After playing a really good concert, like the one I played tonight with the Frederick Symphony Orchestra (www.fredericksymphony.org), I come home feeling quite elated, almost adrenalized, and I am pretty sure I could leap tall buildings in half a bound. Tonight's concert had all the makings of such a wonderful homecoming: our concert went really well and the orchestra was just really on. Our concertmaster played a wonderful violin concerto and we finished everything with what I thought was a rousing rendition of Tchaikovsky's Francesca de Remini. The crowd went wild. My friend and fellow bass player Dave and I shared a forearm bump in celebration. I packed up my bass and met up with Sue and her dad, Stan, and his fiancee, Ginny, who had come to see the show. We started out of the hall toward the exit, and that's when it all went south, very quickly.
I climbed the final step in the seating area and started toward the doors at the back of the hall, and just before I got there, a distinguished-looking woman of about 65 or so (possibly give or take a few years) said, 'Excuse me!' She had a look in her eye that made me vaguely uncomfortable, and I jokingly said to her, 'Oh boy, am I in trouble?'
'Well, I just had to ask the question' she said. 'I couldn't help but notice that your concert dress was a significant departure from the rest, and is very unconventional.'
I waited for her to finish her thought, and then realized that was all she was going to say. So, I replied that my black dress pants and black button-down shirt were what I usually wore, since that's how I'm most comfortable.
'Comfortable?!? After 52 years as a professional singer, I can tell you that you don't do this sort of thing because it's comfortable, you do it because you're professional.'
I was still a little confused, and then it became clear that she was asking me why I wasn't wearing a tux 'like the rest of the gentlemen.' I became aware of a pointedness in her gaze that was obviously meant to send me into paroxysms of guilt and shame for not respecting my craft enough even to dress for the part, and while my first reaction was shock, my upbringing kicked in and I made some joke about how well, I guess that's just what we do as cocky bass-players. She sniffed rather haughtily and informed me that I was 'getting away with murder.'
With that, this extremely pleasant interaction was over and I was released in all my shamefulness to exit the building. What I really wanted to say to her was that my concert dress was exactly in line with what the rest of the women in the orchestra were wearing, and that if she had just read her program, she would likely have been cured of her confusion, since my name is listed, with the word 'Principal' after it, in the bass section. Since I had played the concert in the principal seat, it wasn't that much of a stretch to figure out that I am, in fact, a woman (despite all my clever and diabolical attempts to hide it?), and that women don't traditionally wear tuxes to concerts.
So, I've made a decision regarding my next interaction with this lovely person, which I'm almost certain will occur at our season finale concert in June. I'm going to wear the tux she wants so badly for me to wear, and then if she confronts me again to congratulate me on my assimilation, I'm going to say, 'Thank you. By the way, last time we spoke, I didn't catch your name. I'm Amanda. Nice to meet you. Is this [and I'll point to my tux here] more what you had in mind?' Let's see if her 52 years as a professional singer allow her to take that little nugget in stride, or if she chokes on something that I hope will taste just a little like the humiliation I felt but was unwilling to revisit upon her because my Grandma Burge taught me better than that.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
growing pains
according to WebMD, 'growing pains are a rite of passage, a sign of growing up[,]' and the term refers to discomfort (sometimes severe) felt by children between the ages of 3 and 7, 'triggered when bones grow, stretching the bone's thick covering.' (full article here) i'm not entirely convinced of the whole 'between the ages of 3 and 7' thing, as i experienced those types of pains through adolescence, but that's neither here nor there. the operative words in that definition are 'rite of passage,' and 'triggered when bones grow.'
i hated growing pains when i was younger - puberty is difficult enough without being subjected to random, often-excruciating pains in one's legs that is capable of waking one from deep REM sleep, or that is severe enough to cause one to lose concentration during a physics exam. granted, i emerged from these years as the tallest woman (and, depending who you ask, the tallest person) in my family, so it turned out all right. the fact is, though, that it took a long time to get to this point. i think the most insidious aspect of growing pains is that you never know when they'll hit, how long the pain will last, or even where the pain comes from. also, the pains were sneaky: they never occurred as a result of a particular activity, and i never knew what was going to hurt; the ultimate insult, though, was that my brain blocked them out so i wasn't ready for them. each new occurrence struck me from the blind side, as if i'd never experienced them before, and so i was helpless to prepare my body and mind for what was to come.
on May 22, my beloved Aunt Connie departed this world after a brief, but bitter, struggle with a serious illness, and the day my mom gave me the news that she was gone, i was shattered. how could this be, when Aunt Connie was still so young (only a year older than my own mom)? when she still had so much to give to the world, and asked so little in return? when i, having learned so much from her over the years, am clearly still in need of her singular brand of guidance ('three lefts make a right, unless you're talking about feet')? in many ways, the sense of betrayal i felt was eerily similar to those growing pains, and just as unwelcome. i realize, of course, that death is a part of life, albeit a confusing and intrusive part, and that we must all succumb to it at many points over the course of a lifetime - loved ones and friends pass away, goldfish go belly up, and even pets that seemed immortal by sole virtue of their dedicated awesomeness leave us, presumably to serve and protect others in need - much like an adolescent's intermittent bouts with those pesky growing pains, but it always takes us by surprise, and the pain associated with each loss seems foreign and steeped in the injustice of having growth forced on us in such an offensive manner.
my first recollection of Aunt Connie involved Christmas, coffee (for the adults, not me), and her dog Benji. i remember Benji being much bigger than he actually was, likely due to the fact that i was only 3 or 4 at the time. there was also atticus, a black cat roughly the size of Mother Russia and with an attitude to match. over the years, Aunt Connie and i developed a special bond as the only members of our respective families blessed with sinistromanuality (that's being a 'lefty,' in the vernacular), and she taught me everything i know about playing the guitar. among my cherished memories: trips to Dairy Queen with Aunt Connie on those occasions (less frequent for me than for Sandy) when we made the honor roll at school; gathering at the Hessville Restaurant for birthday dinners; Christmas open houses when Aunt Connie would stay long after the other guests had gone home, chatting with my sister and me and playing the Christmas Game; and crafting a makeshift hatchet out of corrugated cardboard and aluminum foil to embed in one of her favorite birthday treats, the 'Lincoln Log' that my mom baked especially for Aunt Connie one year (she shared a birthday with Abe Lincoln). Aunt Connie was one of the first people i remember seeing after i got my first stitches (in the forehead, as a result of a nasty fight with a fencegate - i lost), and later, when my dog Mac bit my lip - requiring me to have the right side of my mouth taped shut for two weeks, during which i drank Instant Breakfast and Jell-O through a straw - Aunt Connie assured me that the wide, starched medical tape was 'hardly noticeable.' when we left hammond to return to TN, Aunt Connie wasn't far behind, having purchased her house on Clearwater Drive, where she lived for more than 20 years with her mother.
