Focus.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
In everything that you do, focus.
If you're talking on the phone to a friend, focus. Make your mind and attention as present to that person as your voice is.
If you are filing at work, focus. Take that menial, mundane task and do it right.
If you are exercising, focus. Are you fatigued? Are you pushing yourself as hard as you can. Do you have proper form? Learn to recognize your body's signs and know its limitations. Only then can you improve.
If you are eating, focus. Savor the taste of the food and think about what it is doing for your body. Is it nourishing you or is it just a little snack? Should you keep eating or are you already satisfied?
If you are driving, focus.
If you are tying your shoe, focus.
If you are walking into a new room, focus.
If you are writing a blog entry that six people will read, focus.
If you are singing in the car alone, focus.
In everything that you do, focus.
When you focus on what you are doing, you become aware. When you are aware, you learn. When you learn, you gain control. When you have control, you can change yourself as you see fit.
If you do not focus on the little things, the big things will never change. We are what we do habitually and life is but a series of small seemingly insignificant moments. Squander one moment and you may squander a lifetime. Make the most of each, big and small.
All you have to do is focus.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Driving Games
Probably my least favorite thing about suburban life is the fact that I have to drive everywhere I go. Sure, when it's nice out I like to bike but 1) people are crazy, especially in cars, and you have to have some sort of secret death wish to pedal too far away from your driveway 2) you can't go more than a mile in any direction without running into a highway and 3) after three minutes of physical activity my body covers itself in a liquid that is somewhere between sweat and a frog's mucousy coating, not the most attractive mix. So between my car and the time I spend sitting in my office job, my body is usually bent into a couple 90 degree angles (also, check out this article on why that is a very, very bad thing: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/39523298/ns/health-mens_health/ ).
Driving around here, you realize that lots of other people are in the same predicament and you all usually spend a lot of time together on highways, usually not going very fast. When I'm stuck in the car for too long, my mind gets bored. When my mind gets bored, it likes to sleep. (People who know me well know that I can sleep on command). Sleeping at the wheel is not good, though I admit that I have come dangerously close.
The remedy, I have found, is to actually focus on driving. But how do you focus on something as monotonous and boring as lifting your foot on and off the brake pedal for hours on end. Easy. Make it fun.
For instance, when stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on a highway, I've been trying to crack the code of traffic patterns to determine which lane is the best to be in. In most cases, barring some construction and unexpected lane closures, the right lane is the way to go, only dipping over to the middle lane when stuck behind someone who brakes way too soon or when approaching an onramp. The left lane should rarely be used. The theory: most people think the left lane will move quickest and the only people exiting are on the right side. Makes sense. The hypothesis has not been thoroughly tested, however, and further investigation needs to conducted.
In my angstier, more self-righteous days, I used to play "Superhero," where I was an ordinary citizen whose duty was to protect my fellow drivers from the assholes of the road. You know who I'm talking about. The guys who cut you off without signaling, who ride up on your butt and then recklessly swerve around you, whose mufflers have been modified to make sure you know exactly how loud and obnoxious they are. I would see them cut someone off and then try to speed ahead through an impassable line of traffic. They would squeeze through, nearly causing a three car pileup in their wake. It was my duty to stop them. I would speed ahead of such a villain and then casually slow down to the speed limit. These people hate nothing more than someone going the speed limit. They would switch over to the right and try to speed ahead of me. I'd hit the gas and speed up just enough to align myself with another car, ensuring they could not pass and that they were safely boxed into between several speeding bodies of steel. They would always get away, probably angrier and more aggressive than before they ran into me. I wasn't a very good superhero.
A friend of mine told me that he plays "Shark Attack" sometimes. He'll pull up next to a car. And then change lanes in front of it. And then changes lanes to the opposite side of it. And then brake and get behind it. And then repeat that whole process. It sounded funny, but it's a lot more lane changing and braking than I prefer.
