Friday marked our entrance back into California, back into the sun. Not to say we didn’t see blue skies our whole time in Oregon, Washington and British Columbia, but it was scarce and the sun that did shine shone cold. But yesterday morning we woke up in Redwood National Park and looked up to see cracks of blue sky through the trees, walked out of the forest into bright, distinct warmth.
We were especially thankful for this sunny greeting after essentially being rained out of Canada. You see, we’re trying to travel cheaply, and that means no indulgences on the essentials. We may be willing to fork over $12 each to see the world’s largest sea cave, but when it comes to eating and sleeping in a dry place, we don’t budge. OK, I may be exaggerating, but we definitely did our best to withstand the weather (we came here to camp, and we’re gonna camp, god dammit!). Here’s how it went.
The worst of it was on Vancouver Island. This wasn’t actually part of our original itinerary, but we have a bad habit of just throwing stuff in, an few days here or there, an extra $150 for the ferries, no big deal. Our first night on the island, we camped on a densely wooded ridge overlooking the Pacific near a lovely place called Tofino. It was beautiful, and, though damp, we managed to make it out of there with no worse than a soggy box of matches. (Although, we did accidentally oversleep to be woken up by a park ranger outside our tent calling, “Good morning! I must have missed you guys on my first time through, but we’re closing the park for the season in 15 minutes, and you don’t want to be on this side of a locked gate!”)
That day we discovered that we can’t afford whale-watching excursions, but had fun exploring a vast stretch of unspoiled beach. We left after we’d had our fill of contemplating life and playing with dead sea plants, just as the real rain started. After spending a good amount of time sitting in the car watching the water pound the windshield and arguing about what to do, we finally just drove.
It rained and we drove and we drove and it rained and then we saw A BEAR! Yes, ladies and gentleman, all the wet sleeping bags in the world couldn’t put a damper on my excitement.
But it did keep raining. We found a campground near Port Alberni that hadn’t closed for the season and set up our tent as fast as we could. In we went, safe and dry…for a matter of hours anyway. It’s a 30-year-old tent that hasn’t been waterproofed in who knows how long, so you can imagine how well it managed.
When I woke up, Jordi was still unconscious as usual (I swear, if someone would let him, he would sleep into old age, wake up with a gray beard down to his ankles like…what fable is that?) and it was still raining. My hip pressed into the old, faded egg-crate foam pad my dad lent us. It was cold. I closed my eyes and hoped that it was just cold, not wet. Not wet, please please not wet. I shook Jordi awake and realized my knees were sinking slowly into the pad as though into a gigantic soaked sponge. Dirty water was seeping up to us from underneath. And cue panic.
Now, you may not think this sounds like fun, but I’ll tell you that nothing beats drowning in your own tent. What a way to start the day! Splattering ourselves in mud, we loaded the whole sopping mess into the car as quickly as possible and raced off as though trying to escape some kind of horrible monster. Flee! FLEE! We did manage to get away (though we had nowhere to go), from whatever it was, but it took days for all of our stuff to dry, and even longer to get over the emotional scarring. I just kept telling myself we saw a bear, we saw a bear, we saw a bear.
But I write this now from the coastal town of Mendocino, CA, a little place full of art, hippies and sun, and as I enjoy the organic oatmeal cookie Jordi just bought, I can hardly remember the reek of moldy foam pads and the damp slime of an eternally wet tent. After all, as Jordi’s father would say, we aren’t made of sugar. We can handle it.
27 October 2009
20 October 2009
Double Dutch
Unusual circumstances brought us to the town of Lynden, Washington, a place that we would have otherwise cruised right by. Jordi is applying for a graduate program conducted in English that requires him to take the TOEFL exam to prove his knowledge of the language. The only testing center that roughly coincided with our itinerary was at the Christian high school in this little town situated just south of the Canadian border. So we went.
Arriving at the campground the night before the exam, we checked in with a woman wearing a baggy pastel sweatshirt and matching scrunchy in her stringy hair. As soon as Jordi told her his last name, Scholten, she freaked out and talked us about half to death in her croaky voice. It turns out—get this—that the town of Lynden is filled with Scholtens. Filled! After discussing this fact for at least 10 minutes, she pulled out the local phone book just to make sure we understood the magnitude of the coincidence.