when i was a teenager, i would go to Aunt Connie's house to mow the front and back yards for her, for which i was paid in 'cold hard cash' ($15 in the form of a $10-bill and $5-bill stashed in the freezer for at least two hours prior to my arrival to ensure its 'cold hard' state). after i was done, my mom and i would visit with Aunt Connie and Grandma Bonnie until it was bedtime (for mom) or until i could no longer stand my own stench and had to take a shower. at the time of those visits, i wasn't aware of how precious they were, and sometimes i would indulge in an internal monologue (while mowing) about how i hated it, particularly because the back yard had a subtle grade in it that made it look *much* smaller than actual size. now, i would give anything to be back in Aunt Connie's kitchen, covered in grass stains and drinking sweet tea, enjoying the summer evening and listening to 'the adults' reminisce about anything and everything.
the last time Aunt Connie heard me perform was at my junior recital in college - i cannot remember ever being so nervous (before or since), but when i finished, it was difficult to tell whether she or my mom yelled louder or clapped harder. afterward, when we went to dinner as a group, i told Aunt Connie that the school had made a CD recording of the recital, and she practically begged to listen to it on the way to the restaurant. i can still see with perfect clarity the pride in her eyes when i gave her a copy of that recording for Christmas that year, along with a note thanking her for her incredible contribution to turning me into the musician i had become. as i read this post, i'm not surprised to discover that most of the memories i've recounted involve gifts Aunt Connie shared with those around her while never asking anything in return. this, it seems, was her greatest talent: to give so much of herself, with incredible profligacy, while placing her own problems/needs/hardships firmly in the backseat, or neatly dismissing them with a clever epigram ('i'm so poor i can't even pay attention').
Aunt Connie, whether it was creme de menthe cake, the elusive perfect guitar chord to complete a song, help with my French translations in college, or just her signature peal of laughter over the phone, you had such a gift for knowing just what i needed, and you were so very generous in obliging. in reflecting on the too-short time i had with you, i can only hope and pray that i was able to give back to you, in some small measure, the love, support, and unending #1-fan-ness you poured out on me. as with growing pains, the unwelcome feelings of loss and grief i've been carrying since your departure will fade, and the keen edge of your absence will dull with the passage of time. i can say without hesitation that your legacy of selflessness, wit, and music - oh, what music - will remain as bright and fresh in my heart as the green of Ireland glowed in your eyes. may your welcome in heaven reflect our heartfelt gratefulness at having lived in the wake of our very own Irish Tempest.
i hated growing pains when i was younger - puberty is difficult enough without being subjected to random, often-excruciating pains in one's legs that is capable of waking one from deep REM sleep, or that is severe enough to cause one to lose concentration during a physics exam. granted, i emerged from these years as the tallest woman (and, depending who you ask, the tallest person) in my family, so it turned out all right. the fact is, though, that it took a long time to get to this point. i think the most insidious aspect of growing pains is that you never know when they'll hit, how long the pain will last, or even where the pain comes from. also, the pains were sneaky: they never occurred as a result of a particular activity, and i never knew what was going to hurt; the ultimate insult, though, was that my brain blocked them out so i wasn't ready for them. each new occurrence struck me from the blind side, as if i'd never experienced them before, and so i was helpless to prepare my body and mind for what was to come.
on May 22, my beloved Aunt Connie departed this world after a brief, but bitter, struggle with a serious illness, and the day my mom gave me the news that she was gone, i was shattered. how could this be, when Aunt Connie was still so young (only a year older than my own mom)? when she still had so much to give to the world, and asked so little in return? when i, having learned so much from her over the years, am clearly still in need of her singular brand of guidance ('three lefts make a right, unless you're talking about feet')? in many ways, the sense of betrayal i felt was eerily similar to those growing pains, and just as unwelcome. i realize, of course, that death is a part of life, albeit a confusing and intrusive part, and that we must all succumb to it at many points over the course of a lifetime - loved ones and friends pass away, goldfish go belly up, and even pets that seemed immortal by sole virtue of their dedicated awesomeness leave us, presumably to serve and protect others in need - much like an adolescent's intermittent bouts with those pesky growing pains, but it always takes us by surprise, and the pain associated with each loss seems foreign and steeped in the injustice of having growth forced on us in such an offensive manner.
my first recollection of Aunt Connie involved Christmas, coffee (for the adults, not me), and her dog Benji. i remember Benji being much bigger than he actually was, likely due to the fact that i was only 3 or 4 at the time. there was also atticus, a black cat roughly the size of Mother Russia and with an attitude to match. over the years, Aunt Connie and i developed a special bond as the only members of our respective families blessed with sinistromanuality (that's being a 'lefty,' in the vernacular), and she taught me everything i know about playing the guitar. among my cherished memories: trips to Dairy Queen with Aunt Connie on those occasions (less frequent for me than for Sandy) when we made the honor roll at school; gathering at the Hessville Restaurant for birthday dinners; Christmas open houses when Aunt Connie would stay long after the other guests had gone home, chatting with my sister and me and playing the Christmas Game; and crafting a makeshift hatchet out of corrugated cardboard and aluminum foil to embed in one of her favorite birthday treats, the 'Lincoln Log' that my mom baked especially for Aunt Connie one year (she shared a birthday with Abe Lincoln). Aunt Connie was one of the first people i remember seeing after i got my first stitches (in the forehead, as a result of a nasty fight with a fencegate - i lost), and later, when my dog Mac bit my lip - requiring me to have the right side of my mouth taped shut for two weeks, during which i drank Instant Breakfast and Jell-O through a straw - Aunt Connie assured me that the wide, starched medical tape was 'hardly noticeable.' when we left hammond to return to TN, Aunt Connie wasn't far behind, having purchased her house on Clearwater Drive, where she lived for more than 20 years with her mother.
