Archive for September, 2009
Safety First
The theme of today’s blog entry is Safety. I’ll pause while you fellow children of the ’80’s fondly recall your Men Without Hats album (you’ll notice I didn’t say “albums”).
Shelby went on a second-grade field trip with her class on Monday. They went to a place that features a miniature layout of the city of Lexington with sidewalks, working stoplights, drivable mini cars, etc. Sounds pretty neat. (Jacob was quick to give her some inside scoop and told her that five years ago when his class went, the red car was the fastest). Uniformed police officers taught the kids about general safety and situational awareness. At some point during the trip Shelby was running around and fell and scraped her knee. She managed to come home with an injury and bandages from a field trip to a place called “Safety City.”
It reminded me of the time I almost rear-ended a car because I was distracted trying to read a road sign that was alternately flashing “Warning!” and then “Slow Traffic Ahead!”
In somewhat of a coincidence, like Shelby I also spent part of my Monday in a heightened state of situational awareness. Some co-workers and I attended a retirement lunch for a colleague at a Japanese restaurant. Perhaps I should clarify that he wasn’t a colleague AT a Japanese restaurant. He was a colleague at OUR workplace and we went to the Japanese restaurant to celebrate. Anyway, we all sat around one of those open Hibachi grills manned by a chef with a flair for the dramatic. (Presumably the less flamboyant chefs are relegated to steaming rice back in the kitchen).
We were enjoying the cooking performance as he brandished and twirled his knife and spatula (contrary to popular opinion, it is indeed possible to brandish a spatula). Have you ever wondered what might add an unanticipated degree of excitement to watching a Japanese chef cook right in front of you? I can tell you. Try noticing that the chef’s index finger is covered in a heavy bandage.
Well, then.
I thought about his finger injury while watching him cut and chop about thirty inches from my eyeballs, which I happen to hold in high regard. Just what circumstances led him to cut his finger, and wouldn’t a similar loss of utensil control be even more likely to recur now that he had a heavy bandage getting in the way?
I tried not to flinch while contemplating. This is the bane of the introspective person. Fortunately one of my co-workers is much less socially inept than I, and simply asked, “Hey, what did you do to your finger, there?”
The chef smiled knowingly and assured us that it was not an on-the-job injury. We all shared a good laugh, relieved to learn that he hadn’t cut his finger extracting a wayward Ginsu from the abdomen of a patron. He went on to explain that what happened to his finger was that he watched an NFL game with some buddies on Sunday. One of them said something like, “Hey, you’re a chef! Why don’t you make something for us to eat during the game?” He smiled sheepishly and explained that he did prepare some food for the group but it “didn’t turn out too well.”
So we customers didn’t have anything to worry about because he didn’t hurt himself cooking at work, he only hurt himself cooking at home. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume there is a nuance in his argument that I have simply yet to grasp. Everybody knows a nuanced argument can be harder to grasp than a spatula.
Secretary of Transportation
On a recent night I was alone downstairs with the kids. I think Jacob and I were watching a football game while Shelby played a computer game nearby.
When Shelby’s bedtime came I went over and kneeled to watch the game she was playing for a minute. When she finished the game she leaned over, put her arms around my neck and gave me the best hug she’d ever given me. I said something like, “Wow! I sure wasn’t expecting to get such a great hug right now!”
Very matter-of-factly, she said, “I’m just looking for transportation.”
I pulled back and we looked silently at each other’s face for a moment while I tried to figure out what in the world she was talking about. This is not an uncommon situation in our house. We often ask her to translate into English the language of whatever alternate reality she currently inhabits.
It turns out that she was simply tired and ready for bed, and was looking for an easy way to get out of the high-armed chair she was sitting in at the computer. She figured if she latched onto my neck, when I stood up I would automatically lift her up and out of the chair. Transportation. She started giggling as she explained it to me, realizing how funny it was that I mistook her scheming for a simple hug.
We shared a good laugh and I let her ride piggyback upstairs to her room. So my seven-year old daughter successfully used false affection on her hapless father in order to gain transportation. I never would’ve imagined anything like this could happen. I mean, at least not until she turns sixteen.
Lucky 13
This week I went for a run through a nearby neighborhood. Before I tell you what happened I should give you a little background on a long-held dream of mine.
Somewhere in my past there was a shopping center with a posted speed limit of only 10 mph. I used to run by this speed limit sign occasionally, back in the days when I could have actually run the ten miles per hour for a whole hour.
Every time I ran by this 10 mph sign I would look around in hopes of finding a police officer. My plan was to approach the officer in a friendly manner and ask whether he would be willing to write me a warning if he clocked me exceeding 10 mph on foot. As a runner, I just thought it would be extremely cool to have a framed warning for excessive speed on foot. Heck, I might have even been willing to pay a $75 fine in order to have formal documentation that a safety officer deemed my speed excessive.
Alas, I never got the opportunity. And I hadn’t thought about that goal in years.
So this week I was running through the aforementioned neighborhood. I noticed a parked car that had been sideswiped and a light pole that was knocked down. I rounded a turn and saw what was a likely response to reckless driving in the area. The police department had placed one of those trailer-mounted, portable, speed indication devices on the side of the road to display to drivers how fast they were going.
