My actual faucet's identity has been protected.

My morning routine is much like my dog; rather lazy and set in its ways. Shower, dress, walk/feed the dog, walk/feed myself, pack my lunch and be out the door within 50 minutes of my alarm. With such monotony, it’s easy to notice–over time–life’s nuances: Eleanor’s varying temperaments, the CNN American Morning host’s continued inappropriate divulging of personal information and the way I tend to give up on my appearance by Friday of each week.

It’s probably these tiny differences between days and actions that make day-to-day life interesting. [I was about to use the word "bearable," but it's Friday. If it were Monday, "bearable" it would be.]

For those of you who knew me between the ages of 18 and 20, I hope you’re happy to hear that showering is now a part of that daily routine. Priorities change with time, I suppose, as does a desire to see Phish in as many venues of possible. That said, it’s really when I mix up my hosing-off drill that one such life nuance becomes noticeable: water temperature.

As a creature of habit, I tend to allow my faucet settings to remain static. I have a shower faucet with temperature settings independent of flow control (unlike the stand-in image, above) and I know that I like a nice mild-to-moderately hot rinser, so why mess with it?  If circumstances (read: impromptu weeknight bar crawls) arise, however, I may move my daily baptism in Irish Spring (Walgreen’s brand, obviously) to post-workout afternoon/evenings, which adds an entirely new task to wash, rinse & repeat–shower faucet calibration.

Undoubtedly due to the combination of plumbing limitations and my neighbors’ synchronized morning routines, the same faucet setting produces two varied temperatures between morning and evening lather-laden frolics. It’s a shock to the system, to say the least, when your expectation of tepid comfortability is met with scalding resistance.

The shower is an environment conducive to pensive reflection and this not-quite-a-phenomenon (my bar is pretty low for phenomena these days) has provided plenty of material.

I find calibration to be a large component of adult life.

Take, for instance, another phenomenon of late (keep in mind, that bar is really low)–revisiting relationships of yore. I used to think that I was the only one who has, in the past, referred back to my “Greatest Hits” album. You know, the relationships that–in hindsight–didn’t seem so bad.  It turns out that many of my nearest & dearest also have this in album their music libraries, just with different names (e.g. “Now That’s What I Call Relationships Now,” volumes 1-17, as seen on t.v.). It’s a rekindling of once-extinguished flames with the hopes of returning to all of the good without inviting back the bad.

I’ve learned, after many a’ trial & error, that these attempts are great in theory but…uhhh…unlikely in execution. It’s like getting into the shower at 8pm with the expectation that the water temperature will be just fine; that it’s just like a morning shower in that it will invigorate and start a new day. The difficulty, though, comes from the hot water heater having all day to recharge itself; to refill its bowels with an entirely new product…a product that can scold you.

Thus, calibration.

Expectations. Emotions. Empanadas. (I’m just hungry and need a third word that starts with “e.”) All of these things require a periodic shift relative to circumstances. They call for an understanding that things change–for the better and for the worse–and that adaptability is an evolutionary requirement. Sink or swim. Rinse and repeat.

The beliefs I held and the reactions I had in years past don’t resemble the ones I embody now. And they shouldn’t. The template I’ve created for my life (because, unfortunately, those aren’t included on the backs of diplomas or cereal boxes) has been reformulated and renamed over and over and over. And it should be.

So there it is. I now take life advice from and comfort in inanimate objects.

And, for the sake of full disclosure, I only wash & rinse.  No more repeating.

Baby Jesus doesn’t want me to have an iPhone 4g. I’m serious. I asked for a sign and…well…all signs point to “no 4g for you.”

I rarely, if ever, get hyped up about anything. Just check my pulse. I’m barely alive most of the time. In fact, the more that others really crave something, the more I refrain from it. Timely fads hold no weight in my scale of justice. I’ve never read or seen a Harry Potter anything. The same goes for those vampire movies that seem to be all the rage these days. I didn’t join Facebook until 2009 and it took me a year of owning a pair of skinny(ish) jeans before ever leaving the house in them. [The jeans were a gift, for the record. Or a hint.]

