Between some deep thought, some Ayn Rand and more Vienna Fingers than I really should have consumed, this, friends, is my conclusion:   USA?  We’ve got some issues, yo.

It all started way back when, say 3 days ago, I was furiously writing in the notebook that I keep with me in the car and–yes–might have been guilty of scribbling while driving.  I know, you don’t have to say it.  That is a bad idea.  Admittedly, they should probably administer DUIs for this.

In any event, I was surely on the brink of having a head-on collision as my gel pen & I deliberated over the notion of guilt, our nation, religion, capitalism, and whether or not Fergie’s ass really doesn’t have any cellulite on it, or if it’s the tights.  For the record and in the name of my self-esteem, I prefer to believe the latter.

ANYWAY…

The Unfortunate Role Guilt Plays In Our Lives

Supposedly, we’re this great nation of freedom & liberty, but it seems that realistically, we’re actually some of the most frightened cowards on the planet.  Was that too straightforward?  Let me try again.

There’s no denying our freedom and liberty in terms of politics & capitalistic opportunity–in short, as a society.  As a nation, we’re some of the baddest, raddest cowboys around.  On a large scale, we’re all sorts of free.  That is, until Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake get together, in which case freedom is explicitly frowned upon.  Silly nudity.

On the flip side, however, what concerns me is that these same principles don’t apply on a humanistic level; as individual citizens, we aren’t free in the least.  While slavery in the U.S. has been technically abolished since 1865, it exists in other forms, and regrettably, our lifestyle reflects that.  The truth is, many of us are slaves to our own guilty conscience, which may not always be the most accurate barometer.

In effect, we make decisions based on what we “should” do in line with our guilty conscience (which, if I may point out, in this context is not referring what you “should” do by your own personal moral standards, but what you “should” do as a function of societal pressures to be, act, live a certain way).  Ultimately, our entire lives are characterized by decisions born from guilt, essentially transforming guilt into a tool that plays the role of compass.  While we’re on the topic, this is fundamentally how religion operates–by providing us with a set list of consequences for certain behavior, it’s easy to control large groups of people by capitalizing on their guilty consciences.  But, I digress.

The point here is that oftentimes, we aren’t these fearless rebels like we’re made out to be.  We’re terrified to move outside of what’s commonly accepted.

Ayn, Ashley & Altruism–And How It Relates Back to Guilt

So, back to my girl Ayn.  She talks a lot about our social system being based on an altruistic code of morality, in which it’s perpetuated that self-service is our highest moral duty, virtue and value.  In saying that, she cautions about not hiding behind superficialities as to whether you should or shouldn’t give a dime to a beggar, and claims that the issue isn’t whether or not you give the beggar the dime, but whether you do or do not have the right to peacefully exist without giving him that dime.  The issue is whether or not the needs of others is the moral purpose of your existence.  Altruism answers yes.  Our society answers yes.

The question becomes as simple as one little word:  Why?  Why must man live for the sake of others?  Why must we sacrifice ourselves in order to be deemed worthy?  Why is it moral to serve the happiness of others, but not your own?

Rand’s answer?  Mysticism.  The unearthly, the supernatural and the irrational is called upon to justify it–or, more appropriate, as Rand states, to escape the necessity of justification.  My answer?  Altruism, in its purest form, doesn’t exist in the first place, and there’s a hidden benefit in doing seemingly selfless work such as volunteering, which is the feel-good feeling that one receives in return.  Therefore, we aren’t really living for the sake of others, as it may appear.  More on that in another post.

To get down to business, here’s the issue that plagues us without us even knowing it:  While society answers yes to altruism, its systems answer no.  Our system of capitalism is defined by individual profit motive, whose values stand in stark opposition to our altruistic societal ideals.   Talk about a mind %$#.

Now let’s really get wild and juxtapose that with another fun factor.  According to the American Religious Identification Survey of 2008, 76% of the population identified themselves as Christians.   34% of them considered themselves “Born Again” or “Evangelical Christians.”  That terrifies me for so many reasons, but I’m not going there today.  The point is that it’s reasonable to claim that 76% of the population, by default, maintains an altruistic philosophy.