But lately, I've been playing what I refer to simply as "The Game." It's best played when there are moderate amounts of traffic that is steadily moving. The goal of the game: get through the traffic. The catch: you have to use your brakes as little as possible and drive like a somewhat courteous driver, i.e. use your signals, don't cut anyone off or tailgate unless necessary, and don't go too fast. Any asshole could drive a 100mph, then slam on the brakes, and then jerk his car over to the next lane forcing the little old lady in her Honda Accord to slam on her brakes. This game is more of a ballet than break dancing. It is about control, fluidity and efficiency. It's a puzzle at high speeds, except the pieces and the solutions are constantly changing. You anticipate, who is going where and when. It is a calculation based not on numbers, but by an instinct that must be developed over time. It is mentally enthralling.
More importantly, it keeps me awake.
Driving around here, you realize that lots of other people are in the same predicament and you all usually spend a lot of time together on highways, usually not going very fast. When I'm stuck in the car for too long, my mind gets bored. When my mind gets bored, it likes to sleep. (People who know me well know that I can sleep on command). Sleeping at the wheel is not good, though I admit that I have come dangerously close.
The remedy, I have found, is to actually focus on driving. But how do you focus on something as monotonous and boring as lifting your foot on and off the brake pedal for hours on end. Easy. Make it fun.
For instance, when stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on a highway, I've been trying to crack the code of traffic patterns to determine which lane is the best to be in. In most cases, barring some construction and unexpected lane closures, the right lane is the way to go, only dipping over to the middle lane when stuck behind someone who brakes way too soon or when approaching an onramp. The left lane should rarely be used. The theory: most people think the left lane will move quickest and the only people exiting are on the right side. Makes sense. The hypothesis has not been thoroughly tested, however, and further investigation needs to conducted.
In my angstier, more self-righteous days, I used to play "Superhero," where I was an ordinary citizen whose duty was to protect my fellow drivers from the assholes of the road. You know who I'm talking about. The guys who cut you off without signaling, who ride up on your butt and then recklessly swerve around you, whose mufflers have been modified to make sure you know exactly how loud and obnoxious they are. I would see them cut someone off and then try to speed ahead through an impassable line of traffic. They would squeeze through, nearly causing a three car pileup in their wake. It was my duty to stop them. I would speed ahead of such a villain and then casually slow down to the speed limit. These people hate nothing more than someone going the speed limit. They would switch over to the right and try to speed ahead of me. I'd hit the gas and speed up just enough to align myself with another car, ensuring they could not pass and that they were safely boxed into between several speeding bodies of steel. They would always get away, probably angrier and more aggressive than before they ran into me. I wasn't a very good superhero.
A friend of mine told me that he plays "Shark Attack" sometimes. He'll pull up next to a car. And then change lanes in front of it. And then changes lanes to the opposite side of it. And then brake and get behind it. And then repeat that whole process. It sounded funny, but it's a lot more lane changing and braking than I prefer.
But lately, I've been playing what I refer to simply as "The Game." It's best played when there are moderate amounts of traffic that is steadily moving. The goal of the game: get through the traffic. The catch: you have to use your brakes as little as possible and drive like a somewhat courteous driver, i.e. use your signals, don't cut anyone off or tailgate unless necessary, and don't go too fast. Any asshole could drive a 100mph, then slam on the brakes, and then jerk his car over to the next lane forcing the little old lady in her Honda Accord to slam on her brakes. This game is more of a ballet than break dancing. It is about control, fluidity and efficiency. It's a puzzle at high speeds, except the pieces and the solutions are constantly changing. You anticipate, who is going where and when. It is a calculation based not on numbers, but by an instinct that must be developed over time. It is mentally enthralling.
More importantly, it keeps me awake.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Projects and Purpose
"Tommy, go look outside," my dad excitedly commanded while my little sister gave me the oh-my-goodness-I-can't-believe-what-daddy-just-did eyes. I walked outside and saw that was just hours before a ten foot high, fifteen foot wide bush was now reduced to a monstrous mound of discarded branches and two sad-looking stumps. "Call Paul," he told me, "We're starting today."
