Legacy of Laziness

Having forgotten to blog last Monday, I'm morally bound to resume today. The way I figure it, people can forgive one slip, but two puts you into "unreliable slacker" territory. And that's not a land I want to inhabit. So here goes, with some thoughts on our progressive laziness as humans (perhaps inspired by my overwhelming desire to go to bed instead of folding laundry, washing the floor or doing any one of the other myriad items on my to-do list):

It occurs to me that with each passing generation, we humans become increasingly lazy. Imagine waaaaaaaaaaaaay back in time before the broom was invented. There’s dirt on your floor (did they even have floors before brooms were invented? Not sure, but work with me). What do you do? You kneel down and you pick up the dirt, speck by tiny speck. It's tedious, bad for the back and generally inefficient. Then someone creates this brilliant technology called the "broom" where you just have to sweep the dirt across the floor and – like magic, you have a clean floor. Life is good.

Pretty soon, though, people start complaining about having to sweep the floor. “Ugh. I have to sweep the floor. I ate sweeping the floor. I can’t believe I have to sweep the floor!”

Eventually, someone invents the vacuum – ta da! Clean floor, very little effort. Life is good. But give it a generation and it’s “Ugh. I have to vacuum. I hate vacuuming. I can’t believe I have to vacuum.”

So now someone’s invented the robot vacuum, which essentially cleans the floor for you, maneuvering around your furniture and even returning itself to its docking station. All you have to do is push a button. Just you wait - I give it a generation as a novelty before we hear: “Ugh. I have to press the button. I hate pressing the button. I can’t believe I have to press the button!”

Height is a state of mind

For all of my adult life, I have believed I was 5 feet, 6 and 1/2 inches tall. This week, I found out I've been living a lie.

I signed up for the Atlantic Path cancer research study, donating my body measurements and toenails to science. I'd forgotten to measure my height at home - besides, what was the need? Surely it hadn't changed in the past 15-ish years. I was asked to take off my shoes and socks and stand against the wall. "Breathe in and then let it out," I was instructed. I did as I was told, and remarkably, felt taller. I was convinced she was going to pronounce me 5 foot 7. "5 feet, 5-and-1/2 inches," she said without hesitation, and wrote the numbers down, immortalizing my reduced height forever.

I said nothing, but remained convinced it was a mistake. After all, my identity was that of a 5 foot, 6.5 inch person. With that one inch, I had gone from tall-ish to average. My BMI, having teetered on the edge of overweight at 5 feet, 6.5 inches (OK, so I may even have entered 5'7" in those online calculators) tipped decidedly in that unfavourable direction (and while I might claim it's all muscle, the printout Atlantic Path provided me with my body composition tells me otherwise). "Their measurements must be off," I said, and several Facebook friends confirmed they'd had the same experience. There was only one way to settle this. I asked my mom to measure me. Three times. On the third try, I hit 5 feet, 5-and-3/4 inches. I may have been stretching. Still, even 5 foot 6 remained beyond my grasp. How could I have been so wrong?

One can only lie to oneself about one's weight for so long before the snugness of our clothing calls our bluff. But our height - there's a delusion we can hold onto for a while (at least if we're only deluded by an inch or two). Alas, it would appear all delusions must come to an end. Thanks for setting me straight, Atlantic Path.

I have spent the past several days adjusting to my new height. The top shelf of the cupboard seems harder to reach. The ceiling seems higher. High-heeled shoes hold more appeal. On the bright side, I'm standing up straighter. I can't afford to get any shorter.

The night the light came on

For the past few years, I've had a recurring dream that I go into a room in my house and flip a light switch but the light doesn't come on. I go to another room, and the same thing happens. I try to turn on a lamp, and again, nothing. And there I am in complete darkness, totally freaked out, wondering how ALL of the lights have stopped working at once and sure some evil force is behind it. Tonight, with the help of a friend, I uncovered the dream's meaning. We were standing in my dimly lit kitchen and looked up to see three of the four bulbs on my ceiling fixture burnt out (they've been giving out one by one over the past few years, as lightbulbs are wont to do). "That's it!" I shouted, the proverbial light coming on. "The dream is telling me to get new lightbulbs!"

Do you want butter with that?

How many among us have been seduced by it, unable to resist its bold advances? We walk through the doors of the movie theatre as perfectly rational people and within seconds of catching a whiff of popcorn, we are overcome with desire. We would pay anything to have it - and do. The theatre pays only a few cents to make it, and yet we willingly fork over $6 for a SMALL bag of popcorn. It's not reasonable. It's not right. But it's reality.

To add insult to injury, the theatre has recently started charging $0.69 extra for butter. Who are we kidding? Is it even an option to have popcorn without butter? It's like a night sky without stars or a TV without colour. I shudder to think. Butter is no doubt the most expensive ingredient of the popcorn, and the theatre is trying to make up the cost (apparently the 6,000 per cent mark-up on the popcorn itself is not sufficient). Let me tell you this: I see through their sneaky, penny-pinching ways. I find it appalling and offensive. And I order the $0.69 butter.