Big, Bad Conclusions

So what the hell does all of that mean?  What it means is that we have is a bunch of altruists living in a capitalistic society.  Is it any wonder why our nation is plagued with guilt?  Essentially, we’ve got one force badgering us to be capitalists–which emphasizes individual gain–and another force badgering us to be altruists–which emphasizes individual sacrifice. Does this call for some mad eenie meenie miney mo, or what?  Therefore, it’s nearly impossible not to make a decision based on guilt, because either way you cut the cake, you’re still alienating one in favor of the other.

In the end, I can’t help but believe that this serves as further support for a call for critical thinking, and the ability to deconstruct one’s realities, analyze them and then use those conclusions to serve as one’s compass.  Perhaps then, we won’t be guilted into life, but rather, will start actually living it.

Oh yeah, and one last thing.  For the record?  I don’t need tights.

Thoughts on this?  Think Rand’s way off?  Think I am?  I welcome you to contribute to the conversation.

The Girl In The Photo

See that girl?  She’s got long, brown wavy hair, and a collection of freckles that further intensify her sense of childlike innocence that’s so clearly evident in the way she moves.  White earbuds dangle down the side of her face, and I take pleasure in imagining that she’s listening to Avril Lavigne, or Pink, or someone equally as gusty and fierce that I probably haven’t heard of.  Actually, I’m certain it’s the latter, because this girl is one of those girls that just exudes uber-coolness, and uber-cool people always know all about the other uber-cool people–especially when it comes to music.

There’s a reason for my infatuation with this earth-goddess, racerback tank-wearing, leather bracelet-donning, pop punk rocker, and that reason can be summed up in two words:   hula hoop.

I’ve seen her three times now; she appears on campus at the university where I’m completing my graduate work.  She hasn’t got a care in the world, as her and her iPod jam out in the middle of an uninhabited patch of grass, her hips gyrating to the beat of the music, as she hula hoops around and around in endless circles.  Passersby heading to their next class look on in amazement, and I hear them snicker amongst their circle of friends, calling my sweet earth-goddess pop punk rocker names like crazy, insane, psychotic, and wacky. They ridicule, scorn, sneer and laugh with contempt.   While the fact that she’s wearing a racerback tank top in the dead of winter in Pennsylvania is, perhaps, questionable, as much as they mock her, I think they’re all secretly green with envy of her bold confidence.  I know I am.

You Can’t Hula Hoop In Public! *Gasp*

You see, for some reason, the fact that she’s hula hooping in the middle of campus is somehow considered wrong, against the rules.   It’s not considered “socially acceptable behavior,” and as such, is condemned, judged, and scrutinized.  It’s weird, and it makes us uncomfortable.  To cope with our discomfort, we label her a host of undesirable things.  She must be those things.  After all, we would never hula hoop in the middle of campus all by ourselves, and we’re the normal ones.   Scoff, scoff.

Now imagine for a moment that instead of my earth-goddess, it was a little girl out there hula hooping in the grass, be-bopping around to the rhythm of the music.  Her hair flies wild in the wind, and her cheeks are rosy with life.   Passersby–you, me, everyone–would look at the little girl and be filled with a warm sense of nostalgia.  We’d appreciate and admire her youthful vibrance and untainted purity.  We’d look on and think to ourselves, Oh, to be young again.

At what point do we cross over?  At what point does it become unacceptable to be young and carefree?  At what point do we become uptight, guarded and judgmental?  And more importantly, why?

Socialization Irks Me

It seems that the socialization process is to blame for my inability to hula hoop in public, or skip down the hallway of a corporate office building, or grab the cute guy standing behind me in line and lay one on ‘em.  (That is, my inability to do so without it seeming extremely strange.)  Socialization–the inheritance of the norms, customs, values of a culture–is an ongoing process that starts at birth, and usually regarded as a positive transformation that teaches new members of society how to be, well, members of their society.  It prepares individuals for the roles they are to play, for example, their gender role, and shows us how to participate “successfully” in society.  And while that may be good and nice and even useful in some arenas, in the arena of my own personal growth and the free-spirited, carefree Ashley that I am, it’s damn stifling.  Socialization is nothing more than a big, fancy synonym for “fitting-in,” and in case you couldn’t tell…me and fitting-in don’t always play nicely together.