You see, about half the population of Lynden has Dutch heritage. That’s 50 percent. As the story goes, they came here starting in the early 20th century because the climate was similar to that of the Netherlands. It’s true. A similar climate. Wild, huh? And then they just, like, made lots of babies and turned the place into miniature Holland faster than you can count een twee drie!
And here, standing before this woman, like Hans Brinker reincarnate, was a real Scholten. Straight out of Amsterdam. I’ll tell ya, that knocked her silver skates right off. “You wouldn’t believe it!” she said, “You’ll go into town and see signs in English and Dutch!”
We’re thinking, no freaking way. Well, actually, I was thinking that. Jordi was probably thinking, echt waar?
“There are old people here who still speak real Dutch!” she went on. “And it’s not just Scholtens…” She started listing other “Dutch” names, which were either heavily Americanized or just not Dutch at all. The one I remember best, partly because she kept repeating it and partly because it’s obscene, sounded like “Coochie”. Jordi and I couldn’t for the life of us imagine what actual Dutch name she was trying to say, but I was reminded of popular mid-90s slang, and, well, female genitalia.
We couldn’t wait to get into town and see the madness for ourselves. And boy, she wasn’t lyin’. They had a public bulletin board with flyers for piano lessons and lost cats with a sign that said “Dorpsnieuws” (village news). There was the Dutch Mothers restaurant, the Dutch Bakery, the Dutch Village Inn, the Dutch Computer Repair Emporium. (OK, I made that last one up, but you get the idea.) They had a giant windmill and a mural depicting wheels of gouda, tulip fields and people in clogs. The post office said “Postkantoor” over the door with a Dutch flag and, again, tulips and clogs. It was kitschy and artificial, but damn were they proud. The only thing missing was a tribute to van Gogh and stoned tourists crowding the streets.
Jordi felt right at home. But, alas, we had to leave dear Dutch Lynden and head north to British Columbia. It's funny, though, that we were there so Jordi could prove his knowledge of English, but what we found was a little American town trying, with all its might, to prove its knowledge of all things Dutch.
They also, just to freak you out a little bit, apparently had some sort of scarecrow contest under way.
Ah! Happy October everyone.
Arriving at the campground the night before the exam, we checked in with a woman wearing a baggy pastel sweatshirt and matching scrunchy in her stringy hair. As soon as Jordi told her his last name, Scholten, she freaked out and talked us about half to death in her croaky voice. It turns out—get this—that the town of Lynden is filled with Scholtens. Filled! After discussing this fact for at least 10 minutes, she pulled out the local phone book just to make sure we understood the magnitude of the coincidence.
You see, about half the population of Lynden has Dutch heritage. That’s 50 percent. As the story goes, they came here starting in the early 20th century because the climate was similar to that of the Netherlands. It’s true. A similar climate. Wild, huh? And then they just, like, made lots of babies and turned the place into miniature Holland faster than you can count een twee drie!
And here, standing before this woman, like Hans Brinker reincarnate, was a real Scholten. Straight out of Amsterdam. I’ll tell ya, that knocked her silver skates right off. “You wouldn’t believe it!” she said, “You’ll go into town and see signs in English and Dutch!”
We’re thinking, no freaking way. Well, actually, I was thinking that. Jordi was probably thinking, echt waar?
“There are old people here who still speak real Dutch!” she went on. “And it’s not just Scholtens…” She started listing other “Dutch” names, which were either heavily Americanized or just not Dutch at all. The one I remember best, partly because she kept repeating it and partly because it’s obscene, sounded like “Coochie”. Jordi and I couldn’t for the life of us imagine what actual Dutch name she was trying to say, but I was reminded of popular mid-90s slang, and, well, female genitalia.