I went to the theatre with friends the other night only to find out the movie we wanted to see was sold out. We were disappointed - partly because we were looking forward to the show, and partly because we'd been anticipating the popcorn. We spent a good 10 minutes debating the virtues of ordering the popcorn to go. Cooler heads prevailed and we managed to get out of there sans popcorn, but just barely. It was only when we were outside again, breathing in fresh air, that the need dissipated and our powers of independent decision-making returned.

So for now I am safe, happy to snack on other things, unmoved by the boxes of microwave popcorn in the grocery aisle. But I know the day will come again - all too soon - when I must once again face the temptation of popcorn (with butter) at the movie theatre. And maybe, just maybe, it's worth $6.69 to give in.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs

Signs of mankind's absurdity are everywhere. Here are just a few:

While on a road trip to Boston this spring, we stopped en route at a gas station. I went into the washroom and a sign above the sink read: "Caution. Water is VERY hot." This would have been useful information, except that the sink had only one faucet, leaving the user no control over the temperature of the water. It might as well have said, "If you choose to wash your hands, you WILL burn yourself." Then you'd simply have to weigh out the risks of bad hygiene versus bodily injury. I took my chances and opted for good hygiene.

On the same road trip, we saw a road sign advising drivers: "Deer: Next Two Miles." Just two miles? Has anyone told the deer?

Same trip: I bought a treat at Starbucks. It came in a paper bag, which read: "flavors my senses, sweetens my disposition, stirs my imagination, nourishes my dreams." For real? Who wrote this? Did they really think I'd buy it? (the line, that is, not the treat. I'd already bought the treat). That's a whole lot to ask of one sweet treat. Unless my dream is to eat a Starbucks scone or muffin, it seems bound to end in disappointment. I suppose it's more poetic than: "Raises my blood sugar, expands my waist, fills out my thighs, depletes my self-esteem." And yet, I wonder how many people have left that Starbucks with their banana chocolate chip coffee cake, sure that after their last bite, their imaginations would be stirred, their dreams nourished (it really would make the $4 per slice easier to swallow). When their imaginations remained stagnant and their dreams out of reach, they'd fume angrily: "THE BAG LIED. DAMN YOU, STARBUCKS!!!" (demonstrating that the treat had also failed to sweeten their disposition). Be careful what you promise, Starbucks.

Excessive Hair

I drove past a spa/hair salon today and the sign outside read, "Excessive hair will be sent to the Gulf Coast."

First of all, I think they mean "excess" hair, as in the stuff that lands on the floor after it is cut (although even that is not entirely clear).

"Excessive" hair, by comparison, lies in the eye of the beholder: "Her hair is just TOO much. It's so frizzy I can barely see around it. In fact, I'd like to cut it off and send it to the Gulf Coast." (I do hope the hair donations are voluntary). Let's face it, in a humid July in Nova Scotia, any hair feels excessive (this does not mean I'll be shaving it off and sending it to the Gulf Coast. Fall comes quickly around here).

Secondly, whatever is the Gulf Coast going to do with all of this hair? (I just googled Gulf Coast oil spill + hair donations, so now I know. Sometimes google just takes the fun out of imagining). It is being used for its ability to trap oil (which, by the way, was my #1 theory before googling). Let's think carefully about this one before we jump in, shall we? I'm not sure it's a good idea to throw "excess" OR "excessive" hair into an already gruesome mess. Think bathroom sink, but on a massive scale. Who wants to clean THAT one up?

Maybe it's an ingenious idea. Maybe it's "hair-brained." But until I see results, I'm holding on to my hair, excessive or not.

Generation Gap

For a few horrifying minutes this week, I found myself at a party with people half my age. A friend had won VIP passes to a Canada Day event for six of us, so we decided to check it out. In our capri pants or jeans, flat shoes and shirts that covered our torso, we were decidedly overdressed. The girls, at least 15 years my junior, donned ultra-short shorts and halter tops, or minute dresses with fabric noticeably absent in strategic places. Most wore high heels that challenged their ability to walk upright. The boys were unremarkable, simply taking in the sights.

The partyers danced to music devoid of rhythm or comprehensible lyrics, save the occasional profanity (a friend tells me it’s “house music” – new to me, but that may simply reveal my lack of musical savvy). As I stood there feeling mild contempt for the clothing and music of this group, it struck me. I am the older generation. I am smug in my superiority, confident that my experience of youth was more righteous, less desperate, more fashion-savvy and, if nothing else, accompanied by music with decipherable lyrics.

I imagine that this is how the generation before me felt about my generation’s taste in clothes, music and lifestyle. No doubt the generation before that felt the same about those who came after them. So it is, I suppose, with aging. Maybe that’s the one comfort we derive from getting older. We have accumulated knowledge and wisdom that allows us to see (or at least to imagine) that we have a better handle on life than those who come after us. And just as strongly, each generation feels the older one simply doesn’t “get it.” Maybe they are equally right.

I feel confident that the partyers in that room are but one segment of the 18- to 24-year-old population (at least that’s my hope and my interactions with other 18- to 24-year-olds bear that out). I do hope that the ultra short-shorts and high heels are a phase this group will stumble through (perhaps literally), although that is no doubt presumptuous and judgmental of me.

Lucky for me, I am with a group that shares my presumptions and judgments. We make a hasty exit from the party, heading back to the comfort of our hotel suite, where we’re asleep by midnight, lulled by the comfort that we’re part of the generation we are.