Let me run down a fun little list of some of the goals of the socialization process:

1.  Impulse control. In other words, the cute guy behind me in line is out of the question.  I don’t like this already.

2.  Development of a conscience. Wait, I thought we had religion for that?   You mean to tell me that there’s other factors that actually determine whether or not you eat puppies for dinner?  That’s a relief–I was wondering why I didn’t do that.

3.  Cultivation of sources of meaning, i.e. what is liked, what is valued. He-llo, money-is-my-everything-and-on-which-I-base-my-self-esteem.  (By the way, stop doing that already.)

4.  Preparation of humans to function socially. Yeah, we really don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable around here.  Don’t rock the boat.

It is just me, or does the idea of being taught what to feel and when (sad when people die, fake happy when people get the job that you wanted, sexy when you fit into a size 4), and essentially learning what you’re suppose to be really, really creepy?

If we’re constantly living our lives based on a predetermined set of rules–emotional responses, gender roles, etc.–then how can we ever know who we really are?  How can we ever know what’s natural?   Is life just a series of fabricated obligations?  Are we just a series of fabricated obligations?  Are we really alive, or just living by the rules?

Ashley Rant

I don’t particularly care for hard and fast rules when it comes to being a human being.  We live and die by what’s “socially acceptable,” and we socialize ourselves right into submissiveness–not submissiveness to society, but rather submissiveness to ourselves.  We suppress urges.  We muffle feelings.  We smother instinct.  We stifle sensuality.  We trample our senses.  And we put a big, giant Stone Cold Steve Austin choke hold on spontaneity.  Instead, we’re a bunch of cold, unfeeling, desensitized, devastatingly inhibited creatures.   And that sucks.

I’m blatantly heartbroken by the university professor who uses his/her status as an excuse for acting like a condescending jackass.  I don’t care where you got your Ph.D. from; you’re still a human being and–surprise!–so am I.

I’m thoroughly saddened by the doctor who is too busy to answer a scared, anxious, dying patient’s questions.   Who’s actually more important in this scenario?  Apparently, the doctor thinks its him/herself, which is a conflict of interest.

And I’m maddenly distraught by the hundreds and thousands of everyday citizens who look away from the homeless person, because offering them an innocent smile and, perhaps, just a glimmer of compassion, would be too much to ask.  We’re deathly afraid they’re going to ask us for money, and then we’ll have to feel guilty for denying them it.   After all, it’s all about us and our feelings.

All of these scenarios are dehumanizing, and I’m tired of watching people’s actions reflect their manufactured “roles” in society, instead of reflecting their roles as a human being.

When are we going to realize that human connections are truly all we’ve got, and we should be nourishing them, instead of discouraging them in order to feed our individual ego?   Let’s be honest with ourselves–in the grand scheme of things, I’m not all that important.   And you’re not all that important, either.   And it’s about time that we drop the act.

Be real with yourself.  Be real with others.   Be silly.  Be uninhibited.  Be free.  Be the earth goddess, racerback tank-wearing, leather bracelet-donning, pop punk rocker.   Be you.   And most importantly, be a human being–not just a representation of one.

The Contest

Here’s your first opportunity to do so:

Go buy yourself a hula hoop, because you’re going to need it in order to videotape yourself hula hooping in a public place, which you will then send to me.  What?

Yes, that’s right.  I’m initiating a contest–the person who hula hoops in the most creative public place, and videotapes themselves doing so, wins the prize.  What’s that, you ask?  Well, it’s $100 for the first place winner, $50 for the second place winner and $25 for third place–voted on by the readers!  The deadline is March 22nd–one month from today–at which point I’ll post a video montage of all submitted entries on The Middle Finger Project. The vote will take place, and winners will be announced no later than March 31st.  For official rules, click here.  What are you waiting for?  Get out there, shed some of your inhibitions, and have a damn good laugh at yourself.  And then score some cash, you animal!