What I thought was only an overambitious dream to build a backyard pool bar thought up over the weekend - "the project" as we labeled it from the start - was now a plan officially laid into action. After a day of digging and pouring cement, a couple days of cutting and leveling foundation boards, and then a long afternoon of power-screwing down vinyl decking, we had something. We weren't quite sure what it was yet, other than a nicely laid trapezoidal deck. That week I came home from my 3 hour geometry class, changed, and worked my ass off for a solid 8 hours each day. I didn't feel tired; just the opposite. I was exhilarated. We were building something from nothing. No professional consultation, no 3-d images rendered, not even a little sketch - we were reshaping wood and vinyl to fit some vague vision my father had, and then reshaping the vision to fit what we were actually producing.
The next week the walls were erected. Suddenly, we were hoisting up beams for the roof and the skeleton was finished. Then we were hammering plywood, tacking in shingles, and siding.
The work became more sporadic from there and after Paul and I found full-time jobs we lost some of the zeal of the first month. Nevertheless, for better of for worse, it stands finished, powered, and with comfy seats.
Before we started the project, I found myself in a bit of a rut. My teaching gig was starting up and I loved that, but I still didn't have anything lined up after the class. Working on something I cared about, learning new skills, and sharing that sense of accomplishment with my best friend and my dad gave me a purpose and made me forget about my uncertain immediate future.
Since we finished the project, I've been working my new job, processing new applications and answering phone calls. It is not glamorous work, but it's also not grueling work that's going to break my back or lead to a severed limb. At worst, I'd say I become a bit more nearsighted. It's definitely not something I can find much purpose in, at least not like I did putting myself into the project. I don't know about everyone else, but I've realized that I need purpose in my life, something to work towards, something that helps me be better tomorrow than I am today.
What I thought was only an overambitious dream to build a backyard pool bar thought up over the weekend - "the project" as we labeled it from the start - was now a plan officially laid into action. After a day of digging and pouring cement, a couple days of cutting and leveling foundation boards, and then a long afternoon of power-screwing down vinyl decking, we had something. We weren't quite sure what it was yet, other than a nicely laid trapezoidal deck. That week I came home from my 3 hour geometry class, changed, and worked my ass off for a solid 8 hours each day. I didn't feel tired; just the opposite. I was exhilarated. We were building something from nothing. No professional consultation, no 3-d images rendered, not even a little sketch - we were reshaping wood and vinyl to fit some vague vision my father had, and then reshaping the vision to fit what we were actually producing.
The next week the walls were erected. Suddenly, we were hoisting up beams for the roof and the skeleton was finished. Then we were hammering plywood, tacking in shingles, and siding.
The work became more sporadic from there and after Paul and I found full-time jobs we lost some of the zeal of the first month. Nevertheless, for better of for worse, it stands finished, powered, and with comfy seats.
Before we started the project, I found myself in a bit of a rut. My teaching gig was starting up and I loved that, but I still didn't have anything lined up after the class. Working on something I cared about, learning new skills, and sharing that sense of accomplishment with my best friend and my dad gave me a purpose and made me forget about my uncertain immediate future.
Since we finished the project, I've been working my new job, processing new applications and answering phone calls. It is not glamorous work, but it's also not grueling work that's going to break my back or lead to a severed limb. At worst, I'd say I become a bit more nearsighted. It's definitely not something I can find much purpose in, at least not like I did putting myself into the project. I don't know about everyone else, but I've realized that I need purpose in my life, something to work towards, something that helps me be better tomorrow than I am today.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
That's Baloney!
"That's a bunch of baloney!" he shouted into the phone and I could practically feel the spit through the receiver. "I never changed my password!" With my company's website (well, the company I work for), you are allowed three mess-ups before the site blocks your account and tells you to call Client Services (that's me). "Are you sure you have the correct User ID, sir?" I asked. "Yes! I've used it the same one for years! It's a bunch of baloney! Someone changed my password!" he spewed. "I can assure you, sir, that it is not baloney," I might have said, "Can you confirm your User ID for me?" He read off the ID he was using. "Sir, that doesn't match the ID we have on record here. It looks like you still have your default ID." "Oh, you mean the (Insert default ID here) one?" he responded, a bit more calmly. "Yes sir," I responded (I've become quite liberal with the use of the word "sir" these days). "Welp... that did the trick. Thank you!" and he was gone.
I hung up and chuckled to myself. This guy's immediate assumption was that we somehow messed up his account when he forgot his user name. How many people actually believe that something they did wrong was someone else's fault. It happens all the time, right? But you and I never do it, do we?
