In my first blog posting I stated that I might have some potentially self-destructive personality traits. Let's amend that drastic statement. My little ticks aren't really destructive. They are more like self-induced hysterical episodes. Not haha hysterical; more like reversion to a five year old fit hysterical.
I'll be honest, there are parts of my life that I would capture under the heading of soul crushing boredom. I've had the same commute for seven LONG years. A commute that has been wrought with road construction and people who seemingly need to slow down to 5 mph to cross the high-rise bridge, just in case someone snuck on to the bridge at night and removed the downhill portion. While I love my job and am thankful for it, there are many days where staring at a twenty year old, dust covered cubicle wall makes me want to grab a marker and color all over my face just to get some sort of reaction out of my office mates, other than the obligatory hot weather or long Monday conversations. I've even noticed that I've somehow created my own version of a rhetorical hallway greeting to avoid people. Instead of saying good morning like everyone else, I involuntarily say "mornin, mornin" really fast. Every time it escapes from my lips I instantly cringe at the fact that I've adopted this plastic facade. It's a very annoying tick that I can't seem to break, but I simply consider a symptom of the vast depths of my boredom and career-stalled despair.
OK, enough of the dramatic stuff. Here's where the crazy really steps it up a notch.
In the Spring of 1997, my parents bought me a car to take off to college. My college was paid for, so they were off the financial hook (as if there was one). So we went car shopping. We spent hours surfing the finest free classified ads we could find to nail down just the right late model foreign car, that would be sure to last me my entire college career. After a few clunkers we spotted one that looked just right. It was a 1990 Honda Accord in a neighboring city. Honda Accords are reliable, fuel efficient, and fun to drive. And this one priced very low.
We test drove it and agreed that it was a good buy. True to classically impulsive Nolan behavior, we bought it on the spot. Less than ten miles away from the owners house, the engine blew up. So, here I stand on the side of the road waiting on a tow truck as the previous owner's wife and daughter beep and waive as they pass me by. However, as I'm trying to figure out the dirtiest phrase I can key into their cars, since I know where they live, Dad is negotiating a replacement engine. He assures me that not only has he found an accord engine with half the miles of the oil deficient one currently holding down the pavement on our driveway, but purchase and installation of it will still be under NADA book value on the car. Perfect! Dad saves the day.
Everything went great for a while. I went off to college, pimped out my little accord with a nice sound system, and burned the roads up on the weekend. That was, until May of the following year. I know it was May because it was HOT outside as I approached my car in the school parking lot. I threw my bags in the backseat, shoved in the key, turned it, and nothing. It wanted to turnover, but it just wouldn't. After five minutes of praying, sweating, punching, and swearing, nothing happened. In my depths of broken down car failure, I turned the key one last time. Around the third ch-chugga of the starter I slapped the steering wheel at approximately the 10:00 and the little booger started right up. That's right, "ch-chugga, ch-chugga, ch-SLAP!" "Oh my Lord, I'm an engineering GENIUS!" Or, maybe it was some type of voodoo, but I figured out the trick. In reality, there was no trick. The computer on the car was having issues synching up with the new engine, but somehow I lucked up on a backwoods workaround. For the next three years, if the car gave me trouble starting I would grin slyly, and in a very Fonzie like way, pop the steering wheel just so to turn it over.
Far be it from me to take it in, pay a very modest fee, and fix the thing for good. No need. The weird part is that I find myself putting up with these little imperfections in most every facet of my daily life. Sometimes it's a florescent bulb that you have to flip a minimum of five times, really fast, or it won't light up. Or maybe it's toilet that runs constantly unless you jiggle the handle just right.
I think those are all just symptoms. I think they are symptoms of the fact that we are all so damn bored with the niceties of our modern age, that we subconsciously refuse to fix them for good. If we did, how could we ever live without the heroic feeling of conquering the voodoo steering wheel. After thousands of years of genetic conditioning, men were required to go out into the wilderness and kill to provide. We simply have to set apart an hour to brave the modern wilderness of Wal-Mart. The problem there is, I'd get arrested to taking along a bow and arrow. We've been neutered by our advances. And while a paycheck and insurance is surely provision, we now are exempt from the fear that we might not have enough salted beef to survive the winter, leaving us with no other recourse than to scour the plains for adequate subsistence.
So there we are, creating seemingly meaningless mini-vacations from the boredom of monotony to be the hero. If only to satisfy our own imagination....
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