Somewhere in Georgia there is a classroom of kindergartners who believe I unequivocally suck. It’s not as if any of them have met me, could pick me out of a police line-up or recognize my profile on a dating website (which I don’t have). You would think they would base such harsh assessments on a little face time, but alas no, their destiny is to live this year vicariously through their fearless leader. My sibling. Their teacher.

My sister and I communicate through intricately woven sarcasm laced in the trappings of not so subtle profanity. I can’t think of anyone who has called me Bitch face to face as many times as she. But, for her it is an expression of sisterly love, rather than the acceptable implication of a female, dog, wolf or otter, or the more familiar derogatory descriptor of a malicious woman. I can pass for the later, but not the otter.

Though we haven’t shared a bathroom in twenty years, we still spend excessive amounts of time behaving like juveniles and hazing one another uncontrollably. Sometimes with venom, other times with love but our commitment to constantly annoy is stronger than most oaths of office or vows of celibacy.

Once a long drawn out affair involving endless messages and inappropriate birthday gifts, we’ve resorted to brevity being she’s employed and trying to raise a family and stuff, and I’m too lazy to orchestrate the elaborate ruses when simple ones suffice.

So text messaging and picture mail it is. It’s amazing how caustic you can be when your too cheap to buy vowels. I’ve tried to evolve in a kinder, gentler me refraining from frat boy humor that dominated our youth, and instead to tried share genuine moments of joy from my life like this:

this:

or this:

But the joy of life’s little moments escape the sensibility of an esteemed member of the educational community charged with seeing that our nations youth are corrupted as little as possible. In her classroom, pictures of fresh baked muffins are the technological equivalent of shaving your initials into the fur of your neighbor’s pedigreed golden retriever, and then crapping on his doorstep.

So maybe, just maybe, she wears her heart on her sleeve just a wee bit in the classroom, but who wouldn’t when faced with a diet coke and a school lunch tray. It’s no wonder the Dick and Jane posse think I suck, because kids instinctively know that teasing is just mean. Nonetheless they manage to grow up somewhat adjusted and quickly adaptable to the unappreciated artform that is behaving like a dick, or better yet setting up others to do their dirty work for them.

I’m not one for making New Year’s resolutions. If changes are necessary to be more fulfilled, I shouldn’t be so blasé as to submit to ritualistic peer pressure and publicly vow to improve life once a year. What good is existing, if I restrict myself from adapting as necessary, except for one day a year when I stay up past my bed time under the guise of celebrating the advent of a new scientific billing cycle which professes with the aid of rose colored glasses to be nothing like the previous 365 day billing cycle?

The reality is I should make the effort to change slightly every day rather than save it all up for the abysmal failure that is public proclamation after consuming one too many Patr*n cosmos. As for anyone who wishes to challenge themselves to change from January 1, I am there for you. Seriously. I’ll buy a cocktail and encourage you through the rough times, or bring you cookies, if your trying one of those radical twelve step thingies. If you’re committed to going back to school, I will cheer you through finals. If your searching for your long lost birth parents, I will exhaust all possibilities combing through public records and googling. My support knows few boundaries. Except maybe joining a gym. I prefer not to think of it as a boundary and more of a pothole. A pothole I’d rather avoid than drive through.

I’ll be more than happy to stand next to the treadmill and cheer you on as you reach your target heart rate. I’ll even tell you how puffy your arms are after you lift weights, but the problem is it tends to appear creepy fellow patrons the staff out when people like me are standing around with a megaphone and not actually sweating, since drinking coffee doesn’t usually elevate your heart rate.

I think gyms are great….just not for me. All that shiny equipment you can borrow, that sense of commitment carefully enveloped in purpose, and eventually sprinkled with healthier eating, more energy, and some really hideous exercise attire. It’s the perfect ensemble, like a marriage with motivation, desire, and endorphins. The problem…I’m just not that into it.

There can be a fine line between a routine that drives us forward and brings us purpose and one that bores us in all its monotony after the third month of engaging in physical relations on the same evening of the week after the same mediocre television series in the same position. While it true, we do need moments that are almost sure things to look anticipate, we also need enough flexibility to maximize the potential of each available moment.

Rather than relate all the tediousness of what has become current routine, I’ll just say, I found a rhythm that is working…you know for the moment…or until it ceases to work. Such is everything. Life wouldn’t be what it is if we were denied opportunities to adapt.