At my current job, when I'm not pushing buttons and waiting for the printer to respond, I'm usually dealing with customers on the phone who want to know how to put money in their account. Usually the customers that call are elderly and may or may not be able to see the computer screen. It's painfully monotonous.
My two least favorite moments are when my boss and my more experience co-worker will say to me, "Tom, what's the deal with this account (or something along those lines)." It'll either be missing paperwork, or I'll have forgotten to send an e-mail. "That's a bunch of baloney!" I'll say to myself, "I know I printed/e-mailed that." Then I'll remember customers like the gent from the first paragraph. I'll whisper to myself, "Damn," and then go fetch the papers.
I hung up and chuckled to myself. This guy's immediate assumption was that we somehow messed up his account when he forgot his user name. How many people actually believe that something they did wrong was someone else's fault. It happens all the time, right? But you and I never do it, do we?
At my current job, when I'm not pushing buttons and waiting for the printer to respond, I'm usually dealing with customers on the phone who want to know how to put money in their account. Usually the customers that call are elderly and may or may not be able to see the computer screen. It's painfully monotonous.
My two least favorite moments are when my boss and my more experience co-worker will say to me, "Tom, what's the deal with this account (or something along those lines)." It'll either be missing paperwork, or I'll have forgotten to send an e-mail. "That's a bunch of baloney!" I'll say to myself, "I know I printed/e-mailed that." Then I'll remember customers like the gent from the first paragraph. I'll whisper to myself, "Damn," and then go fetch the papers.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Tantrums
She screamed upstairs. What's going on? I jolted from my couch, confused about what day or time it was. She screamed again, until she had no more breath, and then she screamed one more time. Is the house burning? Did she break a leg? Is she being beaten? The way she was screaming, she should have been stabbed. Then I heard my middle sister yell at her. Then my dad shouted. Whew. It was just Angie, my eleven-year-old sister unwinding from a long day. She does this quite a bit. She'll have a long day, usually filled with bike riding, swimming and watching way too much Nickelodeon with friends. Everything is sunshine and gumdrops, or so it seems. Then she comes home, and she crashes from her perch atop the clouds and she crashes hard. That's when the demons take over. Then she becomes a minefield, waiting for someone to make one false step. As soon as you do, BOOM! The tears start flowing and everything, regardless of how calm or reasonable it might be, merits a "SHUUUUUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!" These little tropical storms of pre-teen hormones and sugar crashes happen about twice a week. I usually get frustrated with her and I started to last night, but then I realized, Hey, I'm pretty sure I did the same thing she's doing last week.
Two weeks prior was probably the best six day span that I've had in recent memory. It started off with a softball doubleheader in the rain and a free Spoon concert later that night and it ended with a fan-freakin-tastic 2+ hour Cake concert in New Haven with my lady friend. In between, the week was filled with jam sessions, stress-free work days, studying German and working on my Fulbright Application. I was living large... as least large in my standards.
Waking up in New Haven on Sunday, however, I felt tired. I felt drained. And worst, I felt cranky. Sitting in traffic on the way home was almost enraging. At work the next day, an overturned 18-wheeler at the toll plaza made me 30 seconds late for work, an arrival that earned me a week's worth of showing up at 8:45. The next day I went to play guitar at my friend's place and blew out my front-right tire as I parked in front of his house. My week was filled with little mental miscalculations like this one. My head felt heavy. I felt slow and incompetent. I started getting down on myself. It almost felt impossible to be happy or laugh. God Tom, you suck at EVERYTHING. Why do you even play guitar? Why are you even applying for a Fulbright? Yes, these were actual thoughts.
Then Thursday, I felt exceptionally crappy. The computer screen seemed to burn my eyes moreso than normal. My head hurt. I felt weak and tired. I tried going for a run after work to see if exercise would make me feel any better. Within the first 200 feet my face and sinuses felt like they were going to explode. And then, Ah ha! I wasn't depressed or suddenly incompetent at everything, I was just sick.
By Saturday, I was back to being my obnoxiously optimistic self with my irrational emotions safely corralled. But I guess even at 23, I'm not immune to reverting back to an eleven-year old girl.
