I’ve come to believe that life really occurs in the moments between.  Between what?  Well, between stuff.  In the same vein as valuing the process as well as the product, I acknowledge that life isn’t a relentless deluge of high energy activity; it’s a lot (and I mean a lot) of downtime.  I’m pretty okay with that. 

More than just recognizing—as we all can—that weddings, geographic relocations, new careers and exotic travels are exceptions to the norms of day-to-day life, it’s actually the minutia of daily life that constitutes our lived landscape.  Where our mail is delivered, the coffee shop we tie our dogs outside of every morning, and the girl at the front desk of the gym—these are the things that really compose our world.  While the peaks are provocative, the plateaus are more profound. 

Where am I going with this?  This sentiment has parallels in many arenas, including in the way we speak.  Think about, for instance, how eye-opening it is to listen to your own recorded voice.  “I sound like that?”  Chances are you do.  Beyond what you sound like, have you ever noticed what you say?  If you’ve ever heard yourself explaining something of any length and/or complexity, it’s easy to become painfully aware that certain phrases dominate our lexicon:

                                       Like…                             Um…                             Well…

These awkward lulls between spurts of verbal content can prove some of the most annoying syllables known to human kind.  Much like noticing when someone chews with their mouth open, it’s nearly impossible to un-do that realization, to stop noticing the abuse at hand.  Don’t get me wrong—I’m incriminating myself in these transitional atrocities (more to come on that); however, I’ve been noticing them more than ever. 

When broken down to their purpose, certain words or phrases serve as an abbreviated re-booting of the mind.  When grade school teachers were interrupted by that strangely archaic-yet-futuristic two-way speaker system—the one that directly linked the classroom to the school secretary via that small wall-mounted box residing directly above the chalkboard— they’d often return to teaching their lesson, asking themselves, “Where was I?” 

The likes, ums, and wells of speech are reductions of “Where was I?” or “Where am I going with this?”  It’s okay…I mean, we all do this to some extent.  The fact that we all do this, though, sheds light on the nuances of these fillers; these avoidances of conversational dead air are rather telling.

Take, for instance, my friend who is…well…who is rather confident in everything he does/says/thinks.  He ends every statement he makes with, “Do you understand what I’m saying?” 

Sort of insulting, isn’t it? 

Yes, friend, I am capable of understanding those fancy words of yours, assembled in fancy combinations.  But thank you for your concern over my comprehension thereof. 

My frequented transition, on the other hand, is “Does that make sense?” 

I hate it. 

Whereas my friend’s “Do you understand what I’m saying?” is condescending in its projection of stupidity upon the listener, mine reflects insecurity on my part.  Damn it.  Like I said, though, I suppose it’s telling.  While I consider myself rather intellectually confident, my transitional phrase of choice states otherwise.  Apparently I’m less-than-convinced that I can clearly communicate my ideas, subsequently feeling the need to check in with my audience every now and then. 

I hate my transitional jargon (or, more accurately, what it says about me) so much that I’ve begun working on its elimination.  I’m fairly certain that I can kick it.  I’m good at this sort of thing.  After all, I was able to make the switch from ‘pop’ to ‘soda’ after realizing how Appalachian the former made me sound.  (Apologies to my ‘pop’-saying readers for this, but it’s time someone told you.  Again, I am sorry.  But it’s true.) 

These seemingly non-communicative transitions that we so frequently utter are prime examples of the in-between moments that constitute life.  They are the mortar that hold together (or hold others’ attention while sharing) more exciting and substantive ideas.  No refined vocabulary, no varied syntax.  Just connective tissue between more exciting parts.  More exciting parts of a discussion.  More exciting parts of life.  But necessary for the rest to exist.  And real.  And telling. 

The in-betweens aren’t just part of life, they are life—plain and not-so-simple.

Do you remember that ‘80s movie Adventures in Babysitting?  I do…kind of.  I lump it in with Mannequin and other movies that USA used to play on Saturday afternoons when I was just a lad.  They must have stopped, because I haven’t thought of either of these flicks in ages.  My friend, Lonika, has, though.  

She was thinking about how badly she wanted to see Adventures in Babysitting when, the next day, it was on TV at the gym.  An inopportune time to get friendly with a bag of Baked Cheetos, no doubt, but a small miracle none the less.  Granted, a chance rendezvous with Adventures in Babysitting isn’t miraculous like the Virgin Mary appearing in the griddle marks of a grilled cheese sandwich, but it’s far from coincidental.  Right? 

I, like Lonika, would have been strangely thrilled when my thoughts materialized into reality.  If it were a genie in a bottle situation, however, I would be royally pissed off upon squandering a wish on Adventures in Babysitting.  No offense to its cast, but c’mon…I would hope that nothing on my wish list overlaps with the USA network.  Ever. 