We couldn’t wait to get into town and see the madness for ourselves. And boy, she wasn’t lyin’. They had a public bulletin board with flyers for piano lessons and lost cats with a sign that said “Dorpsnieuws” (village news). There was the Dutch Mothers restaurant, the Dutch Bakery, the Dutch Village Inn, the Dutch Computer Repair Emporium. (OK, I made that last one up, but you get the idea.) They had a giant windmill and a mural depicting wheels of gouda, tulip fields and people in clogs. The post office said “Postkantoor” over the door with a Dutch flag and, again, tulips and clogs. It was kitschy and artificial, but damn were they proud. The only thing missing was a tribute to van Gogh and stoned tourists crowding the streets.
They also, just to freak you out a little bit, apparently had some sort of scarecrow contest under way.
16 October 2009
Pictures of Portland
Here are a few of my photos from the wonderful place that is Portland, OR. It was a brief visit, but it didn't take much time before we were asking ourselves we why don't live there. It just fit.
13 October 2009
Patience is a virtue. According to most, anyway.
After our night of horror sleeping 30 feet away from the grunting Larry atop a cold mountain, we treated ourselves to coffee and a giant blueberry muffin at a cozy place called Stage Door (that apparently also does cabaret on the weekends). It was warm and friendly and a little quirky (as most of Mount Shasta City is), and the muffin was fluffy as a cotton ball.
The events of that morning wouldn't really be worth sharing with you if it weren't for a particularly strange message I found in the bathroom. Now, it wasn't the kind of bathroom in which one would normally find scribbling on the walls. It was nice, clean, suitable for an old lady. It even smelled delicious. But there, squeezed in rounded letters onto the carved wood toilet paper holder, were the words,
And, my poor, sweet angsty one, I can't help but wonder, what happens when you're in a hurry?
The events of that morning wouldn't really be worth sharing with you if it weren't for a particularly strange message I found in the bathroom. Now, it wasn't the kind of bathroom in which one would normally find scribbling on the walls. It was nice, clean, suitable for an old lady. It even smelled delicious. But there, squeezed in rounded letters onto the carved wood toilet paper holder, were the words,
"Patience gave me genital herpes."What is this? A cry for help, a protest, a warning?
And, my poor, sweet angsty one, I can't help but wonder, what happens when you're in a hurry?
06 October 2009
Meet Larry.
Checking in from Portland here, though I won't be spending time talking about our gracious hosts in this funky Southeast neighborhood, the eclectic Easter egg Victorians, the crisp first days of an Oregon autumn, the vintage stores, coffee, books or dessert bars. It's all delightful and warm and fuzzy, but the night we spent on Mount Shasta makes for a far more interesting story.
The sun was setting as we drove up the 5 on Saturday evening and as we neared our destination I insisted that Jordi take out the guidebook and select a campground. "This one's free," he said, "just exit here and follow this road to the end. It's close." Fine, I thought. Free is free and maybe it's nice. I just wanted a convenient place to camp for a quick night before we continued on to Oregon. But the road kept going, became empty, dark. It was winding slowly up the mountain. The moon, white and full, rose over the trees and glowed through the purple haze of the dim sky. Signs for 4,000 feet elevation, 5,000 feet, 6,000 feet. It got darker, we drove on.
What Jordi hadn't mentioned was that the campground, Panther Meadows, is "high on the mountain"--7,400 feet up, roughly. This mountain is the second highest volcano in the US and still considered active. When we finally found the place, there was just enough light to see the face of the only other person there, getting supplies out of the trunk of his old car. He was in his 40s, a backwoods type with a big gut and long graying curly hair. We asked him a bit about the place, it sounded fine so we unloaded and set up camp in the dark.
As we settled in, we got to talking to our lone neighbor a bit more. He was exceptionally friendly, offered us a helping hand and told us some things he knew about the mountain. He'd been camping up there for about a month so far. Though a nice guy, he was an excessive talker and seemed to disregard a certain level of social protocol. But hey, when we're eating leftover rice out of a pan with plastic spoons, who are we to judge? "Beautiful moon," I said to him as I passed, "Do you think it's full?"
"Full enough for me," he said.