when i was a teenager, i would go to Aunt Connie's house to mow the front and back yards for her, for which i was paid in 'cold hard cash' ($15 in the form of a $10-bill and $5-bill stashed in the freezer for at least two hours prior to my arrival to ensure its 'cold hard' state). after i was done, my mom and i would visit with Aunt Connie and Grandma Bonnie until it was bedtime (for mom) or until i could no longer stand my own stench and had to take a shower. at the time of those visits, i wasn't aware of how precious they were, and sometimes i would indulge in an internal monologue (while mowing) about how i hated it, particularly because the back yard had a subtle grade in it that made it look *much* smaller than actual size. now, i would give anything to be back in Aunt Connie's kitchen, covered in grass stains and drinking sweet tea, enjoying the summer evening and listening to 'the adults' reminisce about anything and everything.
the last time Aunt Connie heard me perform was at my junior recital in college - i cannot remember ever being so nervous (before or since), but when i finished, it was difficult to tell whether she or my mom yelled louder or clapped harder. afterward, when we went to dinner as a group, i told Aunt Connie that the school had made a CD recording of the recital, and she practically begged to listen to it on the way to the restaurant. i can still see with perfect clarity the pride in her eyes when i gave her a copy of that recording for Christmas that year, along with a note thanking her for her incredible contribution to turning me into the musician i had become. as i read this post, i'm not surprised to discover that most of the memories i've recounted involve gifts Aunt Connie shared with those around her while never asking anything in return. this, it seems, was her greatest talent: to give so much of herself, with incredible profligacy, while placing her own problems/needs/hardships firmly in the backseat, or neatly dismissing them with a clever epigram ('i'm so poor i can't even pay attention').
Aunt Connie, whether it was creme de menthe cake, the elusive perfect guitar chord to complete a song, help with my French translations in college, or just her signature peal of laughter over the phone, you had such a gift for knowing just what i needed, and you were so very generous in obliging. in reflecting on the too-short time i had with you, i can only hope and pray that i was able to give back to you, in some small measure, the love, support, and unending #1-fan-ness you poured out on me. as with growing pains, the unwelcome feelings of loss and grief i've been carrying since your departure will fade, and the keen edge of your absence will dull with the passage of time. i can say without hesitation that your legacy of selflessness, wit, and music - oh, what music - will remain as bright and fresh in my heart as the green of Ireland glowed in your eyes. may your welcome in heaven reflect our heartfelt gratefulness at having lived in the wake of our very own Irish Tempest.
Remembered Joy
Don't grieve for me, for now I'm free!
I follow the plan God laid for me.
I saw His face, I heard His call,
I took His hand and left it all...
I could not stay another day,
To love, to laugh, to work or play;
Tasks left undone must stay that way.
And if my parting has left a void,
Then fill it with remembered joy.
A friendship shared, a laugh, a kiss...
Ah yes, these things I, too, shall miss.
My life's been full, I've savoured much:
Good times, good friends, a loved-one's touch.
Perhaps my time seemed all too brief—
Don't shorten yours with undue grief.
Be not burdened with tears of sorrow,
Enjoy the sunshine of the morrow.
I follow the plan God laid for me.
I saw His face, I heard His call,
I took His hand and left it all...
I could not stay another day,
To love, to laugh, to work or play;
Tasks left undone must stay that way.
And if my parting has left a void,
Then fill it with remembered joy.
A friendship shared, a laugh, a kiss...
Ah yes, these things I, too, shall miss.
My life's been full, I've savoured much:
Good times, good friends, a loved-one's touch.
Perhaps my time seemed all too brief—
Don't shorten yours with undue grief.
Be not burdened with tears of sorrow,
Enjoy the sunshine of the morrow.
In memoriam - Connie Lynn Bolinger (February 12, 1953 - May 22, 2011)
Monday, January 17, 2011
the last word
OK - it wasn't so much an assignment as it was a fulfillment of an answer to a question asked during our first session of Wills & Estates (sure to become my favorite class this semester, thanks to Judge Lee). he asked the class how many of us had a will - out of 70+ students, 4 raised their hands (including me). in the interest of full disclosure, i am obligated to admit that i don't have a *valid* legal will, but i do have the skeleton form on my laptop and i now have an excellent reason to validate the will's provisions and get it safely stored away. in any case, having done some research into the matter, i discovered a neat part of a will, the name of which will surely strike a reflexive, albeit retroactive, dread into the hearts of any of this blog's followers that went through the travails of law school applications: the personal statement. yes, that's right - today's modern will contains an option to include some last words which must be included in the reading of one's will. who says you can't get the last word? the addition of a personal statement to a will gives one the opportunity truly to get the drop on all those pesky relatives who never let anyone skate by without some pithy commentary or cautionary axiom floating on the breeze as its target drives away. that said, here is the text of my personal statement as it stands now, though i'm sure as i get older, more crotchety, and less in control of my mental faculties (though it's difficult to see how i could lose any more control over those), it will change somewhat. even so, the message will win through - imbibe each word, friends, as they are all for you.
******
As Freud once famously said, '[E]veryone of us is convinced of his own immortality.' Considering this was a man with more neural pathways under construction at any given moment than your average Amoeba Mathletes team, in this he was completely correct, and yet I couldn't agree less. In my humble opinion, I think it's even more important to be not only convinced, but absolutely and utterly aware - at every moment - of one's mortality. Otherwise, we lose sight of our motivation to get things right while we can, and where we fall short, to make amends as best we are able. Living as though you are immortal takes no special drive, no remarkable talent even. The trick is to keep your mortality always at the periphery of your awareness, so that when the Fates hold your life's thread taut and start sharpening their scissors, you can observe all this with the contentment of one whose immortality awaits only the germination of seeds planted in stories passed down through generations: evolving from dry, even antiseptic, recountings into evermore colorfully embellished family folklore, from folklore into the stuff of legend.
If, when I leave this world, I can say that death is truly the only thing I have left to experience, the only bridge I have yet to cross, the only stone I have yet to turn over, the last empty box on my checklist....well, then immortality becomes a significantly less significant achievement, doesn't it? Who wants to live forever if you can never really complete the race, cross off that last to-do? It's said that Mozart never overslept when he had important meetings, because his wife Kostanze discovered a foolproof alarm, guaranteed to rouse the great Amadeus from his bed without exception: she would go to the piano and play the first seven notes of a C major scale, but she would omit the C at the top, leaving the penultimate tone hanging in the air while she walked away from the instrument, and forcing her husband to leap from the bed within mere seconds to play the entire scale with the final tonic note at the end, right where it should be. He simply *could not* leave it alone. To me, it seems that actual immortality would be like hearing that same unfinished scale over and over again - the agony of never being able to play that final note and have the satisfaction of resolution and accomplishment would defeat me.