My point with this all-too-convenient anecdote is that Adventures in Babysitting is totally The Secret.  You know The Secret:  The scripty-font and wax seal that preys on the naïve, convincing them that “this is historic shit!”  Truth be told, I’ve never read The Secret.  But I’ve seen my fair share of Oprah episodes catching me up to speed on the topic.  Think it and it will happen.  Will things into being.  Envisioning what you want enables it to become reality.  Don’t eat yellow snow.  Yeah, yeah, yeah…I get it. 

The best part of this scenario is that Lonika didn’t have to spend $20 or drive to Barnes & Noble to buy a book to tell her how to make Adventures in Babysitting a reality.  While it could have been mere coincidence, I liken it to good karma…and the situational context.  It wasn’t as if she lives in a South African shantytown without electricity, after all.  She was in a fitness club that has approximate 30 televisions running at all times.  Even more, she wanted to see a movie, not find a golden ticket in her Wonka Bar.  All requests and circumstances sound reasonable to me.  Again, as great as it may have been, it’s still no Virgin likeness on a grilled cheese.

For whatever reason(s), hearing about the Adventures in Babysitting miracle of 2009 (title pending the Pope’s approval, of course) got me thinking about what separates the attainable and the impossible.  Is it in the loftiness of the goal or the valiance of the effort? 

I’m pretty sure that the secret of The Secret is that there is no secret at all.  Competence, pragmatism, and dedication are all that’s standing between most people and the (seemingly) impossible, ‘80s movie or otherwise.

The pleasure I get from a cold can of PBR is like a summertime barbeque with Jesus.  Really, though, is there anything better?  Warm weather, charcoal flavor, and a backup plan—should the booze run dry—involving turning water into wine.  PBR, like a cookout with the Messiah, is damn near perfect. 

I assure you that I’m not being sarcastic here.  I’m more surprised by my love of PBR than anyone.  It’s rather out of character for me, after all.  In college, I was a dark beer drinker (not to mention a closeted gay man cloaked in hippie garb…).  For the last few years, I’ve been a Maker’s Mark loyalist, progressing from ginger ale to soda water to on the rocks.  Hard core, I know.  I was most definitely on a path towards either drinking scotch (neat) or whatever the liquor store had on clearance out of a paper bag.  One or the other.  Either way, PBR was not on my radar. 

Even more, my years spent on the wrong side of the bar (i.e. behind it) caused me to associate PBR with less-than-desirable characteristics:  skinny jeans, dirty hair, and exact cash (read: no tip).  Goddamn it.  It appears that I’ve become my own worst enemy.  I may or may not be a PBR-pounding hipster.  [Dear Jesus, please forgive my use of your Pop’s name in vain.  Here you were, kind enough to invite me to your summertime barbeque and I go and disrespect you with my potty mouth.  My bad, J.]

Okay, so I’m really not a hipster.  Thankfully.  But I am really into the Gatorade of the hipster world.  PBR personifies beer.  It’s like the quintessential beer.  It just sort of is beer.  And that’s pretty cool.  It’s like solid-colored t-shirts.  You look at it and think, “t-shirt.” Why?  Because there’s not much more to it.  It just is.  That’s PBR.  The solid-colored t-shirt of beers. 

When thinking about how I became involved in a love affair with a cheap beer, I realize that it’s because of the Republicans.  Ok, maybe not all Republicans, but definitely the ones that made the entire economy teeter on spontaneous combustion.  The perfect storm of the right-wing’s irresponsibility and my own professional-drifting combined to leave me…well…broke.  Not ‘pay my bills late, ruin my credit’ broke, but ‘Whole Foods can blow me’ broke.  My Jewel Preferred Customer card saw its heyday around this time.  Two-for-one Jell-O?  In my cart. 

I had my first rendezvous with PBR (tall boys from 7-11, to be specific) because of the economic downturn.  At bars, my $8 Maker’s Mark cocktail was downturned to a $3 can.  I’m not a math guy, but my kitschy, oversized calculator just told me that my PBR came at a 62% savings.  

In time, I began to crave the cool, refreshing wide-mouthed can.  When passing a sidewalk café on a warm spring day, I’d think about the first sip of a PBR; the way the first glub escapes the can and floods the palate; the satisfying beerness of the beery flavor.  Eventually, PBR ceased to be a financial decision for me.  It’s now a matter of taste. 

