quickly back into the store so that the Particular Person could, in another single leap, land behind the plexiglass protected register once again.

Of course, there are plenty of Particular People who supervise the entrances to Costco.  These Particular People manage somehow with the greatest of cheer to communicate The Rules to every incoming customer, repeating themselves umpteen hundred times a day.  These Particular People somehow find a way to turn the mask-less away without offending them or triggering an incident.   Once inside, more Particular People restrict meat purchases to no more than three in a most friendly manner.  Other Particular People instruct the customers to smash their receipts agains the plexiglass shield at the exit, so shopping carts can be checked against receipts, and the number of items that walk out of Costco unpaid stays limited.

In a Pandemic, it takes herds and flocks of Particular People to keep things running smoothly. The Particular Person is the one who despite being unusually enamored with The Rules, advocates for plexiglass barriers at checkouts, masks for employees and for customers, little changes here and there that overall make the COVID-19 world a safer place to be.

And so, as I grumble at running into another Particular Person who has a few rules that don't quite make sense to me, I can't help but be grateful for that individual who is willing to stand by The Rules and may inconvenience a plethora of non Particular Persons and aggravate a few more -- but also protects many other persons, whether Particular or not.

To borrow from Dr. Seuss, an ode to the Particular Person:

You have rules in your head
And feet in your shoes
You can deftly steer us
In any direction you choose

While COVID hands us the blues
You can still charm us on sight
so we will follow The Rules
and be rid of this viral blight