Okay.  Ready?  On your mark.  Get set.  GO!  Send all entries to ash @ themiddlefingerproject.org.  But shucks, don’t put the spaces in there.  Deal?

P.S.  Please don’t throw out your back.  But if you do, be sure to videotape that too.

Schizophrenic Intro

Here’s a disturbing thought:  What if I were to make the bold claim  (me? bold claim?)  that there’s no such thing as independent thinking. You’re over there already, shaking your finger back and forth at me and saying, “Nuh uh, girlfriend.  I don’t know about you, but I have got a mind of my own!” Snap right, snap left, SNAP RIGHT.

To which I place a hand on one hip and say, “Oh yeah, suga’?  That’s because you don’t know about the Hopi.”

And then you look at me with a semi-puzzled, semi-skeptical look on your face that says, “What the hell are you talking about, Ash?”

To which I raise a mischievous eyebrow and tell you that you’ll have to wait until the end of the post to find out.  Because right now, we’ve got some business to talk about.   And that business looks a little something like Sapir + Whorf + Hypothesis + Understanding Of What That Is & How It Affects You = YOU, Exponentially More Awesome.  And by that, I mean sassy little know-it-all who’s busting some moves in the world.

Shall we, my dear?

A Badass Hypothesis

So Sapir.  And Whorf.  They were two dudes.  Really intelligent dudes who studied linguistics.  Just take a look at this gem of a statement that Sapir threw out there one glorious day (pay attention, this is importaaaaantttttttt):

“No two languages are ever sufficiently similar to be considered as representing the same social reality. The worlds in which different societies live are distinct worlds, not merely the same world with different labels attached.”

Deep.   I know.

Basically, the premise is this:   The language we speak affects how we view the world. It also can affect how we think or act, and asserts that all human beings do not think the same way regardless of what language they speak.

And I am just oh-so-in-love with this theory.  To expand, it’s the idea that the linguistic structure that we have available to us (i.e. verb forms, the order of sentences) influences our perceptions and, hence, thoughts.

For example, as humans we tend to put things, situations, ideas, people–you name it–into mental categories.  Yet, these categories don’t exist because they stare every observer in the face; rather, our categories are organized by our minds, and that means by the linguistic systems of our minds.  Therefore, all observers are not led by the same physical evidence to the same picture of the universe.

And that’s just all sorts of wild.

So, back to the Hopi.   That clever bunch has two different words for “water”:  One for drinking water in a container versus a natural body of water.  Brilliant!  To add to the envy, they also are said not to experience time in the same way that we do; to them, it is not linear out of the past, through a present and future (e.g. “Our future is ahead of us.”), but rather is a circular flow that is tied to the ever changing and returning seasons.   Tell me that wouldn’t lower your stress levels on your daily commute!  Oh, I’m 15 minutes late?  No biggie; that’ll just be recycled right on back to my boss next year.

Some of you might know that I’ve got a master’s degree in TESOL, which, in sum, is basically a master’s degree in second language acquisition theory.  I’ve had some really rad times studying the differences between Chinese & English, as I used to work with non-native English speakers, many of which were from China, entering into a local Penn State branch to help them foster greater academic language proficiency.

Two interesting things to note about the Chinese language:

1) There is no gender.  Distinctions between he versus she do not exist.

2) Counterfactual statements don’t exist.

For example, “If Darren from Problogger were to shut down his blog, there would be a lot of angry people.” This is counterfactual, because it isn’t true.  (The part about him shutting down his blog–not that the people would be angry, because they definitely would.)  We’re hypothesizing.

But the Chinese don’t have this construction.  They’d likely write this as “Darren from Problogger didn’t shut down his blog; if he did, people were mad.” So what happens is that the Chinese have no way to express something that counters reality, and that is known to be false, simply for the purpose of drawing implications.

Because of this, researchers have posited that Indo-European speakers (us and everyone else with the ability to form counterfactuals) are more inclined to perform theoretical thinking, whereas the lack of it in Chinese induces a general disinclination for them doing so, which can be observed in their traditionally more practical, reality-centered approaches to scientific, social and moral questions.  (Blame Alfred Bloom; he said it, not me!)