Two weeks prior was probably the best six day span that I've had in recent memory. It started off with a softball doubleheader in the rain and a free Spoon concert later that night and it ended with a fan-freakin-tastic 2+ hour Cake concert in New Haven with my lady friend. In between, the week was filled with jam sessions, stress-free work days, studying German and working on my Fulbright Application. I was living large... as least large in my standards.
Waking up in New Haven on Sunday, however, I felt tired. I felt drained. And worst, I felt cranky. Sitting in traffic on the way home was almost enraging. At work the next day, an overturned 18-wheeler at the toll plaza made me 30 seconds late for work, an arrival that earned me a week's worth of showing up at 8:45. The next day I went to play guitar at my friend's place and blew out my front-right tire as I parked in front of his house. My week was filled with little mental miscalculations like this one. My head felt heavy. I felt slow and incompetent. I started getting down on myself. It almost felt impossible to be happy or laugh. God Tom, you suck at EVERYTHING. Why do you even play guitar? Why are you even applying for a Fulbright? Yes, these were actual thoughts.
Then Thursday, I felt exceptionally crappy. The computer screen seemed to burn my eyes moreso than normal. My head hurt. I felt weak and tired. I tried going for a run after work to see if exercise would make me feel any better. Within the first 200 feet my face and sinuses felt like they were going to explode. And then, Ah ha! I wasn't depressed or suddenly incompetent at everything, I was just sick.
By Saturday, I was back to being my obnoxiously optimistic self with my irrational emotions safely corralled. But I guess even at 23, I'm not immune to reverting back to an eleven-year old girl.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
The Culprit behind America's Downfall
In this troubled time, the Great Recession, there has been ample finger-pointing and blame-gaming. "It's the GOP's fault," some chide, "for obstinately blocking everything Obama has tried to pass." Others counter, "You mean that Muslim reincarnation of Hitler? It's his fault for trying to turn this nation into the Soviet Union version 2.0." Still others shout, "No, it's Wall Street's fault for so consciously misleading us into our very own destruction. And what about big oil destroying our environment? And big business shipping our jobs overseas? And terrorism! How could you forget terrorism?"
But, America, none of this rabble-rabble-rabbling is correct. The chaos has spread enough and it's time you all knew the truth. I'll tell you who's to blame for America's downfall: me.
I'm to blame for the healthcare crisis. I know I need to exercise. I know I shouldn't eat artery-clogging fast food. And, believe me, I know that I don't need a 32 oz. soda with my Big Mac. These actions will put me in the hospital again and again for reasons that could have been easily prevented and we'll all see health care prices driven up. Despite all this, I've been too lazy to change.
I'm to blame for the financial meltdown. I exchanged a good work ethic and a prudent budget for get-rich-quick dreams. Time and time again I spent money I didn't have on things I didn't really need (or want, for that matter). I bought a house with a mortgage that was too good to be true and filled it with furniture and electronics bought on credit. I never questioned why the rates were so low; I guess I just thought the banks and credit cards companies knew how good of a guy I was.
I'm to blame for the little BP mishap, too. Not directly, of course, but I drive my car. A lot. I drive it to work. I drive it to the mall. Heck, I even drive it to my kids' bus stop five houses up the block. I just love driving. One thing I don't love though: high gas prices. I flat out hate them. I guess if I walked my kids down the block or biked to places in town I could've cut fuel expenses, but I just didn't think of it. Instead, I unwittingly put pressure on BP and other companies to cut costs and corners so I could keep on driving as much as possible, for as cheap as possible.
You can blame me for all the environmental problems we're facing as well. I like leaving lights and the TV on, even when I'm not in the room. It makes me feel safe. I like long showers and rinsing my dishes before I put them in the dishwasher as well. You can never get those things too clean as far as I'm concerned. I like my house cold in the summer and hot in the winter, too. I guess I just never really thought about where all that energy needed was coming from, or where the waste products went.
I'm also to blame for the religious intolerance that's surfacing these days. I always thought that what "religion" you were meant what kind of "Christian" you were, at least in this country. I never thought that people could have sincere beliefs in religions like Hinduism and Islam. Heck, I don't even really understand my own creed; how could you expect me to understand theirs?