So we joined him, Larry, at his fire. At first the conversation floated around topics like travel and the weather, but we all too quickly learned that Larry, dear old Larry, is a religious fanatic, racist and homophobic. A-ha! I knew there was something less than desirable about this fellow. But we were mooching off his fire atop a cold, dark mountain, and were sort of ensnared in this conversation, so we remained seated on our tree stumps.
Then, it got weird. After Larry finished warning us about gruesome death by quicksand on Oregon beaches, expressing sympathy for white supremacy, and sharing his hopes that God would send him a lonely woman to keep him warm in his tent, he said, "Now here's where I'm gonna sound crazy."
Right, because until this point he was screaming normalcy. "All my life," he went on, "I've been able to see things before they happen. See what's gonna happen to people." I closed my eyes, bracing myself, half-expecting to hear next, "And you two are gonna die tonight on this mountain, and I ain't sayin' how."
He didn't say that. But he did tell us about a telepathic encounter he had with a bear in Tahoe and about hearing the growling breath of a Yeti at the nearby Lake Siskiyou. He said Yeti attacks happen all over Mount Shasta. That they attack groups of grown men. He told us that the ghosts of Indians roam through the land, and that strange men in mysterious vans wander through campsites shining flashlights in random tents and snatching women.
"Yer gonna have bad dreams," he said.
The fire was dying and I'd heard enough. We went to bed and I lay there, stiff, unmoving and scared out of my mind. One of three things will happen tonight, I thought:
After spending most of the night in terror, either in waking or asleep, I woke up to the tiny cricks and ticks of chipmunks scrambling through the trees above us. It was morning. The sky was light. We'd survived. We emerged from the warmth of our sleeping bags into the cold, gray day. The jug of water in our tent had frozen while we slept. It was snowing. We explored the empty mountain, the still trees that seemed to greet us calmly and wisely, the frozen creek with fresh running water bubbling just below the ice.
I hated that mountain while I lay terrified in our tent, hated Jordi for having no reservations or worries about Larry, for saying he was just lonely and scared and not actually dangerous. I'm glad he was right. And I'm glad he lured me up to that mountain under false pretenses. Because it was an adventure, and it was pure and simple and beautiful.
But I probably would have rather been on that mountain with a Yeti or a ghost than with Larry.
The sun was setting as we drove up the 5 on Saturday evening and as we neared our destination I insisted that Jordi take out the guidebook and select a campground. "This one's free," he said, "just exit here and follow this road to the end. It's close." Fine, I thought. Free is free and maybe it's nice. I just wanted a convenient place to camp for a quick night before we continued on to Oregon. But the road kept going, became empty, dark. It was winding slowly up the mountain. The moon, white and full, rose over the trees and glowed through the purple haze of the dim sky. Signs for 4,000 feet elevation, 5,000 feet, 6,000 feet. It got darker, we drove on.
What Jordi hadn't mentioned was that the campground, Panther Meadows, is "high on the mountain"--7,400 feet up, roughly. This mountain is the second highest volcano in the US and still considered active. When we finally found the place, there was just enough light to see the face of the only other person there, getting supplies out of the trunk of his old car. He was in his 40s, a backwoods type with a big gut and long graying curly hair. We asked him a bit about the place, it sounded fine so we unloaded and set up camp in the dark.
As we settled in, we got to talking to our lone neighbor a bit more. He was exceptionally friendly, offered us a helping hand and told us some things he knew about the mountain. He'd been camping up there for about a month so far. Though a nice guy, he was an excessive talker and seemed to disregard a certain level of social protocol. But hey, when we're eating leftover rice out of a pan with plastic spoons, who are we to judge? "Beautiful moon," I said to him as I passed, "Do you think it's full?"
"Full enough for me," he said.
So we joined him, Larry, at his fire. At first the conversation floated around topics like travel and the weather, but we all too quickly learned that Larry, dear old Larry, is a religious fanatic, racist and homophobic. A-ha! I knew there was something less than desirable about this fellow. But we were mooching off his fire atop a cold, dark mountain, and were sort of ensnared in this conversation, so we remained seated on our tree stumps.
Then, it got weird. After Larry finished warning us about gruesome death by quicksand on Oregon beaches, expressing sympathy for white supremacy, and sharing his hopes that God would send him a lonely woman to keep him warm in his tent, he said, "Now here's where I'm gonna sound crazy."