So, that’s equally wild, eh?

So, I Discovered This Thing . . .

Now for my favorite part of this little discussion:

Do you know that we’ve now invented another language, similar to English, called “E-Prime?”

To my great disappointment, “e” does not stand for “electronic,” as one might be inclined to assume.  Rather, E-Prime is short for “English Prime,” and it’s a modified version of the English language which basically just kicked out any and all forms of the verb, “to be,” suggesting that the use of E-Prime leads to a less dogmatic style of language.

Essentially, the language doesn’t make any absolute assertions.  My homie Wikipedia states that E-Prime is also used as a mental discipline activity to filter speech and translate the speech of others.

For example, the sentence “Miller Lite is good,” translated into E-Prime, would read, “I like Miller Lite,” and communicates the subjective experience rather than judgment.  This makes it a whole hell of a lot harder to confuse opinion with fact.  (Are you stroking your chin with wonder and curiosity yet?)

Furthermore, passive voice is eliminated.   Example:  “The beer was spilt.” For all of you non-English language obsessed cool cats, that’s a passive statement that pretty much takes the blame off of any one person, as if it sort of just happened.  (The verb “to be” is hiding in the “was.”)

However, in E-Prime, the person who actually spilled the beer would have to suck it up and take the blame.  So, in opposition, this is an active statement: “Karol from Ridiculously Extraordinary spilled the beer.“  (I knew I shouldn’t have entrusted him with it, him gallivanting all over the world and such.)

If this thought hasn’t crossed your mind yet, imagine how useful to the American public E-Prime would be in politics.

There’d be no more, “A decision was made.”   No, no, no.   Someone over in that big, giant, white, massive house would have to own up to that decision.  Is it reasonable to assume that this is one reason why English has become the international language of business?  Just sayin’.

Spine-Tingling Implications (And The Jet)

If you’ve made it to this point, I’m proud.  I know that English talk can get daunting, but it raises an interesting point: Does independent thinking actually exist, and to what degree?

If you can only think through a language, then doesn’t that language automatically moderate that thought process? And if that’s the case, then many of our thoughts could be out of our control.

But time out: What about the learning of second, third, fourth languages?  What happens then?   That interdependence of thought and language gets shaken up a bit, and perhaps allows us the possibility of a whole new system of conceptualization.  New conceptualization = new perspectives = new thought processes = new ideas = new, more enhanced you.

That’s kind of magical, actually . . . dangling additional systems of conceptualization over peoples’ heads.

Is the learning of a second language a plausible first step toward the eradication of narrow-minded, closed thinking?   Do I need to call Obama and see if we can make this a law?

Because, frankly, I wouldn’t mind seeing a little less dogmatism, and a little more tolerance, or better–dare I say–acceptance?  And then maybe for offering up such an exquisite idea, supported with the oh-so-official examples I cited here, he would consider lending me his private jet sometime.  And then you know it’s going down, if I’m driving Obama’s jet.

Because you know in a heartbeat I’d be all like, “Yeah, so…Barack.  I dunno, really.  A decision was made and, the plane?  Well, it was crashed, buddy.”

Thoughts on this topic?

I am in hot, humid, sweaty-in-all-the-wrong-places Central America, and I am invited to a Christmas party.  Eager to experience the holiday through a shiny new cultural lens, my mistletoe and I happily accept.   In the name of cross-cultural exchange, I carry an innocent little twig of mistletoe, in hopes it will aid my mission to gather a more intimate knowledge of the culture, if you know what I mean.  Wink-wink-elbow jab.

The taxi drops me off at the address.   It’s dark.   It’s muddy.  I’m wearing red heels.  I can envision it now:

Perfect little tan bodied, long-haired, hoop earring donning Latina female number one: Who brought the idiot who can’t even walk like a proper woman in tacones?

Perfect little tan bodied, long-haired, hoop earring donning Latina female number two: Pshhh, who cares.  She’s a gringa–what do you expect?

