I missed yesterday.
After work, we went straight to the optometrist to get an eye exam (right eye is lagging as usual – thanks eye surgery) and pick out some new stylin' frames. I get them next week.
When picking out frames, I wanted to get plastic frames. Yeah, I know. Those are so eighties.
My problem is my face breaks out in a crustacean like reaction a la Davy Jones' crew on the Flying Dutchman when I have metal frames. I've tried everything.
Two pairs ago, they said, “Nickel frames. You can't react from nickel!”
I did. My face broke out into out into udder redness, it looked like I'm angry all the time.
The last pair, I told them about the nickel reaction. “Well, try these stainless steel frames. You can't react to stainless steel!”
I did...short of growing barnacles under my eyes.
So this time, I was determined. Plastic frames. I've never broken out from those. So I was looking and the choices for plastic frames are really lame. But I'm a writer and most writers have lame looking glasses, right? Besides, I'm not winning any beauty pageants in the near future, so these are purely functional.
You can't polish a turd (thanks for that one, pops).
So what does the eyeglasses salesperson say when I tell her I can only wear plastic frames because I break out from metal.
“Try these titanium frames. You won't break out from those!”
Ahem. Last I checked titanium is a metal. I need plastic.
So after a long search over the four different plastic frames available, I made a decision. Tune in next week...maybe I'll post a picture.
So today I did two things that reminded me of being a kid again. The first – I was doing the dishes and dropped a bowl on the dishwasher rack.
CLANG!
For some reason we had a lot of bowls. Lots of cereal being eaten in the Welvaert house. When putting bowls in the dishwasher, their design is such that they make a lot of noise with the silverware and other dishes. After a series of clatters, my wife says, “Jesus. That's the noisiest batch of dishes ever!”
Oh, yeah. That's my cue.
So I purposely started clanging silverware on dishes, dishes on dishes. Plunking silverware in the silverware holder-thingy. I made quite the ruckus. The wife was NOT amused. Maybe she should do a blog about felling like a kid again, then she could have banged dishes with me.
So I made some noise. Big deal. I think as we get older, we're trained not to make noise for fear of something. I forget what it was. Maybe it was waking the baby, or the neighbors. But I was just clattering dishes. Sometimes you have to make a little noise to realize you are standing in this real world, doing real things, watching the clock elapse on our time here. What if we were to make no noise for our life? Here we are living, quiet as a mouse, not disturbing a thing. Mouse-mouse here. Mouse-mouse there. No one can hear you. No one cares.
Maybe we need to make more noise in our lives.
The second thing I did was raced Christa home on our bikes. Now I know most of us our racing to and fro each day – trying to get to work on time, trying to get to school on time. But what to do you win when you get to school on time or before anyone else? Nothing really.
Now, tonight, I let Christa win. That's what parents do sometimes to foster a competitive edge. I would have smoked Christa easily, but she's at that point in her life where she needs to know what it's like to win, or to even believe in winning. Where I am at in my life, I have a very depressed attitude about winning. I try and stay positive and say, “Hey, you have contract work, you still have your house, you still have your family.”
After I think about it, I'm a lot more fortunate than others, I suppose. I should be more grateful for what I do have, but I'm a competitive creature at heart, so when I stumble and see others rushing to that finish line without me, it gets me down, because I know I'm better than this. I know I can win. But I'm coming to terms with the idea that not everyone wins all the time. You take your victories where you can get them.
I have contract work.
I have a house.
I have a family.
I have a rash on my face that could book me free passage for 100 years at the mast of the Flying Dutchman.
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