Going Feet First

(Above: I was expected.)   Humility is a good thing, or at least that’s what I hear. It seems a little off-topic these days, given that youth and vitality are generally considered premium qualities in our society, and I don’t think I can pull off youth anymore. I feel kind of vital, but the jury’s out. So I’m humble in the face of impending senescence, and impending is being generous. I get humility. I do wonder about humiliation, though. Might be a worthwhile thing, every once in a while. Clear out the karma cobwebs, or something. Surely I deserve a little humiliation from time to time. I would prefer the mild kind, if I can choose. Humiliation lives in our dream lives. Of course; everyone knows about the at school in pajamas dream, and the variations. Naked, under-dressed, probably over-dressed, definitely oddly/inappropriately dressed…so common it’s hardly worth mentioning. You know about these dreams. It’s part of life, or part of a part; I don’t recall so many of these in recent years. Might be a young person thing. LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE. So. My wife informed me on Friday that we’d be heading to Port Angeles on Monday (yesterday) for the wedding of one of her former students. Since it was a university student, I’d never met her, but I’d heard a bit. JK seemed to have lots of warm and fuzzies about this young woman, but it was a small, intimate wedding and apparently there was a question about an invitation, etc. Word was sent that we were both very welcome to come, and word was sent to me that I was expected to attend. I acquiesced. Lots of marriage is about acquiescing, young people. But then, I’m sort of a wedding junkie anyway. The trip looked a little daunting, given that we had to drive to Port Townsend, which means we also had to float a bit; it was a three-hour trip, doorway to doorway, but a chunk of that was spent waiting in the ferry line. And it was a nice day. Nice. Sunny. A little rushed in the morning, as I had a newspaper deadline and was having some trouble with coherence. JK was hoping we could have some extra time over there, just to wander, which is why we ended up sitting in the ferry line; we were rushing to catch an early boat, but missed. Happens. And if you’re sensing a pattern… I work in what used to be John’s bedroom; it’s a den, I guess, or a study or home office or whatever you want to call it. There’s a closet, anyway, and I eventually moved my stuff into it to free up the bedroom space for the woman of the house. I’m just that great of a guy. I’ve parked my stationary bike in front of that closet, which is not all that much of an obstacle; it’s easy to reach in and grab a shirt. Retrieving shoes takes a bit more of an effort, not a big deal. And it’s kind of dark, and…I dunno. I’m just trying to recreate the scene and rationalize how I ended up with two different shoes. I can’t. I had a pair of nice ones I was considering, but they were tucked in the back and I was lazy, so I went with an old, very comfortable pair that still looked decent and went with slacks. They are black. Another pair of comfortable shoes I own are brown. I was apparently giving everyone a fair shake. I mean, how does this happen? I’ve been rushed before. I’ve forgotten things a million times. I’ve discovered, after the fact, spots or stains that made me feel self-conscious. We’ve all done this, I’m guessing. Grab, don, dash. Mistakes are made. But shoes? You really have to be distracted, I’m thinking, and I can’t figure it out. I had to tie the shoelaces; surely I would notice. But I didn’t. Just put on one left shoe and one right shoe and never the twain would (or should) meet. It wasn’t until we were at the site, and I reached down to re-tie one of my laces, that I noticed. Humiliation is not exactly right; it was more fatalistic than that, and less serious than that. I couldn’t do a thing about it, other than return to the car and hide my feet for three hours. Bad form. So I just grinned and wore it. I did my best to keep my feet inconspicuous, and when JK asked me to dance I said, sure, but I’m dancing in my socks (it would have been OK, but she demurred). So no dancing, no comments, probably no notice. Just something to laugh about, and wonder about a little. I’m not worried about impending dementia, although some people have made jokes. Jokes are fine. I’m good. It was an unforced error, but just an error. So he says. It was a nice day. The wedding was held at Fort Worden, decommissioned Army barracks and artillery museum, etc. Beautiful scenery and interesting buildings, and a deer that seemed disinterested in us, casually munching on flora and then ambling away, but then. What’s the proper response to a human with mismatched footwear? Keep ambling, err on the side of caution, live to tell the story to the other deer. I assume. And always look down; it can surprise you, sometimes.

(Above: I was expected.)