As I not-so-gracefully tip-toe my way around the emerging pieces of rock that play a cruel game of peek-a-boo with me and the dry, hard earth, threatening to make a fool out of me with just one wrong step, I reprimand myself for not just surrendering to flats and settling for stumpy.  But what latin lover is going to want to whisk the stumpy, sweaty girl off her feet?  None.  Especially a stumpy, sweaty girl that, for reasons unknown, is dangling a strange, berry-laden plant above her head.

My schizophrenic thought-process is immediately put on hold in response to a disturbingly sudden, high-pitched shrill that echoes throughout the air.

As I approach the house, I hear it again, but this time much louder.  And again.  And once again.

As I make my grand entrance into the door of the tin-roofed home–a bit nervous, knowing I will be a stranger in the room–I am greeted not with the warm welcome I was optimistically envisioning, but rather, by an unexpected, alarming scene of sorts that instantaneously sends a wave of nausea rushing through me.

The image is just as horrifying as the sound:  A massive pig, larger than most of the humans that surround it, is being violently chased in circles around the backyard.  There are five males, each armed with what appears to be an oversized mallet, scrambling around the yard, determined to deliver a mighty blow to the panic-stricken pig atop its head to render it unconscious, at which point its throat will be pierced with the large machete that dutifully hangs from the wall.

I quickly ascertain that heels were most definitely an inappropriate selection of footwear for this party.

Well, That’s Awkward

I am horrified.  I have no idea what to say, do or even feel, and can’t bear to watch as they silence the pig’s last desperate squeal, and collectively heave it onto a large wooden chopping block to saw off its head.

As the rest of the attendees take delight in gathering around the cauldron-like wok they have suspended over a fire with the help of three heavy-duty chains, patiently awaiting sliced pieces of pig fat to be fried and served, I, on the other hand, sit on an opposite side of the yard, quietly sipping my lager and contemplating, philosophizing, mourning.

Witnessing this event was a great mental exercise for me, and one that boldly challenged my perception of reality, ostentatiously mocking it with its unabashed display of complete and utter opposition to my ingrained cultural norms, which was, by extension, opposition to everything I had previously known to be true.

I fling the mistletoe to the ground.  There will be no stolen kisses tonight.

Words such as PETA, animal cruelty, and inhumane come to mind, as I question the ethics–or, perhaps, lack of ethics–of the human race.  But then, I’m suddenly also forced to question myself.  My automatic reaction is to be appalled, and to proclaim such an act as loathsome, detestable and just plain cold-blooded.

But then, I think, is it actually?

I remind myself that we, too, kill thousands and thousands of pigs each year for consumption, and, according to some recent documentaries, we aren’t as “humane” in our practices as we might like to think.

That said, I question why it doesn’t bother me if I don’t have to witness it with my own eyes.

Worth Contemplating, But Not My Point

I don’t intend for this to be a statement of my position on the integrity of eating meat, because, frankly, I don’t have one.  I am from Scranton, Pennsylvania.  There’s no question that I like meat.  Right now, it’s not about that; it’s about the far broader message that can be extrapolated here.

No matter how you dice it, the simple fact is that it’s unfair for me to judge, because I’m judging based on a different set of rules.   A set of rules that we’ve internalized and perpetuated among ourselves as truth, when, in reality, it’s not truth–it’s purely our perception of truth. Relative to this example, it’s our perception of how we view right and wrong.  And this, to me, was wrong.  But I’ll tell you what–to the people at the party, there was nothing wrong about it.   Their truth is that the merits of to-kill-a-pig-or-not-to-kill-a-pig just isn’t a debate that exists.  On the other hand, what does exist is the need to eat, and, frankly, it’s a luxury to have meat at all.  No one is disturbed.  No one is shuddering.   Instead, they are rejoicing.  They are grateful to be fortunate enough to even have the opportunity to kill a pig.

There are some obvious implications that should come as no surprise, namely that, as I’ve stated before, reality is subjective.  But it goes beyond that, and makes another, perhaps less salient point:

Subjectivity implies choice.

You have two choices:  Allow society at large to define your perspectives on your behalf, or define your perspectives for yourself.