For my part, I choose not to recollect the failures in my life, which are legion, but in this moment - which, in my mind's eye, is full of people celebrating according to my instructions rather than weeping or mourning - I would like to catalog what I believe are (or I hope they will be, at the moment of this document's reading) my greatest achievements. My one great hope is that when this document is read out loud, the following statements will have been borne out in truth:
- that I lived deep and sucked out all the marrow of life (credit to Thoreau for this, a lasting image captured in my mind so many years ago), with the understanding that there is no time for 'what if.'
- that I was known as a compassionate person, one who could be counted on in a pinch to answer 'Yes!' to all those who needed my help, regardless of whether I was asked.
- that those dear to me knew every moment of every day how much I loved them and how much of my own strength I drew from them and their love for me.
- that I never met a stranger.
- that I always stood ready with a smile and kind word, even in my own darkest moments, because it really is possible to 'fake it till you make it.'
- that my sister, Sandy, lived each day secure in the knowledge that never in this world has anyone ever been blessed as I was with the sister of the ages, a staunch defender, one whose shoulder never grew weary of absorbing my tears, a firm ally in both famine and plenty, and one who always joyfully proclaimed that she shared my blood.
- that Trinity, Micayla, and Jaden were as proud to be my nieces as I was, every moment, to be their aunt, and that I was always there for them when they needed me, bound inexorably together by love stronger even than steel.
- that I will be remembered as a cheerful giver, someone with an astounding capacity for remembering even the smallest details, but with complete amnesia for the faults of others or wrongs done to me.
- that my life, despite my mistakes, misgivings, and mishaps, truly reflected God's love and kindness, someone of whom all my family and friends would never be ashamed to claim as their own and who made them proud.
Dear ones, I love you. For those gone ahead, I rejoice in anticipation of our reunion, and for those left behind (it's only for a short while!), I implore you not to cry for my passing, but to remember me each time you speak without thinking, act without hesitation, and love without expectation of recompense. 'And now abide faith, hope, and love, these three; but the *greatest of these* is LOVE.'
******
As Freud once famously said, '[E]veryone of us is convinced of his own immortality.' Considering this was a man with more neural pathways under construction at any given moment than your average Amoeba Mathletes team, in this he was completely correct, and yet I couldn't agree less. In my humble opinion, I think it's even more important to be not only convinced, but absolutely and utterly aware - at every moment - of one's mortality. Otherwise, we lose sight of our motivation to get things right while we can, and where we fall short, to make amends as best we are able. Living as though you are immortal takes no special drive, no remarkable talent even. The trick is to keep your mortality always at the periphery of your awareness, so that when the Fates hold your life's thread taut and start sharpening their scissors, you can observe all this with the contentment of one whose immortality awaits only the germination of seeds planted in stories passed down through generations: evolving from dry, even antiseptic, recountings into evermore colorfully embellished family folklore, from folklore into the stuff of legend.
If, when I leave this world, I can say that death is truly the only thing I have left to experience, the only bridge I have yet to cross, the only stone I have yet to turn over, the last empty box on my checklist....well, then immortality becomes a significantly less significant achievement, doesn't it? Who wants to live forever if you can never really complete the race, cross off that last to-do? It's said that Mozart never overslept when he had important meetings, because his wife Kostanze discovered a foolproof alarm, guaranteed to rouse the great Amadeus from his bed without exception: she would go to the piano and play the first seven notes of a C major scale, but she would omit the C at the top, leaving the penultimate tone hanging in the air while she walked away from the instrument, and forcing her husband to leap from the bed within mere seconds to play the entire scale with the final tonic note at the end, right where it should be. He simply *could not* leave it alone. To me, it seems that actual immortality would be like hearing that same unfinished scale over and over again - the agony of never being able to play that final note and have the satisfaction of resolution and accomplishment would defeat me.
For my part, I choose not to recollect the failures in my life, which are legion, but in this moment - which, in my mind's eye, is full of people celebrating according to my instructions rather than weeping or mourning - I would like to catalog what I believe are (or I hope they will be, at the moment of this document's reading) my greatest achievements. My one great hope is that when this document is read out loud, the following statements will have been borne out in truth:
- that I lived deep and sucked out all the marrow of life (credit to Thoreau for this, a lasting image captured in my mind so many years ago), with the understanding that there is no time for 'what if.'
- that I was known as a compassionate person, one who could be counted on in a pinch to answer 'Yes!' to all those who needed my help, regardless of whether I was asked.
- that those dear to me knew every moment of every day how much I loved them and how much of my own strength I drew from them and their love for me.
- that I never met a stranger.
- that I always stood ready with a smile and kind word, even in my own darkest moments, because it really is possible to 'fake it till you make it.'
- that my sister, Sandy, lived each day secure in the knowledge that never in this world has anyone ever been blessed as I was with the sister of the ages, a staunch defender, one whose shoulder never grew weary of absorbing my tears, a firm ally in both famine and plenty, and one who always joyfully proclaimed that she shared my blood.
- that Trinity, Micayla, and Jaden were as proud to be my nieces as I was, every moment, to be their aunt, and that I was always there for them when they needed me, bound inexorably together by love stronger even than steel.
- that I will be remembered as a cheerful giver, someone with an astounding capacity for remembering even the smallest details, but with complete amnesia for the faults of others or wrongs done to me.
- that my life, despite my mistakes, misgivings, and mishaps, truly reflected God's love and kindness, someone of whom all my family and friends would never be ashamed to claim as their own and who made them proud.
Dear ones, I love you. For those gone ahead, I rejoice in anticipation of our reunion, and for those left behind (it's only for a short while!), I implore you not to cry for my passing, but to remember me each time you speak without thinking, act without hesitation, and love without expectation of recompense. 'And now abide faith, hope, and love, these three; but the *greatest of these* is LOVE.'
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
new year's introspection
hello again friends - it's a new year and with the dawning of 2011, i (like so many others out there) find myself unusually pensive, spending time dreaming about things that never seem quite as possible in november or december, but at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Day, all the world suddenly reclaims its place as my oyster.
that said, here are a few tidbits about 2010, in no particular order.
1. Visited Seattle (again) for a conference, during which I was able to soak in the magic of the Emerald City and meet up with good friends for crumpets, tea, and green tea martinis (not in the same meal, of course). More and more, I feel as though we will eventually live there, even if it's only for a short time.
2. 'Snowpocalypse' - my flight left Baltimore for Seattle in the morning, and by rush hour, there was 4 inches of snow on the ground, ultimately accumulating 18" at our house that weekend. My flight home was delayed a day and my flight home finally landed at BWI as one of the last six planes to land during the 21 hours the airport was able to open before Round 2 hit, bringing another 16" of snow (for a total of 32" on the ground by the time it all cleared).