 

Humility is a good thing, or at least that’s what I hear. It seems a little off-topic these days, given that youth and vitality are generally considered premium qualities in our society, and I don’t think I can pull off youth anymore. I feel kind of vital, but the jury’s out.

So I’m humble in the face of impending senescence, and impending is being generous. I get humility.

I do wonder about humiliation, though. Might be a worthwhile thing, every once in a while. Clear out the karma cobwebs, or something. Surely I deserve a little humiliation from time to time. I would prefer the mild kind, if I can choose.

Humiliation lives in our dream lives. Of course; everyone knows about the at school in pajamas dream, and the variations. Naked, under-dressed, probably over-dressed, definitely oddly/inappropriately dressed…so common it’s hardly worth mentioning. You know about these dreams. It’s part of life, or part of a part; I don’t recall so many of these in recent years. Might be a young person thing. LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE.

So.

My wife informed me on Friday that we’d be heading to Port Angeles on Monday (yesterday) for the wedding of one of her former students. Since it was a university student, I’d never met her, but I’d heard a bit. JK seemed to have lots of warm and fuzzies about this young woman, but it was a small, intimate wedding and apparently there was a question about an invitation, etc. Word was sent that we were both very welcome to come, and word was sent to me that I was expected to attend. I acquiesced. Lots of marriage is about acquiescing, young people.

But then, I’m sort of a wedding junkie anyway. The trip looked a little daunting, given that we had to drive to Port Townsend, which means we also had to float a bit; it was a three-hour trip, doorway to doorway, but a chunk of that was spent waiting in the ferry line. And it was a nice day.

Nice. Sunny. A little rushed in the morning, as I had a newspaper deadline and was having some trouble with coherence. JK was hoping we could have some extra time over there, just to wander, which is why we ended up sitting in the ferry line; we were rushing to catch an early boat, but missed. Happens.

And if you’re sensing a pattern…

I work in what used to be John’s bedroom; it’s a den, I guess, or a study or home office or whatever you want to call it. There’s a closet, anyway, and I eventually moved my stuff into it to free up the bedroom space for the woman of the house. I’m just that great of a guy.

I’ve parked my stationary bike in front of that closet, which is not all that much of an obstacle; it’s easy to reach in and grab a shirt. Retrieving shoes takes a bit more of an effort, not a big deal. And it’s kind of dark, and…I dunno. I’m just trying to recreate the scene and rationalize how I ended up with two different shoes.

I can’t. I had a pair of nice ones I was considering, but they were tucked in the back and I was lazy, so I went with an old, very comfortable pair that still looked decent and went with slacks. They are black. Another pair of comfortable shoes I own are brown. I was apparently giving everyone a fair shake.

I mean, how does this happen? I’ve been rushed before. I’ve forgotten things a million times. I’ve discovered, after the fact, spots or stains that made me feel self-conscious. We’ve all done this, I’m guessing. Grab, don, dash. Mistakes are made.

But shoes? You really have to be distracted, I’m thinking, and I can’t figure it out. I had to tie the shoelaces; surely I would notice. But I didn’t. Just put on one left shoe and one right shoe and never the twain would (or should) meet.

It wasn’t until we were at the site, and I reached down to re-tie one of my laces, that I noticed. Humiliation is not exactly right; it was more fatalistic than that, and less serious than that. I couldn’t do a thing about it, other than return to the car and hide my feet for three hours. Bad form.

So I just grinned and wore it. I did my best to keep my feet inconspicuous, and when JK asked me to dance I said, sure, but I’m dancing in my socks (it would have been OK, but she demurred). So no dancing, no comments, probably no notice. Just something to laugh about, and wonder about a little.

I’m not worried about impending dementia, although some people have made jokes. Jokes are fine. I’m good. It was an unforced error, but just an error. So he says.

It was a nice day. The wedding was held at Fort Worden, decommissioned Army barracks and artillery museum, etc. Beautiful scenery and interesting buildings, and a deer that seemed disinterested in us, casually munching on flora and then ambling away, but then. What’s the proper response to a human with mismatched footwear? Keep ambling, err on the side of caution, live to tell the story to the other deer. I assume. And always look down; it can surprise you, sometimes.

IMG_5039.JPG

Proof.

Chuck SigarsComment