A Brief & Incomplete List: #4

Things I’ve learned in my adult life:

The word "ergonomic" pertains to my life.

I’ve long considered myself a fairly resilient human. It doesn’t take much to make me comfortable. I’ve used the same pillows since 2008. I rode my bicycle for over a year before replacing the tattered, cushion-less seat. I rarely consider the arches in my shoes, my lack of air conditioning, or the other myriad implements designed to make every-day living painless.

But after two years of slouching at my desk for 40 hours per week, I recently experienced Back Pain. Not satisfying, exercise related muscle fatigue. Not the slightly unpleasant tension associated with marathon Netflix watching. This was pinched nerve, shooting-fiery-agony Back Pain. For three days I prayed a very tall person would scoop me up and aggressively shake me until the pinched nerve became somehow un-pinched.

Due to MacGyver-esque utilization of a large rubber band ball, I can walk without dramatically clutching at my lower back. But the painful memory lingers in the back of my mind. The lesson: posture matters, and not even just a little bit. Seriously, it’s a real thing that you should all consider and probably be a little bit concerned about.

Driving barefoot is not illegal.

Considering my mother spent 95% of my childhood barefoot, I have a strange concept of what humans can and cannot do without shoes. Grocery shopping, hiking, marathon-running? A-ok! Operating a motor vehicle? Oh hell no.

[Sidenote: barefoot bike riding. How often does the toe of my shoe become lodged in my bicycle chain? Never. How often do I worry my toes will be ripped off my foot after becoming lodged in my bicycle chain? Always.]

I don’t know who told me driving barefoot was illegal. I do know the idea became deeply engrained in my brain, influencing my perception of the world and my position in it until approximately two weeks ago. For years I’ve felt a secret thrill getting away with barefoot driving. The same thrill I get from jay walking. Or hacking into my roommate’s Hulu Plus account, which she totally gave me permission to hack into. The little things keep me going.

Anyways. I don’t want to ruin it for my fellow thrill seekers, but driving barefoot is totally not illegal. Strongly discouraged, and considered the tiniest bit reckless. Still not illegal.

Sunscreen.

I’ve been a lifelong sunscreen shirker. When asked if I need sunscreen I’ve historically cocked an eyebrow while raising my arms in an outstretched, who- the-hell-do-you-think-you’re-talking-to gesture.

To everybody I’ve scoffed at: I’m so sorry. You were right. Sun safety is a legitimate concern and I’m sorry I ever doubted you. There’s nothing cool or sexy about weeping sunburn blisters. Or peeling silver dollar-sized clumps of dead skin from your ass and thighs. It’s actually rather embarrassing to raise a flurry of white flakes when picking your pants off the floor. Not a few flakes, a veritable blizzard. A skin blizzard. A blizzard of skin. Human skin. My skin. Human flakes.

I’m sorry to say I haven’t turned the corner on sunscreen avoidance. But I’m ready to acknowledge the validity of sunscreen use. I’ve come to terms with my mortality, and accepted the sun’s undeniable dominion over my pasty, Oregon skin.

Glitter and baby oil are equally difficult to remove from your hair.

And your bed. And your car. And the couch. And any clothing worn 48-hours post encounter.

Keep it real, dream weavers. I believe you too can make it through the night.

-b

Dear Allen Ginsberg: I don't know you but...

In 2006 I bought a little black, spiral bound notebook. 500 sheets of unlined paper, front cover stamped with blocky silver letters. I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness. It was the winter break before my senior year of high school, and I was visiting friends in San Francisco.

That was my first time in a city, my first time traveling of my own accord. My friends’ apartment: an upper-level studio. Mattress on the floor of the walk-in closet, couch beneath the living room window. Kitchen, bathroom, living room, closet. I could touch every wall with ten steps, but I didn't. I spent so much time being still there, on the couch beneath the window. Watching street lights, listening to street sounds. Laughter, and yelling. Broken glass, and sirens heralding strangers’ tragedies.

Starving. Hysterical. Naked.

Sixteen years old and my first time in a city. Wandering through City Lights Bookstore, running my fingers along spines, and spines, and spines. Everything feeling heavy; feeling meaningful the way you expect things to feel meaningful when you’re sixteen and realize a city could swallow your heart.

The day before, I navigated the slow-moving weave of the line wrapped around a Western Union. Bounced on the balls of my feet, eager to retrieve the emergency funds my parents wired 1,032 miles in the middle of the night. I remember my mother driving 30 miles into town, the babies in tow, after I called and said hungry. After I called and said broke.   

That day in the bookstore I weighed hunger against novelty. I forfeited dinner for two things: the book that would redefine my life and the one that would record it.

Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years’ animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!

New Years’ Eve and sixteen. In the city that swallowed my heart I wrote:

“Poverty huddles in a corner, wears a blue stocking cap, scrounges up small change. While four gay men flirt shamelessly, and I wonder why I’m ashamed. Life dresses in white, head to toe. He has change in his pocket, liquor on his breath. The city blooms like a cancer you learn to love: a tumble of light and sound cascading down the hills. There’s always rain, some days it just refuses to fall.”

I remember a white suit, and a cane, and a smile. All teeth like something out of a movie, tipping his top hat with a flourish. The streets that smelled like piss and sparkled like gold. Little piles of white powder tediously measured in the back of the city bus. My friend elbowing me, whisper yelling Don’t look like you’re looking, but look. Everything killdeer before I even knew killdeer existed.

This year Portland, Oregon. The summer heat broken like a collective sigh of relief. This morning: my bare feet on wet pavement for the first time in months. Everything easy like suns setting, reflected in mirrored sunglasses. A blur of bridge and city and skyline. The dirty waterfront full of human being stories. Everything easy, like That Girl smiling the smile that makes my bones featherlight.    

Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!

Eight years later there are 15 blank pages in that black, spiral bound notebook. Across the top of one I scrawl I am 25 years old, and I am not sad. And I think perhaps that’s all I have to say right now. Sometimes I hold this book full of loss/regret/despair. There are so many selves caught between these pages. I am 25 years old. I am not sad. Scattered between the journal entries, I find letters to a future self. And tonight (for perhaps the first time) I’m glad I listened to their advice.