Balancing Act

If a Theoretical Man is Ranting Theoretically in an Invisible Closet, does Anyone Theoretically Give a Damn?

I'm usually very capable of paying attention to a subject. Recently though, I've been having a little more trouble focusing, even on subjects that I'm passionate about. Take Milton for example. I know that I have to step away every once in a while from what I consider some of the greatest verse or prose ever written, but right now I've been "away" for a day or two and I can't get back into it. Could just be writers block, could be indicative of a bigger problem.

Another example is Ichiro. Back in early August, when I realized how many hits he could have this year, I was pretty wild about checking up the stats every morning on Yahoo, and calculating how many hits he would project to. Then two things happened. First, ESPN picked up on it (about two weeks later) and started showing all his singles every second of every day. That is, when they weren't busy promoting their newest made for TV Movie, Pete Rose Under a Blurry Microscope. Then, partially because of the overexposure, I got a little jaded about it. I started thinking "why keep following this? why do I even care anymore?" I lost focus for a week or so, and I even started wondering if I needed to just get away from baseball for a week or two. *gasp*

And then I got back into it just as Ichiro and Raul Ibanez combined for 11 hits between the two of them in one game. I remembered how much I hated Barry Bonds, his Biceps, and his Big Bloated . . . Ego. That helped. I remembered how much Ichiro is more obsessive compulsive than Tony Shaloub, and that helped too. It helps to step back and consider the bigger context. For instance, I realized that I was giving the record too much importance, and I just needed to enjoy the baseball. The record was amazing, but was diminished because Ichiro's singles often resulted in nothing and because they happened much more easily when there was no one else on (since he couldn't ground into a fielder's choice). The important thing was watching an amazing player, the purest contact hitter since Tony Gwynn and Don Mattingly, at his craft.

But this newly discovered pseudo ADD is still bugging me. I still don't have trouble reading dense texts or long novels (one of my accomplishments this summer was reading Middlesex straight through while Jen was taking the MCATs, which she did exceptionally well on. Seven hours and four cups of coffee. decent book. a little Forrest Gump-y, but very well written. Epic ambition, lacking slightly in execution) But daily things are getting to be a chore.

Conversations are a problem when one starts thinking about something completely random, like a Radiohead song. It was easy six months ago when I could tell myself I had just been on campus for too long (and I had). I think part of it is that I was working in New York City, and I expect people here to be like people in New York City, where conciseness, precision and a snappy response is valued more than a drawn out thank you or politeness. I don't need to hear your life story, I just want my afternoon cup of coffee.

Case 1 - I walk to pay for my food in the Hop. One register is never open, but that's ok because I'm the only one in line. The lady sitting there sees me, turns to her fellow slacker to talk about timeshifts for five minutes while I stand there. You timeshift ends when I say it ends, because my tuition pays for your dinner, honey. I'm not trying to be a prick, but honestly, is it impossible to divide your attention and swipe my card?

Case 2 - At the post office, where the workers are expected to be the epitome of effectiveness. If there's a freshman that has never mailed a package in his life, tell him to figure it out somewhere else. Don't let him walk up to you with twelve things instead of having it all ready like all other civilized individuals. Don't let him stuff everything into an envelope so that it can't seal and wait for him to get a new one. Don't let him ask you to pull out your big book of zip-codes and look up the zip-code to which he's sending his package because he doesn't know the address to his own home town. HE CAN DO IT ALL HIMSELF BECAUSE HE GOT INTO COLLEGE. AND A DECENT ONE AT THAT. He doesn't need to hold up the line at the post office for twenty minutes so that the line extends out the door!!

So maybe part of the problem is the sudden change in environment. But I can't help but think that part of it is me. I have the sneaking suspicion that I'm getting dumber as I grow older. Seriously. I iz cool. 2+2=5. Good song.

I Type Goodly Now. Closet Open.