So I'll say it again: you can blame me, America. But before you get too riled up, hear me out. I want to change. I don't want to let my country down anymore. I want to stop being lazy and unhealthy. I want to be fit and active. I want to eat foods that will take care of my body so down the road a doctor won't have to. I want to stop making needless, impetuous purchases, save more and find ways to be content with what I already have. I want to drive less and use less energy, not so much because I'm an environmentalist, but I now see that efficiency is something to value in and of itself. And finally, I want to be more tolerant, reaching out to those who are different than me and instead of polarizing our groups, embracing them as fellow countrymen who bring their own distinct flavor to this one-of-a-kind melting pot.
I implore you, my fellow citizens, to join me in this moment of critical introspection. This country was once great and we can make it great again. We need to stick our thumbs to our sternum, look in the mirror and say, "I'm to blame, America, but not anymore."
But, America, none of this rabble-rabble-rabbling is correct. The chaos has spread enough and it's time you all knew the truth. I'll tell you who's to blame for America's downfall: me.
I'm to blame for the healthcare crisis. I know I need to exercise. I know I shouldn't eat artery-clogging fast food. And, believe me, I know that I don't need a 32 oz. soda with my Big Mac. These actions will put me in the hospital again and again for reasons that could have been easily prevented and we'll all see health care prices driven up. Despite all this, I've been too lazy to change.
I'm to blame for the financial meltdown. I exchanged a good work ethic and a prudent budget for get-rich-quick dreams. Time and time again I spent money I didn't have on things I didn't really need (or want, for that matter). I bought a house with a mortgage that was too good to be true and filled it with furniture and electronics bought on credit. I never questioned why the rates were so low; I guess I just thought the banks and credit cards companies knew how good of a guy I was.
I'm to blame for the little BP mishap, too. Not directly, of course, but I drive my car. A lot. I drive it to work. I drive it to the mall. Heck, I even drive it to my kids' bus stop five houses up the block. I just love driving. One thing I don't love though: high gas prices. I flat out hate them. I guess if I walked my kids down the block or biked to places in town I could've cut fuel expenses, but I just didn't think of it. Instead, I unwittingly put pressure on BP and other companies to cut costs and corners so I could keep on driving as much as possible, for as cheap as possible.
You can blame me for all the environmental problems we're facing as well. I like leaving lights and the TV on, even when I'm not in the room. It makes me feel safe. I like long showers and rinsing my dishes before I put them in the dishwasher as well. You can never get those things too clean as far as I'm concerned. I like my house cold in the summer and hot in the winter, too. I guess I just never really thought about where all that energy needed was coming from, or where the waste products went.
I'm also to blame for the religious intolerance that's surfacing these days. I always thought that what "religion" you were meant what kind of "Christian" you were, at least in this country. I never thought that people could have sincere beliefs in religions like Hinduism and Islam. Heck, I don't even really understand my own creed; how could you expect me to understand theirs?
So I'll say it again: you can blame me, America. But before you get too riled up, hear me out. I want to change. I don't want to let my country down anymore. I want to stop being lazy and unhealthy. I want to be fit and active. I want to eat foods that will take care of my body so down the road a doctor won't have to. I want to stop making needless, impetuous purchases, save more and find ways to be content with what I already have. I want to drive less and use less energy, not so much because I'm an environmentalist, but I now see that efficiency is something to value in and of itself. And finally, I want to be more tolerant, reaching out to those who are different than me and instead of polarizing our groups, embracing them as fellow countrymen who bring their own distinct flavor to this one-of-a-kind melting pot.
I implore you, my fellow citizens, to join me in this moment of critical introspection. This country was once great and we can make it great again. We need to stick our thumbs to our sternum, look in the mirror and say, "I'm to blame, America, but not anymore."
Friday, September 17, 2010
Fat AND Stupid? Hmmmm....
Check out this article: http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/09/15/phys-ed-can-exercise-make-kids-smarter/?src=me&ref=general.
Maybe Phys Ed shouldn't be cut out of schools...
Maybe Phys Ed shouldn't be cut out of schools...
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