3. Butler University came within literally *inches* of pulling off one of the greatest Cinderella story upsets in the entire history of the NCAA basketball tournament, losing to #1 (actually #3 overall) Duke in the title game, after Gordon Hayward's Hail Mary kissed the back of the rim after banking off the glass, just barely too far to hit the net instead. An amazing game that kept the entire March Madness faithful glued to the screen as the final buzzer sounded, and one of the few times that my mom's rooting for the team opposite the one I was supporting failed to clinch a victory.
4. The Young Squire (aka Rowan Davies) enters the world (1/4) and inserts himself into our hearts within mere seconds - and so, the great adventure begins for dear friends.
5. My niece Trinity turned 10, finally cracking into the double digits and somehow retaining the sweetness and light of childhood, all the while staring her 'tween years in the face. Under the 10-going-on-27 exterior, however, she's still my Boots.
6. My sister and nieces moved home to TN, with bittersweet overtones aplenty.
7. I traveled to Central America and had weight-loss surgery, reclaiming my body for myself and learning that I'm liable to break into Spanish when under the influence of heavy anesthesia. Pounds lost to date: 86. Clothes reclaimed from the back of the closet: 4 shirts, two pairs of pants, and one tuxedo jacket.
8. Got a Facebook message from a private investigator who said my dad was trying to find me and my sister. After much virtual hemming and hawing, the three of us sat down and had coffee, double-chocolate Coca-Cola cake, and 2 hours of conversation at Cracker Barrel, where in true Southern form, our check was comped by the manager when she heard our story.
9. My hometown was flooded when the Cumberland River crawled over its banks, encroaching nearly half a mile into downtown Nashville, submerging Riverfront Park, and causing irreparable damage to thousands of homes, businesses, and cultural rally points such as Schermerhorn Symphony Center and the Grand Ole Opry's Acuff Theater. Later, Lighthouse Christian School - a school funded by the operation of its preschool, and which served as the subject of one of the most incredible YouTube videos I have ever seen, when a portable classroom literally floated down the interstate and was crushed in the water - received a truly amazing gift from Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. In the face of overwhelming loss to their property and ability to operate the preschool (the lifeblood of the rest of the school), LCS set up a community shelter where displaced Nashvillians could come to receive food, blankets, necessaries, and help in rebuilding. All the while, LCS was suffering, but the indomitable heart for the people - one of the many reasons I am *so* proud to call Nashville my hometown - would not let them stand by while the rest of their community suffered so great a tragedy. When Ty Pennington and his crew came on the scene, the principal of LCS stared as though an angel had descended on the school, which of course is exactly what happened. (In the midst of the flood crisis, Nashville received little to non-existent national media coverage, and so I sent an email to Rachel Maddow, beseeching her to give us just a little exposure on her show if it was at all possible. Dr. Maddow responded less than 2 days later - not via email, but via a 4-minute segment on her nightly show, detailing the damage and giving Nashville the airtime it so deserved.)
10. My wife's family lost its matriarch when Elizabeth B. Stefon passed away November 20th. Aunt Betty left no heart unturned, and had an impact on us all. Though it hurts to think of her apartment being rented by someone else, leaving us only a few tenuous threads of connections in the great state of Connecticut, it is easy to imagine Betty reunited with her siblings, parents and all those others who went before her, crippled no more, and able to relax in the knowledge that she made it after all. RIP Aunt Betty - you will be missed.
Overall, 2010 was a year of change: new Congress, new body for me, new location for my sister and nieces, 2 cousins who left for their first years in college, a new baby, weight-loss surgery, the '2L' year, and countless other events that haven't been mentioned here. The 'twenty-ought' decade (quoted from my former Economics teacher, Mr. Adams) came to a close and Susanne and I celebrated with great friends. We enter the 'twenty-teens' decade (again, credit to Mr. Adams) with a hopeful sense of wonder, humility, and excitement at the dawning of a new census period, wherein our dearest hope is that we will be able to add to that census number in our own good time.
Friends, family, strangers who may have simply stumbled on this page - you are so dear to those around you. When you consider 2010 and what you left undone, unsaid, or unwritten, I urge you not to regret but to consider those things a built-in, ready-made goals list for 2011 - as I learned over Christmas, 'for every regrettable, there's a hypothetical.' Don't make your what-ifs into 'woulda, shoulda, coulda.' Change those what-ifs into 'when-I.' Try to live your life so that you don't regret what you've done, but what you've left undone - the best way to accomplish this is not to leave doors unopened or 'I love you's' unsaid, or emotional beds unmade. It's 2011, and I officially declare this the year of CARPE DIEM!!!!
that said, here are a few tidbits about 2010, in no particular order.
1. Visited Seattle (again) for a conference, during which I was able to soak in the magic of the Emerald City and meet up with good friends for crumpets, tea, and green tea martinis (not in the same meal, of course). More and more, I feel as though we will eventually live there, even if it's only for a short time.
2. 'Snowpocalypse' - my flight left Baltimore for Seattle in the morning, and by rush hour, there was 4 inches of snow on the ground, ultimately accumulating 18" at our house that weekend. My flight home was delayed a day and my flight home finally landed at BWI as one of the last six planes to land during the 21 hours the airport was able to open before Round 2 hit, bringing another 16" of snow (for a total of 32" on the ground by the time it all cleared).
3. Butler University came within literally *inches* of pulling off one of the greatest Cinderella story upsets in the entire history of the NCAA basketball tournament, losing to #1 (actually #3 overall) Duke in the title game, after Gordon Hayward's Hail Mary kissed the back of the rim after banking off the glass, just barely too far to hit the net instead. An amazing game that kept the entire March Madness faithful glued to the screen as the final buzzer sounded, and one of the few times that my mom's rooting for the team opposite the one I was supporting failed to clinch a victory.
4. The Young Squire (aka Rowan Davies) enters the world (1/4) and inserts himself into our hearts within mere seconds - and so, the great adventure begins for dear friends.
5. My niece Trinity turned 10, finally cracking into the double digits and somehow retaining the sweetness and light of childhood, all the while staring her 'tween years in the face. Under the 10-going-on-27 exterior, however, she's still my Boots.
6. My sister and nieces moved home to TN, with bittersweet overtones aplenty.
7. I traveled to Central America and had weight-loss surgery, reclaiming my body for myself and learning that I'm liable to break into Spanish when under the influence of heavy anesthesia. Pounds lost to date: 86. Clothes reclaimed from the back of the closet: 4 shirts, two pairs of pants, and one tuxedo jacket.
