Monday Night Narrative

Tonight I decided to set up the pull-up bar I’d purchased last week at Sports Basement.  I intended to have myself a little bedroom workout, and I set right to it upon returning home.  I opened the box a bit skeptically, noticing the packing tape that indicated the item had been repackaged, and resold.  Inside were the four simple pieces of the apparatus, a folded diagram, and a small clear bag of hardware.  I unfolded the instructions first, examined the pieces, and planned my attack.  Four parts, four bolts, four nuts, and I’d be on my way to a ripped upper body.  I opened the little bag of hardware.  Inside were three bolts and four nuts.

I almost went nuts.  How freaking stupid do you have to be to leave out a bolt?  It’s not like some IKEA entertainment center with 67 pieces and an eight-page set of instructions.  3 out of 4 bolts?  Are you freaking serious?  I thought about returning the damn thing but how I didn’t want to get in the freaking car right now and drive down to Sports Basement, and how the damn thing would probably just sit in the corner of my room, or at best the trunk of my car, for like 2 weeks before I finally returned it for my measly $28.  I should get a refund and a replacement.  This was a colossal disappointment, a huge hassle, and boy was I going to make the cashier at Sports Basement feel real stupid when I opened the box and showed him the glaring absence of one of the 12 necessary pieces.

I tried to calm myself down.  This was a test.  I was tired, this was just a silly little incident thrown in my path, it was nothing.  It was a chance for me to demonstrate my self-control, my mastery of the moment, my ability to roll with the punches, find the humor in everything, and not be affected by triviality.  I threw the parts together and closed the box, and on the back...

The bolt.  Hello.  Scotch-taped their like some alien parasite clung the missing bolt to the back of the box.  Oh my goodness, now isn’t that funny?  Here I was getting all worked up, planning my tirade at the sports basement counter, deep-breathing to control my rage, and the little bolt was here all along.  I smiled, re-opened the box, laid out the parts once again, and set to fastening the first bolt to its nut.

The nut was too small.  I could screw it a couple of turns until the tighter end met the tip of the bolt, and no further could I go.  Who is the idiot who put this piece of shit together?  Is it so hard to grab the right freaking nuts for the job?  Again, we’re dealing with FOUR IDENTICAL BOLTS here people.  This isn’t hard.  What the hell am I supposed to do with these stupid little nuts?  I stomped off towards the tool closet, determined to muscle the damn things on there any way I could.  I was getting hungry, I could feel a twinge in my right hammy and I thought about how I was supposed to be stretching by now, and how I really just wanted to lie down and see what’s on ESPN3.

Well thanks to my ingenuity, a pair of pliers, and a screwdriver, I was able to work the bolts through the nuts.  These tools were definitely not included in the instructions, but as the pieces came together I gradually began to feel better about things, and get excited about doing some pull-ups.

What an up-and-down little incident!  From frustrated to relieved to frustrated and back to relieved, this was certainly a trying process, and an interesting one to observe.  I gave the final bolt its final turn, and hefted the completed apparatus.  Sturdy, simple, awesome.  I could practically feel the muscle bulging in my back.  I turned to my doorway and hooked the curved end under the doorjamb.  It didn’t grab.  I wiggled it a bit, turned around, came at it from the outside in, hooked it under again, but no luck.  The molding on my door was too high.  I freaked.  In 30 seconds I toured the entire apartment, frantically hooking the little rubber stubs up and under each doorway, grasping for purchase, and finding none.  There is nowhere in this ENTIRE apartment to hang this freaking piece of shit pull-up bar.  I stormed back to my room, briefly considered hurling the bar through my window, decided on my bed instead, and threw it down with disgust.  I stood there shaking my head, thinking of the half-hour I’d just wasted, the weekend to-do list undone on my desk, the massive pimple that was throbbing beside my nose, my fatigue and my sore hammy.

Somehow I managed to go on with my life.  I unrolled my yoga mat, cracked the window, and began a sun salutation.  Then I used the bar for some push-ups at the end of my routine, and tweaked my left shoulder.