Right, because until this point he was screaming normalcy. "All my life," he went on, "I've been able to see things before they happen. See what's gonna happen to people." I closed my eyes, bracing myself, half-expecting to hear next, "And you two are gonna die tonight on this mountain, and I ain't sayin' how."
He didn't say that. But he did tell us about a telepathic encounter he had with a bear in Tahoe and about hearing the growling breath of a Yeti at the nearby Lake Siskiyou. He said Yeti attacks happen all over Mount Shasta. That they attack groups of grown men. He told us that the ghosts of Indians roam through the land, and that strange men in mysterious vans wander through campsites shining flashlights in random tents and snatching women.
The fire was dying and I'd heard enough. We went to bed and I lay there, stiff, unmoving and scared out of my mind. One of three things will happen tonight, I thought:
- Larry will remain quietly in his tent and we will pass the night in peace.
- Larry will remain quietly in his tent but we will be attacked by a Yeti, an Indian ghost, or men in unmarked vehicles scouring the area for innocent campers.
- Larry will axe us to death in the night.
After spending most of the night in terror, either in waking or asleep, I woke up to the tiny cricks and ticks of chipmunks scrambling through the trees above us. It was morning. The sky was light. We'd survived. We emerged from the warmth of our sleeping bags into the cold, gray day. The jug of water in our tent had frozen while we slept. It was snowing. We explored the empty mountain, the still trees that seemed to greet us calmly and wisely, the frozen creek with fresh running water bubbling just below the ice.
I hated that mountain while I lay terrified in our tent, hated Jordi for having no reservations or worries about Larry, for saying he was just lonely and scared and not actually dangerous. I'm glad he was right. And I'm glad he lured me up to that mountain under false pretenses. Because it was an adventure, and it was pure and simple and beautiful.
But I probably would have rather been on that mountain with a Yeti or a ghost than with Larry.
28 September 2009
15 tank-tops may give you peace of mind, but they won't solve your problems.
Ladies and gentlemen, the road trip is officially about to begin. We spent a weekend in Lake Tahoe with my parents, and have now given ourselves one day to assemble all necessary items for 2 months on the road before heading off to Yosemite, the first stop on the itinerary.
That one day of preparation is today, and I'm sitting here staring at the Blogger logo instead of sorting laundry, organizing camping gear, working out the budget, researching routes, buying last minute gadgets, or even taking a shower.
The thing is, I hate packing. Packing for a 3-day trip can take me up to 12 solid hours, and I've never even traveled for longer than 2 weeks at a time. I've moved across the world more than once, but going somewhere to live, somewhere with drawers and cabinets and a feeling of permanence, is an entirely different thing. Jordi has lived like a turtle with his home on his back for a number of months on several different occasions. I, however, still have the tags on my big North Face backpack.
When I moved back from Amsterdam, I had a total of 5 bags--2 suitcases, 2 duffel bags, 1 backpack--and the airline charged me an extra $100 to get them all on the plane. This was after throwing out or giving away piles and piles of stuff, and I was only there for one year. In the midst of that disaster, I decided to simplify my life and just have less crap.
This road trip is my chance to prove that I can. Jordi keeps telling me I just don't need very much, but this is coming from the guy who's wardrobe consists of 6 t-shirts and 2 hoodies. I see how stress-free his packing process is, and I try to channel some of that minimalist energy, but I know I'll never be able to match his level of freedom and flexibility when it comes to material goods.
The problem, as with most things in my overly considered world, is that I can't handle the decisions. You essentially have to see into the future, predict what scenarios might possibly befall you, and make sure you're prepared. I, however, have an overactive imagination and an inhuman ability to worry about things most people don't even think about. I imagine weirdly specific and unlikely scenarios, and then somehow decide that bringing 15 tank-tops is the best way to prepare for them. Not surprisingly, all this leaves me with is a big tangle of semi-soiled spaghetti straps and more weight than I ought to be hauling around. But I continue to bring too many of everything because I just can't stand the prospect of being unprepared.