8. Got a Facebook message from a private investigator who said my dad was trying to find me and my sister. After much virtual hemming and hawing, the three of us sat down and had coffee, double-chocolate Coca-Cola cake, and 2 hours of conversation at Cracker Barrel, where in true Southern form, our check was comped by the manager when she heard our story.
9. My hometown was flooded when the Cumberland River crawled over its banks, encroaching nearly half a mile into downtown Nashville, submerging Riverfront Park, and causing irreparable damage to thousands of homes, businesses, and cultural rally points such as Schermerhorn Symphony Center and the Grand Ole Opry's Acuff Theater. Later, Lighthouse Christian School - a school funded by the operation of its preschool, and which served as the subject of one of the most incredible YouTube videos I have ever seen, when a portable classroom literally floated down the interstate and was crushed in the water - received a truly amazing gift from Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. In the face of overwhelming loss to their property and ability to operate the preschool (the lifeblood of the rest of the school), LCS set up a community shelter where displaced Nashvillians could come to receive food, blankets, necessaries, and help in rebuilding. All the while, LCS was suffering, but the indomitable heart for the people - one of the many reasons I am *so* proud to call Nashville my hometown - would not let them stand by while the rest of their community suffered so great a tragedy. When Ty Pennington and his crew came on the scene, the principal of LCS stared as though an angel had descended on the school, which of course is exactly what happened. (In the midst of the flood crisis, Nashville received little to non-existent national media coverage, and so I sent an email to Rachel Maddow, beseeching her to give us just a little exposure on her show if it was at all possible. Dr. Maddow responded less than 2 days later - not via email, but via a 4-minute segment on her nightly show, detailing the damage and giving Nashville the airtime it so deserved.)
10. My wife's family lost its matriarch when Elizabeth B. Stefon passed away November 20th. Aunt Betty left no heart unturned, and had an impact on us all. Though it hurts to think of her apartment being rented by someone else, leaving us only a few tenuous threads of connections in the great state of Connecticut, it is easy to imagine Betty reunited with her siblings, parents and all those others who went before her, crippled no more, and able to relax in the knowledge that she made it after all. RIP Aunt Betty - you will be missed.
Overall, 2010 was a year of change: new Congress, new body for me, new location for my sister and nieces, 2 cousins who left for their first years in college, a new baby, weight-loss surgery, the '2L' year, and countless other events that haven't been mentioned here. The 'twenty-ought' decade (quoted from my former Economics teacher, Mr. Adams) came to a close and Susanne and I celebrated with great friends. We enter the 'twenty-teens' decade (again, credit to Mr. Adams) with a hopeful sense of wonder, humility, and excitement at the dawning of a new census period, wherein our dearest hope is that we will be able to add to that census number in our own good time.
Friends, family, strangers who may have simply stumbled on this page - you are so dear to those around you. When you consider 2010 and what you left undone, unsaid, or unwritten, I urge you not to regret but to consider those things a built-in, ready-made goals list for 2011 - as I learned over Christmas, 'for every regrettable, there's a hypothetical.' Don't make your what-ifs into 'woulda, shoulda, coulda.' Change those what-ifs into 'when-I.' Try to live your life so that you don't regret what you've done, but what you've left undone - the best way to accomplish this is not to leave doors unopened or 'I love you's' unsaid, or emotional beds unmade. It's 2011, and I officially declare this the year of CARPE DIEM!!!!
Sunday, November 7, 2010
random thoughts - 11/7/10
First, a few tidbits regarding the number 71:
The number 60 has become fascinating to me this week as well. Not only is 60 the sum of another pair of twin primes (29 + 31), it is the sum of four consecutive prime numbers (11 + 13 + 17 + 19), and is adjacent to twin primes (59, 61). As we all found out this past Tuesday, 60 also represents the number of House seats (so far, at least) that were won by Republican candidates across the nation. (there are still 9 undecided races that are, as they say, 'too close to call.') Interestingly, perhaps only to me, the number of Senate seats won by Republicans is the largest single-digit divisor of the number 60 (6), so that's another cool thing. *note: for someone who always hated math, these kinds of relationships are actually neat. probably because no one has asked me to do any kinds of proofs, corollaries, or derivatives of same, but still.*
In any case, this entry is not really meant to be a mathlete's compendium of scatterplot facts and quirky numerological trivia. Instead, as any 'election results' Google/Bing search will demonstrate, this week really has just been all about the numbers. How many seats would the Democrats lose or keep? How many Tea Party candidates would win out over their Democrat (or in some cases, Republican) incumbent opponents? How many pundits would conclude that - whatever the result - the election was simply a 'referendum on the President,' as they have in virtually every midterm election since Senate seats stopped being handed out like the candy I enthusiastically distributed last Sunday night? Because this is the week of numbers, then, I have a couple more I'd like to discuss.
4 million - the number of children (and pregnant women) who are now eligible for healthcare under the Children's Health Insurance Program (CHIP).
$30 million - the amount of money used to reinvigorate the federal Pell Grant system for college assistance.
3219 - the bill number for the new veterans' benefits law, which takes effect in the next couple of months, and which greatly expands the assistance given to new and old vets, including increases in education and living assistance, burial and funeral benefits, enhanced employment opportunities (particularly for severely disabled vets), and many other sweet new programs.
3 - the number of WWI veterans verified as still living as of 10/3/10. Frank Buckles, a US citizen who served in the ambulance corps near the Western Front, currently lives near Charles Town, WV. He is 109.
464 - the number of Medals of Honor awarded during WWII, 266 posthumously. The only Medal of Honor ever received by a member of the US Coast Guard in history was awarded during WWII.
1.5 million - estimated number of US WWII vets still alive as of 9/1/10. (no figures are currently available on the percentage of women in this number.)
This Veterans Day (11/11), it is incredibly important to remember that the heroes who have served in all of this nation's armed conflicts usually started out as 'regular joes (or janes).' They simply answered a call and served - with varying levels of dignity and integrity. While no one will argue today that they always made the best decisions (see Lt. Callie, Viet Nam), the fact remains that these people have seen and done things that most of us hope we never even have to imagine. I have met many servicemembers and while I don't always agree with their positions or viewpoints, I cannot deny that each and every one of them deserve respect and recognition for the invaluable services they have provided and continue to provide to this nation.