What do you really think?  What do you really believe?  … Do you even know?

There is no inherent benefit in accepting the perspectives that society arbitrarily determines for us–whether it’s right versus wrong or any other myriad of possibilities.  There is a perceived benefit, though, and it goes by the name of fitting in.  But, in my view, that’s far from beneficial; quite the opposite, actually.  On the other hand, when you’re capable enough to cut through the noise and learn how to think independently of the group, that’s where the real benefits lie.

Am I saying that I’ve shed my deeply ingrained culturally-based thought patterns overnight, and am a newly converted, red heel wearing pig butcher, in the name of independent thought?  No, certainly not.

But am I open to the possibility that this isn’t as loathsome, detestable and cold-blooded as I was originally inclined to think?

Yes.

If there are currently 7 billion people (that’s 7,000,000,000, in case you need all of those fancy zeros to conceptualize just how many people that truly is) on this planet, and all of us have different perceptions of what’s right or what’s wrong, or whether or not red heels do anything at all to detract from stumpy sweatiness, then it would be preposterously arrogant of me to assert my own perception of right or wrong as truth.  Extended beyond pig killings, if we can learn to apply a similar thought process to other traditionally rigid ideas, such as religion, marriage or even what constitutes success, who knows?  We might just do alright for ourselves, after all.  Not to mention a possible diminishing of supremacism, americentrism, racism, and a host of other ugly -isms and the unflattering baggage that comes with it.

It all starts with the pig, I say.

And with that, I take all of my assumptions, and throw them haphazardly to the wind.

I am left with only two questions:

1)  Where can I find some more mistletoe?
2)  Who’s your daddy now, life?

You don’t have time for anything.

You’ve got five tabs open on your browser, glaring, bold-faced emails that require responses, glaring, bold-faced bosses that require answers, and a family that, later, will require your last tattered, surviving joule of energy, before you hurriedly run an Oral B across your choppers, pray that there’s a clean pair of sweats (please let there be sweats!), and bellyflop face-first onto your bed, whose sheets really could use a good washing.   If only you had the time.

As you lay there, your mind sprints a 100 yard-dash through a mental purgatory of phone calls to return, errands to run, cards to remember to send, functions to attend, appointments to keep–did I get my car inspected on time?!–basketball games to cheer on, gym time to log, whether or not you can still pull off spandex, and why on earth anyone would buy a pair of those plastic neon sunglasses with the lines through them.

You turn, toss and kick the tangled covers off of your feet in a child-like fit of frustration.  You don’t have time for anything.

In fact, you barely have time to read this.  (And I barely had time to write it.)

Back in the office, you won’t have time for a lunch break.  (And your boss won’t have time to read the report you’ll spend your lunch break typing.)

You won’t have time to cook a healthy meal for dinner.  (And your doctor won’t have time to answer your questions regarding your impending hypertension.)

You won’t have time to be intimate with your significant other.  (And your significant other won’t have time to end it with you face-to-face before leaving.)

You won’t have time to take a vacation this year.  (And when making layoffs, corporate won’t have time to notice.)

You won’t have time to go the speed limit.  (And the paramedics won’t have time to revive you.)

You won’t have time to live your life.  (And your life won’t have time to create many memories worth remembering.)

And thereafter, your friends won’t have time to mourn, before they’ll hastily rush back to work in fear of “falling behind,” as they, too, skip their lunch breaks and forfeit their vacation in the name of getting ahead.

At what point did productivity become worth dying for?

At what point did we stop feeling, and just start doing?

At what point did our lives turn into a never-ending assembly line, where the work is never done and we are never done?

And at what point did we become okay with it?

Using The Neverending To-Do List To Your Advantage

Granted, in line with basic human needs, there will always be something else to do in the name of survival.  Kill-woolly-mammoth-for-food, for example, or generate-income-to-purchase-food, for a more relevant example. Add on an assortment of self-inflicted obligations on top of societal ones, and juxtapose them with present-day standards of living, and you’ve got yourself one heck of a to-do list–one that, no matter how hard you try, will never, ever be complete.  Until you’re dead, that is.

