I do not own a wristwatch. I can’t recall ever wanting to own a wristwatch. I see coworkers wearing their timepieces proudly, perhaps a different one every day, but this has never interested me. I don’t know if this lack of desire is a residual of a Peter Pan complex that subjects me to drinking my weight in chocolate milk every month, but I can only assume it’s that I subconsciously associate the act of wearing a legitimate watch, not one with a cloth or velcro strap, equates to being a full-fledged adult. 

Until now. Lately, I feel as though I want one. No, I don’t care what time it is; I have nothing planned anyway. Ever. I just hate that when I’m stuck in the middle of an inane conversation, or when I sense one approaching, I don’t have the luxury of looking down at my wrist and declaring, “Oh, look at the time! I have to run,” before escaping the situation. Okay, I’ll be honest, I do that now, but with a bare wrist, people just know immediately that I’m some kind of ignorant jerk with no social skills. And they’re right. I’m just tired of making it so obvious, I guess.  

I am currently holed up in a hotel room halfway through week three of an 8-week business trip. As the days pass, I grow more concerned for my health. I’m not exercising. Yes, I was barely exercising before I left town, but now my cardio workout is completely limited to the 150 feet journey from my hotel room to the elevator and the elevator to the conference room in the hotel where I meet every day. I can’t even sweat off a few pounds in this record-high heat because I have no reason to go outside the air-conditioned cocoon that is the hotel.

If you couple this lack of exercise with the absurd diet I’ve undertaken, one would question how my arteries haven’t outright solidified. As I type this, I am simultaneously inhaling an extremely large slice of Red Velvet Cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory. Yes, I walked about a one-mile round-trip to get it, but that falls about 7.3 miles short of the distance required to exercise those calories off. 

“So what?” you ask? Woe is me? Yes, perhaps woe is me. Perhaps woe is you. Perhaps that phrase never made any sense to any person who never spoke the Queen’s English. And Why is it the Queen’s English? Maybe the Queen should share some credit for the development of this language with centuries of lingual-Darwinism that should hopefully see the demise of the British superfluous “u” and the inane practice of replacing z’s with s’s soon. Shall we organise a party at the neighbour’s house in the centre of town? I THINK NOT, QUEEN! 

Sorry, I may have lost my focus for a moment there. The point of this post is to just have it on record that I may not survive another 5+ weeks living this way. Should anything happen to me and my body is discovered by the woman who cleans my hotel room and adds to my odd collection of mini-shampoo bottles on a daily basis (they make my hands look so giant!), I would like to allocate my possessions to the following recipients: my collection of pint glasses liberated from every bar and restaurant I have ever gone to with someone who had a purse goes to the Smithsonian, my college loan payments go to my mom, and my down pillows go directly into my coffin where they will be cremated with me in the ridiculous fireworks finale of my funeral, to which my life insurance payment will be allocated to pay a Walt Disney World pyrotechnics expert to arrange. 

Yours in Christ,

Jeff

PS - It’s been 6 months since I posted, so I’m a little out of practice. If this wasn’t up to par, it could have been worse. It could have been that Coors Light commercial with Ice Cube. Terrible.

I don’t know if it’s a system based on highly-evolved social-sensory interaction or just mildly-selective complacency, but I may remain envious of the simplicity of the canine dating world until I am able to walk up to another human and determine, through an act as simple as recognizing their aroma, that, yes, this person is an acceptable candidate with which to procreate. 

As one who currently does not employ such a system, I’ll continue frustrating myself with inane practices like struggle to invent activities to entertain potential mates into thinking I’m remotely fun and/or interesting, meet the friends, meet the parents, talk on the phone, supply witty banter on Facebook profiles so everyone knows we date, pretend to enjoy “Meet the Parents,” and figure out where all my money went. 

Occasionally I stumble across an old notebook when I’m cleaning that will consist of old story ideas that I never completed, rap lyrics I made up in the shower, old jokes I wrote, or just incomplete thoughts I was hoping to record for use at a later time. Tonight I found a small notebook which included the following excerpts that stood out. 

Possible Invention: waterproof toaster (how would you even test this?)

Not Good Prank Ideas 
  - poke holes in my roommate’s condom stash
  - replace friend’s epilepsy medicine with Good n’ Plenty
  - murder dog

Apparently I was at a point in my life where these reminders had to not only be stated but also written down so as to not be forgotten. Good to know, past-Jeff.

“How do you handle pain?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Um, I guess pretty good,” was really the only response I could muster. I’ve had an open wound on my arm for over a week and am just now getting to the doctor about it, so I assume I’ve tolerated a fair amount.

“Okay, I’m going to take this and probe the wound to see how deep it is.”

“Um, okay?”

“I’m just going to stick this Q-tip into the wound to see what we’re working with.”

I suppose he interpreted my response to mean that I didn’t understand what he was attempting. Oh, I understood. I understood all too well. He slid his stool closer and unwrapped the Q-tip. This was no ordinary Q-tip. I’ve seen Q-tips. They’re like 4 inches long. This was about 10 inches long, with a wood base and a thick cotton…well, tip. It was a Q-tip but on steroids.

With only a moment in which I could do nothing but look away, he stuck it right into the wound. apparently he wasn’t satisfied with the lack of depth because he proceeded to swirl the instrument around, creating the sensation that he was ripping the existing wound open. He went deeper. As he poked and prodded what was an already open and bleeding wound, I instinctively clasped my shirt sleeve and pulled, an act that my body must have thought would help since my brain could focus on nothing but the pain and not urinating. After what felt like several minutes, he withdrew his instrument of torture and showed it to me.

“This is how deep it is,” he said half smiling while he pointed to the bloodied end of the Q-tip, which painted the cotton and extended a half-inch up the wooden stem. “What it is is an abscess. I originally thought it went straight down into the muscle, but after some digging, I realized it was at an angle.” He stared at the stick as though he had just performed a party-trick. A look of satisfaction showed on his face as though he was an amateur magician that had just pulled a quarter from behind my ear.

“Oh, thanks,” I muttered. My brain was clearly not working accurately as what I had intended to say was something to the effect of, “What the fuck, psycho?”

He turned to make some notes in my chart, and the room was suddenly hot. Pain radiated from the now more-open wound, and I was beginning to sweat as I struggled to keep my breath. I sat trying to convince myself to breath slowly and get my wits about me, but it only got worse.

“I’m actually starting to feel a little lightheaded to be honest,” I admitted.

He turned his head and offered semi-dismissively, “Just lay down. Your blood pressure is probably just dipping a little.”

I followed his recommendation and felt instantly better. I stayed there while he returned to the table and cleaned the injury, which was now spouting more blood than before. It was at that time that he thought it prudent to utter the following statement while failing to contain a chuckle: “I suppose you don’t handle pain as well as you thought.”

Apparently my brain had an opportunity to recover as my response came without hesitation. “No, it’s just that your last patient assured me you’d lube up before sticking something that long in someone.”

It came out before I even had a moment to think. He let out an uncomfortable laugh and finished up quickly. Needless to say, he didn’t write a note for me to take to work.