After this week of what is laughingly termed 'battle,' I urge us all to remember that picking apart an election is probably the closest any of us will ever get to an actual conflict. For that, I raise a glass to Dylan, Justun, Jaime, Uncle Jenks, and the countless others who have committed themselves to a life of service and to whom we all owe a great deal, and who have never asked us for any thanks.
Thank you, veterans - this one's for you.
- In mathematics: it's the 20th prime number, directly adjacent (in the odd sequence) to the 21st prime number (73), which is also known as a 'twin prime.'
- The number of judges on the Sanhedrin, the court in ancient Israel responsible for hearing the cases of criminals who facing the death penalty for their crimes.
- The registry number for the US Navy's nuclear aircraft carrier (CVN-71), the USS Theodore Roosevelt.
- The number of goals scored by Wayne Gretzky (with the Edmonton Oilers) during the 1982-83 NHL hockey season.
- The number of different characters that can be typed with a traditional English keyboard, excluding uppercase letters, without repeating any.
- The number of pounds I have lost since my surgery on 8/3/10. (!!)
The number 60 has become fascinating to me this week as well. Not only is 60 the sum of another pair of twin primes (29 + 31), it is the sum of four consecutive prime numbers (11 + 13 + 17 + 19), and is adjacent to twin primes (59, 61). As we all found out this past Tuesday, 60 also represents the number of House seats (so far, at least) that were won by Republican candidates across the nation. (there are still 9 undecided races that are, as they say, 'too close to call.') Interestingly, perhaps only to me, the number of Senate seats won by Republicans is the largest single-digit divisor of the number 60 (6), so that's another cool thing. *note: for someone who always hated math, these kinds of relationships are actually neat. probably because no one has asked me to do any kinds of proofs, corollaries, or derivatives of same, but still.*
In any case, this entry is not really meant to be a mathlete's compendium of scatterplot facts and quirky numerological trivia. Instead, as any 'election results' Google/Bing search will demonstrate, this week really has just been all about the numbers. How many seats would the Democrats lose or keep? How many Tea Party candidates would win out over their Democrat (or in some cases, Republican) incumbent opponents? How many pundits would conclude that - whatever the result - the election was simply a 'referendum on the President,' as they have in virtually every midterm election since Senate seats stopped being handed out like the candy I enthusiastically distributed last Sunday night? Because this is the week of numbers, then, I have a couple more I'd like to discuss.
4 million - the number of children (and pregnant women) who are now eligible for healthcare under the Children's Health Insurance Program (CHIP).
$30 million - the amount of money used to reinvigorate the federal Pell Grant system for college assistance.
3219 - the bill number for the new veterans' benefits law, which takes effect in the next couple of months, and which greatly expands the assistance given to new and old vets, including increases in education and living assistance, burial and funeral benefits, enhanced employment opportunities (particularly for severely disabled vets), and many other sweet new programs.
3 - the number of WWI veterans verified as still living as of 10/3/10. Frank Buckles, a US citizen who served in the ambulance corps near the Western Front, currently lives near Charles Town, WV. He is 109.
464 - the number of Medals of Honor awarded during WWII, 266 posthumously. The only Medal of Honor ever received by a member of the US Coast Guard in history was awarded during WWII.
1.5 million - estimated number of US WWII vets still alive as of 9/1/10. (no figures are currently available on the percentage of women in this number.)
This Veterans Day (11/11), it is incredibly important to remember that the heroes who have served in all of this nation's armed conflicts usually started out as 'regular joes (or janes).' They simply answered a call and served - with varying levels of dignity and integrity. While no one will argue today that they always made the best decisions (see Lt. Callie, Viet Nam), the fact remains that these people have seen and done things that most of us hope we never even have to imagine. I have met many servicemembers and while I don't always agree with their positions or viewpoints, I cannot deny that each and every one of them deserve respect and recognition for the invaluable services they have provided and continue to provide to this nation.
After this week of what is laughingly termed 'battle,' I urge us all to remember that picking apart an election is probably the closest any of us will ever get to an actual conflict. For that, I raise a glass to Dylan, Justun, Jaime, Uncle Jenks, and the countless others who have committed themselves to a life of service and to whom we all owe a great deal, and who have never asked us for any thanks.
Thank you, veterans - this one's for you.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
milestones
so....
today, 10/3/10, marks two months since i had my surgery. since that day, i've officially lost 60 lbs and three pants sizes, in addition to one shirt size (and probably more). oddly enough, my socks still fit.
i feel as though i should be elated, or at least more enthusiastic than i feel - however, the events of recent weeks (when five young men have committed suicide because of bullying) leads my mind down a different path. i want to take this opportunity to tell anyone and everyone reading this that you are perfect, exactly the way that you are. we all go through rough spots in life - sometimes in the space of an hour - where we feel that we aren't pretty enough, or smart enough, or thin enough, or whatever enough, to be a functional part of society. lies. it's all lies.
there's no such thing as pretty enough, etc. there's only being who you are. if the world isn't ready for who you are, they will try to tell you that you are less than, or other than. more lies. if you are reading this, then that means you are breathing, which leads to the inevitable conclusion that you are blessed because you can read, you can see, you are still able to draw air into your lungs. these are all blessings to which countless others are not privy, and they alone are reasons to believe that there is something good out there for you.
i am thrilled at the weight loss i've achieved, and i've even had my moments of standing in front of the mirror, flexing my newly visible neck and arm muscles, endlessly fascinated with the reflection. i'm here to tell you, though - no new clothes will give me the same sense of satisfaction as knowing that no matter how much weight i lose, i am myself. i may get more comfortable with the 'me' the world sees, but i am slowly realizing that, in the immortal words of Stuart Smalley, 'i'm good enough, i'm smart enough, and gosh-darn-it, people like me.'
my heart weeps for the five individuals who couldn't see past the ugliness the world threw at them. i weep for their families, who will never know the men those boys might have become. i weep for the bully-ers, who will live forever with the knowledge that they share some (possibly infinitesimal, purely incidental) responsibility for one of those deaths. mostly though, i weep at the thought that those deaths ever had occasion to occur. if you are reading this, you are one of my closest friends, and i appreciate you far more than this limited medium could ever express. for understanding those limitations, i thank you. believe me when i say that i could not have done any of this (the past two months) without any one of you. i love each and every one of you and i hope that i have never given you reason to believe that you are lacking in any way.