As daunting as that seems, the fact that life’s to-do list will never be complete is, contrary to instinct, to your advantage. So is the fact that you’re not dead, in case you haven’t had time to notice.

The advantage is this:  Since there’s always going to be something else to do, forever and ever and ever and ever and ever, so help me Jehovah, Jabbodah, Jeremiah or Jay-Z, it logically follows that it would be impossible to get everything done.

And if it’s impossible to get everything done, then why are we in such a hurry to achieve an impossible goal? (Overachievers.  Sheesh.)

The Point

SLOW THE (INSERT EXPLETIVE) DOWN!

AND JUST BECAUSE I REALLY LIKE CAPS AND THIS SEEMS LIKE A LESSON WE COULD ALL BENEFIT FROM IF WE MANAGE TO GET IT THROUGH OUR CUTE LITTLE OVERACTIVE CEREBRUMS, I’M GOING TO FURTHER THAT STATEMENT IN ALL CAPS WITH THIS:

STOP RUSHING TO YOUR DEATH.

In my view, we could all really benefit if we could learn to reprogram our internal Tom-Toms from “fastest route” to “scenic route,” because otherwise, we will arrive much sooner than we ever imagined, without having seen any of the pretty lakes, rivers, valleys, fields, forests, deer, wild boar, or David The Gnome.  And wouldn’t you jump at the chance to see David The Gnome, even just to give him a high five for that sweet red hat?

That sounds like I’m promoting drug usage.  I’m not.  I don’t…I just…I just….ah, forget it.

This Is Not New Information

When it comes down to it, it doesn’t matter how many ridiculous metaphors I use, you already know that you have to slow down.  We all know that.  You’ve probably had mini heart-to-hearts with yourself over the years, telling yourself the very same thing.  You’ve made promises to read more books for leisure, spend more time playing Mario Kart with the kids, take long, drawn-out baths and maybe even try yoga.

So why haven’t you?

You fantasize about putting the world on pause, hanging a giant “Do Not Disturb” sign right on that which is your life, and curling up with a Harlequin romance.  (Don’t deny.)

But you can’t, right?

Because there’s no remote control for the world–not even a mute button–and if you hesitate for even a moment, someone will come along who’s better, faster, more capable than you, and before you know it, you’ll be left in the dust.

That’s the fear, isn’t it?

Guess what:  It’s time to wind up big and give that fear a fresh one, because the only thing that’ll be left in the dust is your guilty conscience.  Bring on the Harlequins, I say.

While it’s true that we will always have something to do, and it may feel like we’re working on a 24/7 assembly line with no end in sight, that doesn’t mean we can’t kick the conveyor belt down a notch and take our good, sweet time.  Periodic dance parties purely optional.  Henry Ford is not behind you with a whip.  The only one rushing you…is you.

A Little Experiment

Try this:

Tomorrow, walk really slowly.

It’s that simple.  Walking slowly on purpose always helps me feel more calm, in general, and forces me to slow everything else down.  Give your brain the uncommon treat of being able to simply trot along peacefully, without having to race.  Take the time to smell the air, and not just smell it, but really inhale it.  Notice things.  Notice yourself.  Notice how you feel.   Notice who you are.

Revel in the peace of mind & unexpected relief that comes with not having to be the fastest, if only for today.  Let people think you drive like grandma and yell obscenities out the window.  Who cares?  Just crank the tunes.

Note: Might be useful to have a video camera on hand.  Recording other people getting angry because you’re not rushing through your life like they are might prove to be disturbingly delightful.

Stop being impatient.  Anxious.  Intolerant.  Demanding.  Short.  Tense.  High-strung.  Temperamental.

Take a deep breath, and slow it down, Gonzalez!   Make a conscious effort, if for no other reason than it feels good.   Despite appearances, you are completely in control of your time and how you operate.   Don’t forget it.   Getting the world’s most productive person award is not worth sacrificing the quality of your experience here on earth.   Actually, it’s not even worth trading your black jellybeans for, since it doesn’t even exist.

Chill out.  And in the meantime, you should definitely have a lasso on hand–after all, who needs a muse if you’ve captured a gnome?