I’ve undergone quite a bit of change in the last couple of years.
Some change has been thrust upon me from alternate timelines or beamed into my psyche by the Mothership of Karma that hovers above.
Sometimes, my brain does things that I’ve not asked it to do. It’s off the track and skipping or misinterpreting vital bits of input from my surroundings. This requires the employment of a Couch Lady, who cannot retire until that Mothership beams me completely aboard or zips off to another locale.
Some changes are welcome. I’m eating healthier, despite my Facebook posts depicting Oreos (I had a prescription) and Milano Raspberry Chocolate cookies (I own pounding that pack—those were coping cookies to survive one of those Mothership events).
I’m moving more, including yoga. Still a newbie. Like taking a month to do “Day 1” and two months to do “Day 2” in Yoga 101, but when you go from years of sedentary to a move-or-I’m-gonna-malfunction-right-now nervous system, it takes a minute to loosen things up. At least I’m not falling on my face (as much), and I know which way the grooves on the mat go now.
I’ve also developed an insane craving for the outside. This is new. In years past, I would enjoy the outdoors from the indoors via an open window and scarcely spend time without a roof over my head.
Now? Fresh air all around, please. Many pre-dawn mornings this past summer, I laced up and walked until the sun was high enough and all the color gave way to blue sky just to be beneath that phenomenon.
The need to burn off excessive energy (the nervous kind, not the productive kind) drives me out the door multiple times a day. And heaven help me and my office staff if it’s raining and I’m stuck with the treadmill…
An evening stroll around the high school campus birthed this blog post. (I also walk in the cemetery quite a bit, which gives birth to other kinds of words strung together slightly differently…)
By the time the Hubs comes home from work and is ready for a walk, I’ve battled myself, that blasted Mothership, Little Miss Muse, three office cats, and who knows what else. In other words, I’m mentally shot.
He’s battled himself, a long commute, phones ringing all day, and the general public. In other words, he’s mentally shot.
A walk does us both good. Decompression. Reset.
This night, folks had filed into the football stadium bleachers. Garbled announcements floated over the walking track in our direction. Something about local business sponsorships. Something about sportsmanship.
I’m not a sports person, be it televised, live, pro, or otherwise. There’s not enough variation to keep me interested. Balls go back and forth. Players go back and forth. Stick to the rules. Too much noise. Too many people. Too many time-outs, dragging the game out.
So I mostly tune this stuff out. I mean, Go Team! and all, but yeah, it's not my thing. When Hubs is watching or listening to some sporting thing, I’m usually in the office. Tuning it out.
So I tuned out the noise from the PA system.
Until I didn’t.
With my tired, shot brain, I tuned in just in time to hear “…match between GARBLE GARBLE GARBLE (echo, echo) and your hometown Art Department (echo, echo).”
The crowd cheered.
And. I. Didn’t. Question. It.
I was impressed.
We walked on. I wonder who they’re playing.
So I ask the Hubs. “That would be a game I would watch. The Art Department and who?” I figured he’d heard the announcement. Even with his shot brain, he’s got one ear out for all the sports stuff. We could watch together.
“What?”
“Who is the Art Department playing against?” I picture a corny grudge match between the high school staff. No rules. Maybe some paintballs on the field. Or, like, that color run chalk dust stuff. I’m fully expecting him to reply with Science Department or Math Department. During time outs, they take out telescopes or calculators to determine their next play. History Department? Swords and cannons? I mean, fun, right?
I was full-on ready to trot back to the house, grab cash for tickets and some popcorn, and settle in to watch the teachers vs. teachers football game. I was even getting a little excited about what the Art Department uniforms might look like. Tie-dye? Starry Night? Red, yellow, white, and blue in the style of Piet Mondrian?
I mean, both parking lots are filled with spaces that the kids are allowed to paint and personalize. The creativity is off the charts. Maybe that excitement bled right over into the Athletic Department.
“What?”
“The hometown Art Department against who?”
Or… or… the opposing team is from another town, and we have a rival set of artists about to take the field. What will their uniforms look like?
At this point—way before this point—I should’ve caught a clue: I’m no longer in charge of my brain.
Little Miss Muse is driving the bus with art teachers as passengers and a back end full of oil pastels, glitter bombs, and gel pens. Aliens hanging out the windows with pom-pomps, the Mothership hovering behind with a “Go Team!” banner billowing off its backside.
He stares at me. “That’s not what they said.”
“Hometown Art Department.”
“No.” He’s too tired for this. “’Your Hometown Spartans.’ Spartans.” He’s sweet about it, but I can imagine what’s running through his own tired, non-muse-hijaked mind.
Spartans. That's the mascot from before either of us ever graduated from the place. When has that PA system ever said anytying other than “Spartans” after “hometown,” garbled or otherwise?
See? Sometimes, my brain does things that I’ve not asked it to do. It’s off the track and skipping or misinterpreting vital bits of input from my surroundings.
I can’t decide if I’m embarrassed that I believed myself for so long or thoroughly impressed at my mind’s ability to take a misinterpreted micromoment and—within mere seconds—create an entire sporting event, complete with uniforms.
And a party bus.
Just when I’m about to have walked far enough to burn off the day’s nervous energy, I must now decide what to do with my misplaced excitement. And more than a dash of disappointment.
I mean, popcorn, even.
I decide to own it. Integrate the crazy and whatever diagnosis-of-the-week Couch Lady may toss at me.
File it in the “blog ideas” drawer and tell on myself later. Beg Little Miss Muse to save the grandiosity for the writing desk (seriously, where is this power when I need to summon it?).
In the meantime, maybe I’ll write a letter to the Spartan Athletic Department.
And the Art Department.
Because that really is a game I would watch.