They say you should stack up everything that you want to bring, and then bring half of it. This, I may be able to do. I just wish I could also leave behind the half of my brain that is illogical, irrational, and convinces me to pack my entire summer wardrobe for a fall trip to the Pacific Northwest.
Wish me luck.
That one day of preparation is today, and I'm sitting here staring at the Blogger logo instead of sorting laundry, organizing camping gear, working out the budget, researching routes, buying last minute gadgets, or even taking a shower.
The thing is, I hate packing. Packing for a 3-day trip can take me up to 12 solid hours, and I've never even traveled for longer than 2 weeks at a time. I've moved across the world more than once, but going somewhere to live, somewhere with drawers and cabinets and a feeling of permanence, is an entirely different thing. Jordi has lived like a turtle with his home on his back for a number of months on several different occasions. I, however, still have the tags on my big North Face backpack.
When I moved back from Amsterdam, I had a total of 5 bags--2 suitcases, 2 duffel bags, 1 backpack--and the airline charged me an extra $100 to get them all on the plane. This was after throwing out or giving away piles and piles of stuff, and I was only there for one year. In the midst of that disaster, I decided to simplify my life and just have less crap.
This road trip is my chance to prove that I can. Jordi keeps telling me I just don't need very much, but this is coming from the guy who's wardrobe consists of 6 t-shirts and 2 hoodies. I see how stress-free his packing process is, and I try to channel some of that minimalist energy, but I know I'll never be able to match his level of freedom and flexibility when it comes to material goods.
The problem, as with most things in my overly considered world, is that I can't handle the decisions. You essentially have to see into the future, predict what scenarios might possibly befall you, and make sure you're prepared. I, however, have an overactive imagination and an inhuman ability to worry about things most people don't even think about. I imagine weirdly specific and unlikely scenarios, and then somehow decide that bringing 15 tank-tops is the best way to prepare for them. Not surprisingly, all this leaves me with is a big tangle of semi-soiled spaghetti straps and more weight than I ought to be hauling around. But I continue to bring too many of everything because I just can't stand the prospect of being unprepared.
They say you should stack up everything that you want to bring, and then bring half of it. This, I may be able to do. I just wish I could also leave behind the half of my brain that is illogical, irrational, and convinces me to pack my entire summer wardrobe for a fall trip to the Pacific Northwest.
Wish me luck.
23 September 2009
Ladies' Home Journal and Me
As I waited this afternoon in Livermore's Piazza for Hair (fancy, eh?) while a woman called Gail coiffed Jordi's mane, I started flipping, as one does, through Ladies' Home Journal. Making my way for the interview with Meryl Streep and Amy Adams I stumbled across this article about chronic worriers. Below the title, the infinitely wise Ladies at the Home J. asked, as though speaking right to me, as though reading my mind, Hey Honey, "Spending too much time thinking about all the things that could go wrong in your life?"
Yes! I thought. I am! I always am! Maybe this magazine, this holy grail of Relaxation Techniques and Mood Boosters, was meant to find me, meant to land in my lap and, and...deliver me! Plus, when that's taken care of, I can learn "5 Moves for a Sexier Stomach" and "How to Give a Killer Massage".
It was kind of like getting a fortune cookie with your Chinese take-out that says "You will soon embark on an exciting adventure" right before leaving for a trip to the Grand Canyon with your parents. Like, "Oh my god! How did they know?!"
But in all seriousness, I do relate to much of what the article says about the tendency to worry, its pros and cons. Reading through it, I let out a deep breath, grateful for their reminder that I am not alone, that lots of people are anxiety-riddled stress magnets, that researchers at Yale actually discovered a genetic mutation that can increase the inclination to fret. I'm just gonna tell everyone my chromosomal make-up is to blame.
I was feeling better already. Then, I read this: "Eighty-five percent of the time people's worst fears never materialize." They had plucked that doozy out of the body of the text and put it in big colorful letters as one of those gems they use to suck people in. They included this seemingly impossible to prove statistic with the purpose of calming the nerves of their worrisome readers.