3 Lessons in 24 Hours

1. Take your damn time

2. Chill the hell out

3. Don’t ever say “fuck you”, even under your breath.

Lesson 1: Take your damn time

Tuesday I was to meet up with Moms at the Apple store where she’d taken her computer for repair.  An important call came in at work right as I’d planned to leave, so instead of leaving at 12:30, I didn’t get out until 12:48.  I snapped on my bike gear and took off post-haste down Market.  I was hungry, hurried, and wired from a morning of officing, and as I passed intersection after intersection without seeing the big silver box that is the Mac store, I started to wonder if I’d passed it.  This made me angry, “how the hell could I have passed it?” - I’d been looking dutifully to the right as I crossed each street.  I picked up the pace even more, determined to get there faster, the realization that I had passed the store slowly sinking in.  My denial finally reached an end when I reached Van Ness.  Somehow this totally set me off.  I felt like screaming, I cursed a bit, and turned my bike around abruptly and began rocking down the bumpy street in the other direction, now checking each intersection on my left.  It was an absolutely beautiful day, but I was determined not to let this raise my spirits.  I was still in denial, and sarcastically said “oh it probably just disappeared completely”.  Finally I reached it - just about 2 blocks from my building, sitting on the corner very solidly - apparently it had been sitting there the whole time.  I parked and collected myself and went indoors to find Mom serenely sitting on a stool, writing in a little notebook, waiting for the blue-shirted mac doctors to return with a verdict on her laptop.

Could’ve enjoyed the ride, would’ve gone straight there if I hadn’t been in such a hurry.  Take your damn time.

Market St. in the morning

Lesson 2: Chill the hell out

Biking to work yesterday, I approached the third street intersection, the lights shining green in the distance.  I wasn’t sure if I’d make it, but as I got closer the light stayed green so I accelerated to try to catch it and it turned yellow just as I approached.  Instead of slowing to a halt I pedalled even harder and blazed through the yellow light.  Now, although this is common practice in a car, on a bike it’s a bit different - even if you get into the intersection before the light turns red, it takes about twice as long to get through it, and as pedestrians prepare to cross on the other side, you’re screaming at them full speed but making almost no noise.  A young woman, eager to get to the north side of Market street, took a great big stride out into the intersection just as the little white man flashed on.  She didn’t see me coming, and I swerved, BAREly missing her.  

Would have been awful.  Saved me about one minute’s time.  Chill the hell out.

Market St. in the afternoon

Lesson 3: Don’t say “fuck you” to people, even under your breath

Yesterday morning my Mom and I sat at the breakfast table and tapped away at our computers, when my Mom looked up and said “I wonder if I have to move my car”.  Wednesday is always street cleaning somewhere in this neighborhood, and after a moment’s debate, she got up - knowing it wasn’t worth the $55 ticket to sit and wonder which side of the street those little buggers will be patrolling today.  As she made to leave she said “and what about Lucy’s car!”, which was parked right out front, and at 7:56, we realized was just minutes away from yet another ticket.  So we scrambled together, me slipping on shoes and grabbing keys and feeling a bit upset that my morning was interrupted by this task, and out the door and down the stairs we went.  Lucy’s Honda was very much alone on this side of the street, and we hopped in, me driving Moms up to where Maxi was parked.  I let her off at 21st and diamond, and prepared to turn around through 21st street, but found my way blocked by a van coming down 21st and looking to turn left on Diamond.  So I pulled over awkwardly as suddenly numerous cars came streaming up and down Diamond - everybody madly scrambling to get out of the way of the traffic cops.  Finally, the traffic cleared and the van turned, and looking over my left shoulder for oncoming traffic, I looped up and around right behind him.  Some gentleman decided to cross 21st street just then, and I didn’t see him at all - my sharp turn cut right in front of his path, and as he walked on I sheepishly realized I was very lucky not to have hit the guy.  He didn’t say anything, but as I prepared to make my left onto Diamond and drive back downhill, I saw he’d stopped in the middle of the street and was staring at me.  This bothered me - ‘what the hell are you looking at, buddy?’ I thought to myself, and as the traffic finally cleared I stared right back at him, saying softly ‘oh you’ve decided I need a talking to, have you?’.  As I made my turn our eyes met and he flipped me a really aggressive bird and mouthed “Fuck you”.  I stared right back at him, said “fuck you!” under my breath, and drove off.  I was pissed, just really freaking pissed at this asshole as I drove down the hill.  God what the hell kind of a way to start off my morning.  I looped down past the apartment and back up Diamond looking for a spot, and I immediately regretted the way I’d handled the situation.  Obviously, I’d given the guy quite a scare, and his strangely aggressive response had elicited the same from me - I appeared some punk kid with no consideration for pedestrians.  I ought to have winced at him, raised my hand in apology, and mouthed “sorry”.  Better yet, I could have dropped the window as I drove by, and given him a chance to speak his mind.  I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have tried to kill me or anything - and maybe had I told him how sorry I was, he would’ve gotten his beef off of his chest, I would’ve gotten my appropriate punishment, and we both would’ve moved onwards in much happier states of mind.

But the worst two words to say to somebody are “fuck you”.