there are some who claim that suicide is the ultimate in selfishness. to anyone who believes that, i would counsel you to look inside yourself and examine whatever dark corner you have in which you keep those thoughts of not-enough-ness. suicide, at least in the context of the past three weeks, is the result of the cancer those thoughts metastasize into when they are not exposed to the light of day, or worse - when they are shoveled in from the outside, some external source who chances upon the very most hurtful words anyone could ever say to another. your mission: go read a book of Emily Dickinson's poetry (or as much of it as you can stomach - she's not for everyone), search for those hidden, necrotic thoughts, and excise them. remove them and flush the area with antiseptic. repeat as necessary. remember always that you are enough, just by being here. you can never know the weight of your own words, negative or positive, and you can never predict what words will have the greatest impact to which person. if for that reason alone, guard the words you say to others carefully.
i don't mean to preach, unless it be to myself. in many ways this is my variation on Rilke's _Letters to a Young Poet_. please do remember that there is at least one person in this world (that would be yours truly) who believes that you can literally do anything you put your mind to - be it walking on the moon, finally finishing that novel, catching the last elusive firefly before autumn sets in, writing a law that will change the world, or even just going to the grocery store and cleaving faithfully to your shopping list. whatever it is that you want to do, you have a #1 fan right here. you are able! you are fearsome!
you are my friends, and i love you. don't ever forget how many ills those three words can heal, or how many scars their absence or neglect can cause.
in memoriam - for privacy's sake i won't name the five young men here, but a non-extensive Google/Bing search will yield their names. to the departed, may you find the acceptance and love in heaven that you were denied here.
today, 10/3/10, marks two months since i had my surgery. since that day, i've officially lost 60 lbs and three pants sizes, in addition to one shirt size (and probably more). oddly enough, my socks still fit.
i feel as though i should be elated, or at least more enthusiastic than i feel - however, the events of recent weeks (when five young men have committed suicide because of bullying) leads my mind down a different path. i want to take this opportunity to tell anyone and everyone reading this that you are perfect, exactly the way that you are. we all go through rough spots in life - sometimes in the space of an hour - where we feel that we aren't pretty enough, or smart enough, or thin enough, or whatever enough, to be a functional part of society. lies. it's all lies.
there's no such thing as pretty enough, etc. there's only being who you are. if the world isn't ready for who you are, they will try to tell you that you are less than, or other than. more lies. if you are reading this, then that means you are breathing, which leads to the inevitable conclusion that you are blessed because you can read, you can see, you are still able to draw air into your lungs. these are all blessings to which countless others are not privy, and they alone are reasons to believe that there is something good out there for you.
i am thrilled at the weight loss i've achieved, and i've even had my moments of standing in front of the mirror, flexing my newly visible neck and arm muscles, endlessly fascinated with the reflection. i'm here to tell you, though - no new clothes will give me the same sense of satisfaction as knowing that no matter how much weight i lose, i am myself. i may get more comfortable with the 'me' the world sees, but i am slowly realizing that, in the immortal words of Stuart Smalley, 'i'm good enough, i'm smart enough, and gosh-darn-it, people like me.'
my heart weeps for the five individuals who couldn't see past the ugliness the world threw at them. i weep for their families, who will never know the men those boys might have become. i weep for the bully-ers, who will live forever with the knowledge that they share some (possibly infinitesimal, purely incidental) responsibility for one of those deaths. mostly though, i weep at the thought that those deaths ever had occasion to occur. if you are reading this, you are one of my closest friends, and i appreciate you far more than this limited medium could ever express. for understanding those limitations, i thank you. believe me when i say that i could not have done any of this (the past two months) without any one of you. i love each and every one of you and i hope that i have never given you reason to believe that you are lacking in any way.
there are some who claim that suicide is the ultimate in selfishness. to anyone who believes that, i would counsel you to look inside yourself and examine whatever dark corner you have in which you keep those thoughts of not-enough-ness. suicide, at least in the context of the past three weeks, is the result of the cancer those thoughts metastasize into when they are not exposed to the light of day, or worse - when they are shoveled in from the outside, some external source who chances upon the very most hurtful words anyone could ever say to another. your mission: go read a book of Emily Dickinson's poetry (or as much of it as you can stomach - she's not for everyone), search for those hidden, necrotic thoughts, and excise them. remove them and flush the area with antiseptic. repeat as necessary. remember always that you are enough, just by being here. you can never know the weight of your own words, negative or positive, and you can never predict what words will have the greatest impact to which person. if for that reason alone, guard the words you say to others carefully.
i don't mean to preach, unless it be to myself. in many ways this is my variation on Rilke's _Letters to a Young Poet_. please do remember that there is at least one person in this world (that would be yours truly) who believes that you can literally do anything you put your mind to - be it walking on the moon, finally finishing that novel, catching the last elusive firefly before autumn sets in, writing a law that will change the world, or even just going to the grocery store and cleaving faithfully to your shopping list. whatever it is that you want to do, you have a #1 fan right here. you are able! you are fearsome!
you are my friends, and i love you. don't ever forget how many ills those three words can heal, or how many scars their absence or neglect can cause.
in memoriam - for privacy's sake i won't name the five young men here, but a non-extensive Google/Bing search will yield their names. to the departed, may you find the acceptance and love in heaven that you were denied here.
Monday, September 27, 2010
magic number: 42
so campers, here are a few fun facts about the number 42.
- the angle at which sunlight reflects through a raindrop (or more precisely, a bunch of raindrops) to form a rainbow.
- the atomic number of Molybdenum.
- the number of results displayed if a person Googles (or Bings) the phrase "the answer to life the universe and everything."
- number of generations in the Gospel of Matthew's genealogy of Jesus.
- one of The Numbers - 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, and 42 - featured in _Lost_.
- the jersey number of Jackie Robinson, the only number ever to be retired by every single Major League Baseball team.
- the number of spots on a pair of standard 6-sided dice.
- the last size in men's jeans that retail stores sell on the shelves outside of the Big 'n' Tall section.
Obviously it is this last trivium on which I would like to focus. this past weekend, Susanne and I went beach camping in Rehoboth Beach, DE, and at the end of that [fantastic] trip, we made a stop at the outlets so I could purchase some pants to get me through the winter without exposing myself unintentionally when my pants inevitably ended up falling down.
Great was my satisfaction and delight when I approached the shelves of jeans with trepidation, selected a size 42x30, straight-cut jeans, soldiered off to the fitting room, and jumped right into those jeans. Gone are the days of shopping online exclusively (because I couldn't find anything in the store that fit me) - I can literally walk into any store in the entire outlet mall (with the possible exception of Yankee Candle) and pick something that I can get into.
The very best thing about the number 42? In all likelihood, this time next year it will be in my rearview mirror. :)
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