Herein lies the moral of the fabled PBR:  the economy changed my taste buds.  I’ve always heard that it’s possible for taste buds to (literally) change in as little as a few weeks.  I’ve now experienced this first hand.  While an overshadowed side-effect of the struggling economy, its impact is direct and its legacy will likely endure.  Porters and IPAs just don’t do for me what they once did.  I’m a PBR guy now.

They say that money can’t buy you love, but I’m thinking that poverty can at least set you up on a first date.

My buzzing thigh freaks me out.  I’m the first to admit that it has the potential to sound, well…enjoyable, but it’s not that kind of sensation.  It strikes all the time—when I walk, when I sit, when I should be paying attention to someone or something other than my vibrating leg.  It’s been doing this for years.  Sometimes I worry about it. 

I even looked it up online after catching the very end of a related segment on the Today Show.  If Matt Lauer is talking about it, after all, it must be for real.  I thought I heard him call it Phantom Leg Syndrome.  So I googled it.  It turns out that Phantom Leg Syndrome is another name for Phantom Limb Syndrome, which is what some amputees suffer from.  The minds trick the senses into believing that the missing limb is still there. 

I felt like an ass.  

All of my limbs are in tact, for which I am grateful.  One limb in particular, though, is up to no good.  My left leg consistently tricks me into thinking that my cell phone is ringing.  And when I say it tricks me, it really tricks me.  It convinces me beyond a reasonable doubt.  So much so that I envision who could be calling and even think of witty responses to imagined text messages.  Fishing my phone out of my pocket, the incredibly cute picture of my dog is the only sight to behold (not that your image alone isn’t worth the effort, Eleanor).  If I were a numbers guy, I’d say that my thigh has a 65% success rate for duping me.  Not bad for a leg. 

I’ve run the gamut in thinking about how to remedy my spastic, Pavlovian response.  Should I make my right leg my phone pocket?  That’d show ol’ lefty.  Or maybe become one of those too-cool-to-care guys and keep my cell phone in my man bag, only checking it every few hours.  Not likely.  My most extreme idea was to ‘go Amish’ and get a landline.  Remember those?  Maybe even a cordless phone with an answering machine.  I mean, I do like vintage things. 

At the end of the day, however, I won’t do a damn thing about this.  Like the blisters from a virgin pair of Chuck Taylors, I’ll likely just suck it up.  I can add ‘vibrating femur’ to my list that includes graying hair, unforgiving metabolism, slight fear of air travel, caffeine dependence, and pretending to like people I really don’t.  The title of this list?  Things That I Wish Would Change, But Aren’t Really Worth Trying To Do Anything About.  Because it’s a long title (and would probably take up two lines on a standard notebook page), it could be abbreviated as TTIWWCBARWTTDAA, but that’s just stupid.  I would use two lines. 

The latter half of that title is…um…interesting.  My willingness to accept the inconvenient side effects of everyday life sort of amazes me.  Is it apathy or just reality?  After all, I didn’t fear air travel before planes became missiles, the history of my caffeine addiction directly parallels Starbuck’s proliferation, and my leg never suffered from phantom vibrations before cell phones became life lines.  Is change truly futile or am I just accepting these consequences because everybody else is? 

If this is the proverbial bridge, I guess I’m a jumper, too.  Damn it.  Well, see you at the botto—oh—hold on—I think I feel my phone ringing…

Jamin is the ideal house guest.  Having lived in Chicago for a few years before making that familiar (and permanent) pilgrimage to New York, she required no sight seeing and no train riding instructions.  Although it had been four years since we’d seen each other last (and seemingly eons since we had gone to college together), Jamin is, hands down, one of those ‘pick up where we left off’ friends…and that’s priceless. 

With my universal out-of-towner to-do list scrapped (much to my delight), we picked up where we left off four years ago—with a cocktail (even more to my delight).  It was over cocktails that the inevitable topic of our love lives surfaced.  Sharing details of our unraveled relationships that were years-in-the-weaving, I asked Jamin if she and her ex were still friends.  [Truth be told, it’s my way of gauging what really happened in a relationship.]

Jamin: [pauses, thinking]   He’s a friend of my lifetime.

Justin: [perplexed]   A what?

Jamin: [strangely satisfied]   I don’t know…a friend of my lifetime… 

I had no doubt then, nor do I now, that this was pure brilliance.  Apparently Jamin also knew the caliber of her statement, as she repeated it with a smirk that radiated her pride in capturing a complex idea so eloquently.  My affection for the phrasing was so much that I immediately typed it out in a text message to myself (it’s how I remember the really important things in life). 

Wow.  A friend of my lifetime.  A balancing act between close and far.  First person vs. third person.  Life on the inside is just life, but a lifetime requires hindsight.  It’s biography vs. autobiography.