My immediate thought was this: that means 15% of the time people's worst fears do materialize! Fifteen percent of the time! That's a big number! Statistically speaking, that means that 15 people out of 100 will experience their worst fears before they die. Or that 15% of my worst fears will materialize before I die. Or that 15% of all dead people died from their worst fear. Or that 15% of your total time on earth is how much time you'll spend suffering your worst fears. Or that I should use 15% of my energy preventing my worst fears from happening.
Or that magazines will publish 15% of all bullshit statistics if it means selling 15% more copies.
Don't get me wrong, the article actually offers a lot of practical advice for coping with anxiety, like sharing your fears, writing it down, getting all the facts. There is one tip, though, that I just struggle to take seriously. A psychologist suggests setting up a worry-free "zone"--I picture some kind of area in the living room sectioned off with traffic cones and caution tape and a flashing light--a time of the day when you won't let yourself worry. This, I can understand. But then it says that "a related technique is to choose one specific time to worry -- from 5 to 5:30 p.m., for example." This I kind of get. It's like only allowing yourself one cookie instead of seven. But a specific time? I imagine someone telling their friends they can't go to the movies because they'd miss their daily half-hour of worrying, then sitting down, closing their eyes tight, and inventing nonsense to worry about because their psychologist told them to.
4:58...4:59... 5:00!
Ready...aaand...worry!
Here it goes: I'm worried that my cynicism and bad attitude will forever prevent me from conquering this bad habit.
Sounds like something I might find in a fortune cookie.
Yes! I thought. I am! I always am! Maybe this magazine, this holy grail of Relaxation Techniques and Mood Boosters, was meant to find me, meant to land in my lap and, and...deliver me! Plus, when that's taken care of, I can learn "5 Moves for a Sexier Stomach" and "How to Give a Killer Massage".
It was kind of like getting a fortune cookie with your Chinese take-out that says "You will soon embark on an exciting adventure" right before leaving for a trip to the Grand Canyon with your parents. Like, "Oh my god! How did they know?!"
But in all seriousness, I do relate to much of what the article says about the tendency to worry, its pros and cons. Reading through it, I let out a deep breath, grateful for their reminder that I am not alone, that lots of people are anxiety-riddled stress magnets, that researchers at Yale actually discovered a genetic mutation that can increase the inclination to fret. I'm just gonna tell everyone my chromosomal make-up is to blame.
I was feeling better already. Then, I read this: "Eighty-five percent of the time people's worst fears never materialize." They had plucked that doozy out of the body of the text and put it in big colorful letters as one of those gems they use to suck people in. They included this seemingly impossible to prove statistic with the purpose of calming the nerves of their worrisome readers.
My immediate thought was this: that means 15% of the time people's worst fears do materialize! Fifteen percent of the time! That's a big number! Statistically speaking, that means that 15 people out of 100 will experience their worst fears before they die. Or that 15% of my worst fears will materialize before I die. Or that 15% of all dead people died from their worst fear. Or that 15% of your total time on earth is how much time you'll spend suffering your worst fears. Or that I should use 15% of my energy preventing my worst fears from happening.
Or that magazines will publish 15% of all bullshit statistics if it means selling 15% more copies.
Don't get me wrong, the article actually offers a lot of practical advice for coping with anxiety, like sharing your fears, writing it down, getting all the facts. There is one tip, though, that I just struggle to take seriously. A psychologist suggests setting up a worry-free "zone"--I picture some kind of area in the living room sectioned off with traffic cones and caution tape and a flashing light--a time of the day when you won't let yourself worry. This, I can understand. But then it says that "a related technique is to choose one specific time to worry -- from 5 to 5:30 p.m., for example." This I kind of get. It's like only allowing yourself one cookie instead of seven. But a specific time? I imagine someone telling their friends they can't go to the movies because they'd miss their daily half-hour of worrying, then sitting down, closing their eyes tight, and inventing nonsense to worry about because their psychologist told them to.
4:58...4:59... 5:00!
Ready...aaand...worry!
Here it goes: I'm worried that my cynicism and bad attitude will forever prevent me from conquering this bad habit.
Sounds like something I might find in a fortune cookie.
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