Well, then.
One unknown in my scheme to get a running citation was whether a police radar would even register a human running past. So this was my chance to answer that question. (The speed limit was 25 so the possibility of earning a citation was way out of the question).
A quick glance confirmed that no cars were approaching. I swerved out into the middle of the road where the radar could see me. It jumped from zero to eight miles an hour. Success! The radar could see me. So that was that.
Except it wasn’t.
Looking back, there really was no reason for me to do anything but continue on at my normal pace. My question about radar visibility was answered. But something about having a radar and giant digital display staring me in the face was sort of an unspoken challenge.
Nine mph. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. I was rapidly approaching the radar but thought I had enough time left to hit a nice round 15 mph.
Do you remember how when you were a kid and had those little rubber band airplanes, you always could tell when the rubber band was nearing the end of its life because it started to develop little nicks in it? For some reason I thought of that phenomenon and my hamstrings at the same time. I decided that discretion was the better part of valor. I saw a big 13 flash onto the display just as I started backing down and coasted past the radar.
I smiled and wondered if anybody in the nearby houses witnessed what I just did and how silly I must have looked. I didn’t care. I may have only gotten my speed up to 13, but for a few precious seconds I got my age down to about 18.
(Stop reading here if you want to end on a heartwarming high note).
Giddy with my unexpected, wacky, carefree attitude, I proceeded into a park where I coaxed a couple of teenagers into throwing their football to me as I ran by on an extended deep fly pattern. The kid’s arm wasn’t quite up to the challenge, and I had to slow to wait on it. Then as luck would have it the ball went into a Rawlings Eclipse and I was completely blinded while it was in front of the sun. I winced and lurched as the ball one-hopped into my feet, and then bumbled around as I tried to pick it up with my sweaty hands. So instead of being the cool runner guy who wanted to catch their football, I was pretty much just a random middle-aged dork that the teenagers no doubt are still snickering at even today.
And the age I felt went from 18 back up to somewhere higher than it actually is. On the whole I guess I’m just thankful that I remembered how to get home.
By Hook or by Crook
So I keep hearing that one of the ways to reduce the spread of Swine Flu is to cough into the crook of your arm instead of your hand. I guess folks are less likely to pass germs via elbow crooks than hands. Probably good advice. But now I’m thinking about how I wash my hands multiple times a day but generally don’t wash my elbow crook more than twice. The same probably goes for everybody else, which means although it may be safer for the general public, we are going to have a preponderance of germy elbow crooks.
Which means you definitely won’t catch me at a square dance this winter. Not that you would any other winter, but it’s particularly unlikely this year.
King of the Road
I apologize for how long it’s been since my last post. I seem to run a little hot or cold on the whole blog thing. The start of college football season doesn’t seem to be helping my writing quantity. Or quality. Maybe I should make my blog seasonal.
Today I have composed an open letter to the aggressive teenage driver. You can read it even if you’re not aggressive, a teenager, a driver, or any combination thereof.
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Dear aggressive teenage driver,
How’s it going? Are you enjoying the freedom afforded by your still-warm-from-the-laminating-process driver’s license? I sincerely hope so. I fondly recall the heady days of excitedly driving my Mercury Lynx on even the most mundane of errands. The anticipation of pulling into a parking space all by myself and strutting into school was palpable. (Of course nobody else noticed because they were too busy strutting themselves. Collectively we resembled lemmings, except we were more concerned with Cliff’s notes than his edge. But I digress).
You may not yet realize that, generally speaking, one’s sense of adventure and physical reflexes are inversely proportional to one’s maturity level. This explains why so often you find yourself swerving in and out of slower traffic as you hasten to your destination to presumably discuss with friends whatever topics you have already discussed via text message. Have you ever spent much time wondering about us boring, clueless, nameless drivers that serve as moving obstacles along your single-minded journey?
My guess is not.
You see, most of us were also teenagers before we got older. Most (but certainly not all) of us figured out that aggressive driving just isn’t worth the trouble. The risks aren’t limited to getting a ticket that daddy might not pay for. Driving fast sometimes kills people. It requires more gasoline. Speeding on most local trips probably don’t save more than a minute if any time at all. You probably even complained to somebody about having to go to wherever it is you are now barreling toward. So why the rush to get there?
Besides, have you noticed that in stop-and-go traffic how the other lane always seems to be moving faster than yours? As soon as you cut somebody off and swerve into it, it slows down and the original lane starts moving faster. What’s up with that? It must just be bad luck or Murphy’s Law, right? Or maybe people not as good at driving as you don’t know how to maintain their speed. I mean, it couldn’t possibly be that some middle-aged guy ahead of you actually noticed you swerve violently into his lane, and then purposefully (but subtly) slowed the faster-moving lane down, only to speed back away after you abandoned it?
Nah. Couldn’t be. Surely a mature grown-up wouldn’t get a kick out of innocently frustrating you just because you’re behaving dangerously and acting like a jerk.
Have a nice trip! Sincerely,
Mark (and an army of smirking middle-aged former teenagers)