I took from this explanation that Jamin’s ex would be a character in the Lifetime (the network) movie of her life, but won’t be invited to her birthday party.  I can sympathize with this.  As much as I want to be on every one of my exes’ short lists for kidney donors, I don’t want to know what they ordered at the Olive Garden last night.  

Navigating the nuances of a relationship’s afterlife is like an episode of The Deadliest Catch—the waters are rough, the weather is unpredictable and there are TRAPS.  None the less, the rewards can be great.

Deeming a former significant other “a friend of my lifetime” is undoubtedly the politically emotionally correct way of capturing the fine line between holding on to the good and moving on from the bad.  While maintaining friendships with persons with whom you once shared your life speaks volumes, perhaps that volume should be set to ‘barely audible’.

City buses are powerful venues.  Considered in shear quantity alone, their presence is overwhelming.  Multiply the dozens and dozens of routes by the frequency of their travel and double it, as they run in both directions, and there’s the reason why you’ll never again see that iPod you lost.  

Undoubtedly, the randomness and anonymity inherent in public transportation set the stage for fate, fear, and fantasy to unfold.  For the most part, however, bus rides aren’t very dramatic…or even memorable.  Sometimes they are nothing more than a brief overlap of a few people’s lives, as expressed in an overheard conversation, a book title, or application of makeup.  The bus is where millions of biographies are condensed into trailers; very few with blockbuster potential and most going straight to DVD. 

On one such non-descript voyage, I was sitting immediately in front of a girl whose face I never had a chance to see, but whose slight southern accent—likely the product of a Carolina—I won’t soon forget.  A few blocks into my ride, she answered what must have been a silenced cell phone call.  Her voice was soft and sweet, but in a natural way…not like my embarrassed-to-be-talking-on-the-phone-on-public-transportation whisper. 

From my one-sided take on her conversation, it was a call from a friend she hadn’t seen in a while.  The southern belle behind me was on her way home from work and her friend had plans to go to the casino that night. 

“What time are you going?” she asked in a calm tone.  “Do you have time to stop by my place for a glass of wine before you leave?  I miss you.” 

Pause.

“Great.  I’ll be home in 20 minutes or so.  I’ll see you then.” 

There was nothing out of the ordinary about this conversation necessarily.  To date, I still don’t know why it has resonated with me the way it has.  I think it’s partially in the girl’s sincere intonation and partially her slight southern drawl.  For whatever reason, I truly believed her when she said “I miss you.”

There I was, one passenger among dozens on the city bus, witnessing a tiny glimpse into someone else’s world.  The limited components of her conversation registered with me for their essentialness:  work, entertainment, wine, isolation, longing, companionship.  It was sort of poetic.  Then again, it was the North Avenue bus en route to Wicker Park, so perhaps I got carried away in some artsy, hipster fantasy.  But it was poetic. 

With this simplification in mind, I thought of a poem from high school English class, because I’m nerdy like that.  It was William Carlos Williams’ “The Red Wheelbarrow.”

                             so much depends

                             upon

                             a red wheel

                             barrow

                             glazed with rain

                             water

                             beside the white

                             chickens.

I don’t claim to understand the poem any better than the next schmo, but I have always associated it with a paring down of life—all of life—into a few significant words.  Work, food, water, purity, cleansing, mutual dependence, etc. are all encompassed in this symbolic image.  Like the North Avenue bus girl’s voice, the poem is calm, beautiful, and powerful, with such enormity conveyed by so little.   

While Suzie Southerner’s cell phone conversation struck me as a modern version of a poetic masterpiece from one hundred years prior, it also highlighted just how much life has changed.  What was once ink-to-paper is now daytime minutes and text messages.  A red wheelbarrow has become the #72 bus (westbound) and the white chickens may or may not be a casino in Indiana. 

At first, I was disturbed in realizing how much uglier and more complicated life has become in one hundred years.  But then I realized that Miss Carolina actually contributed to my understanding of “The Red Wheelbarrow.”  When she told her friend “I miss you,” she created a more complete version of Williams’ poem.  For the many angles of life covered in his finely painted image, he omitted the emotion that Carolina so genuinely expressed in her public transportation version.  She really missed her friend.  Trust me, I could just tell. 

Living in cities, we spend large parts of our lives closing ourselves off from our environment.  For many reasons, we should close ourselves off.  But in the twists, turns, and entanglements of simply surviving, it’s sometimes easy to forget how to open up again.  And right up there with food, shelter, and clothing, a sense of broader connectedness is indispensable.  The scale of its importance, in fact, is much larger than any wheelbarrow…it’s closer to the size of a bus.