When things go well, I am tight lipped, and when things go poorly, I am also tight lipped. Sans the complaining. I’m not sure why I bother. In general, I expect things to go poorly, and when things go well, I am suspicious. I suppose complaining is my way of gloating about knowing things wouldn’t go well to begin with. Nothing like congratulating yourself on being right about shitty things, eh?

Anywho.

I function with a minimal sense of routine. Though there is a dullness in repetition, there is also, knowing there is time set aside for creative interests. I have difficulty setting aside time to do things I enjoy, if there are other tasks or responsibilities that need to be done. My Better Half suffers from the opposite affliction, and I envy him for it.

There’s a stranger in my house. She’s the same height as me, roughly the same hair color, and she seems to have a good report with the Hunter and the Gatherer, but her head seems thick, her responses are delayed, and aromatic smells seem to be of little interest to her. The most peculiar feature is her singular red eye. You don’t notice it at first; probably because of the glasses and squinting in bright sunlight.

She made cinnamon rolls, like mine, she helped sweep the fallen leaves, like I do, and she even ignored the same phone calls that I do. The problem is, she’s foggy headed, makes crude noises when she attempts breathing from her nose, and has this ocd hand washing thing. She’s obviously trying to push though and be a team player when she would clearly be more comfortable on a sofa with a cup of hot tea and a trashy novel.

Instead of giving into her basest desires, she convinced herself she wasn’t sick or rundown, and insisted on going downtown to watch the crew races. Apparently she had been looking forward to it for weeks, sculling shells, synchronized movement, coded blades.

Today, she has done little save unloading the dishwasher, and a couple of loads of laundry. She isn’t a bad guest, but she isn’t much on conversation and she has spent much of the day sleeping. I’m ready for her to move on, she cramping my style, reducing my productivity and she snores. Loud.

I’m at age in which some women develop a twitchy obsession fueled by the echo of ticking clock in their brains. I can’t hear it. Maybe it’s beyond the spectrum of my hearing frequency, or maybe the white noise of life’s minor complications prevents me from recognizing the sound. There’s nothing fundamentally wrong with that. Hearing or not hearing the sound.

My persona prevents me from attempting tasks, important tasks, I will completely and utterly suck at. Sure, I participate in book club, and inevitably miss a laundry list of pertinent points contingent to the plot because I get my head wrapped around some non-essential and typically ghost like element. Yet, I still participate, because I know I will learn from my failure at book club, I’m rather accustom to making an ass out of myself, but most importantly, my inability to grasp the existential crisis occurring on the pages will not impair the emotional development of another or cease them from expanding the skills necessary to interact in polite society. Raising a child, on the other hand, has too much contingent upon being reasonably competent.

I learned to be a low maintenance child. My Dad traveled on business, and Mother worked long hours. I was never neglected, but I did spend many hours around adults, and become emotionally self-sufficient as a result. It worked out well at the time. My parents needed me to be low maintenance, because it was time in which they needed to take care of themselves. I’m not bitter.

Anymore.

As I’ve gotten older I have better understood, if not empathized the changes people go through and the notion that for adults to make better families they need things reserved for themselves that on the surface might appear to be selfish but really provide a level of personal functionality and consequently making them better people, thus trickling down into family life making the experience more bearable for all involved.

Economy of emotion coupled with my inability to share my self, lead made me worry I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) give a little person my undivided attention when it was needed, or that I would feel so drained from giving them so much of my self, there wouldn’t be any me left over for me. A partial commitment isn’t good enough. It’s a selfish attitude, but it’s also an honest acknowledgment of self.

When I see them, babies with their pudgy limbs, and flailing hands, and gassy smiles, I see parental pride, hidden potential, and the incomplete features of a being that will profess both love and hate to the parents for years to come, but I also see frailty that leaks all sorts of disgusting things from it’s orifices. While a relatively low percentage of babies have actually been broken by someone as oafish as me, I cannot tolerate pressure of new parents glaring at me while a try to adequately support the neck, and properly mirror their joy at seeing this living breathing extension of their union with endless potential and a nose like its grandfather. I’m happy for them. For their health, for the joys, and the new experiences to come. I just don’t want to hold it until they’ve torn the tag off and learned the with all that frailty is a remarkable durability. Cartilage is king.

The closest I come to hearing the clock, is visiting animal shelter, or when lady with the blue merle Australian shepherds passes with her dogs. It’s not the same, but it is closely linked to the desire to nurture, stimulate, and foster companionship. There is much to be said for the returned affection, the ease of communication, the relief of not navigating the complexity of adolescent relationships, or maintaining a level of zen calmness necessary in teaching a teenager to drive safely, but mostly for not scarring someone for life.