But the iPhone is different for me. It’s going to be my first. That’s right all of you “I’m on my 2nd iPhone already…I just needed the 3GS when it came out, so I upgraded.” Not me. I’m toting around a rusty Dinty Moore Beef Stew can and a spool of twine and wondering why no one ever calls. Well, it’s not quite that bad, but it’s bad. My phone was sort of cool when I got it 2.5 years ago. I mean, it had internet and a touch screen supported by a keyboard. It lacked an antenna and had a stylus. I felt pretty good about it at the time. When I took a job that didn’t require me to have email access on my cell phone, I decided to stick it to the man  and discontinue the internet service. “That’ll show AT&T,” I thought. Instead, AT&T showed me. They showed me how much they charge you for internet data when you don’t have a plan. They showed me that if you accidentally hit the email button on your phone’s facade, they’ll charge you. Each and every time. Over and over again.

So I went a step further. I decided that I’m savvy enough to get around this problem altogether by simply uninstalling the internet components of my phone. I mean, how hard can it be, right? [Note: I am not at all tech savvy. Today I had to ask the Chief Technical Officer of my company how to turn the conference room projector on. No joke. Although I made it into a joke to ease the awkwardness after-the-fact.]

That’s when my phone went from bad to worse. Not only did I undo its internet capabilities, I also managed to detach every one of my contacts’ names from their phone numbers. I had (and continue to have) a full list of contacts in my phone and numbers attached to them. When those contacts call or text me, however, NONE of their information shows up on the screen. Just the number.

Think about this for a minute. If I flashed a phone number–from any one of the many people in your life–in front of you, would you know whose it is? Do you know the last four digits of ANY of your friends’ phone numbers? How about your parents’ cell phone number. Do you know that? Call me Good Will-fucking-Hunting, because I do. But not because I want to. Because I have to. I’m not going to say I’ve been perfect in my pop-quizzes of “who is this calling me?”  There have been some debacles of mistaken identities. There has been some embarrassment. There have been some serious hurt feelings. Time and iPhones heal, though.

The time has come to step things up a notch. It’s time to save myself from the endless commentary from my peers as to the “vintage” nature of my cellular device. I really thought that now was my time to fully invest in the 21st century.

Baby Jesus disagrees. Baby Jesus doesn’t want me to have an iPhone 4g.

I prepared myself for June 15th like unloved children prepare for summer camp: with lots of snacks. I knew it would be a long day at the office, balancing day-to-day demands with online warfare against those die-hard competitors for the latest technology. Nerds. I was in-it to win-it, though. I had two internet browsers going, multiple tabs on each, waiting for AT&T’s site to load while populating Apple’s fields. I was a machine I tell you. A granola with banana and almond milk fueled machine.

By 10am I realized it wasn’t going to happen. I read how servers had crashed, how pre-orders had been suspended and how the BP oil leak was at fault (thanks, Anderson Cooper). By 11am a support group had been formed in one corner of the office. Stories were exchanged like great uncles talk about Korea. I was sad. Baby Jesus wasn’t on my side in this endeavor.

Even worse, I’ve all but given up on my iPhone 4g hopes. Today I had the opportunity to purchase one for delivery on July 14th but I didn’t. I thought about all of the things that could happen between now and July 14th. I could decide to live an Amish lifestyle by July 14th. I could have an accident that results in a metal-plated head that prohibits cell phone reception by July 14th.  Apple could come out with the iPhone 4GS by July 14th. I mean, who knows what I’m going to want to do by July 14th? I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pull the trigger. I’ve become old and fearful.

And that’s the moral of the story. Baby Jesus doesn’t want me to have an iPhone 4g. Like haircuts of my past, there are some things that are just too cool for me and they are better left alone. Who wants all that fancy technology anyway? Life without GPS makes for more adventure. Video incapability makes you live in the moment. Phone numbers with names is so pedestrian.

Who wants all the fancy technology of an iPhone 4g? Not Baby Jesus, for one. He doesn’t want me to have one. He wants me to have tin cans, string, and an abacus. He told me so in a text message. I think it was him, at least. But I didn’t recognize the number.

The level of sadness that I felt upon hearing that Rue McClanahan had passed away was alarming. For someone who could be deemed “emotionally challenged,” it’s fascinating that my eyes welled up as though I had walked into the kitchen and witnessed someone eating my ice cream Snickers Bar (or would cheesecake be a more accurate example?). There I sat, at my desk, becoming choked up over my google search results. Losing Blanche Devereaux affected me. It continues to affect me despite feeling completely unaffected by most aspects of my life.

Why?

While it was only last night that I “spent some time with the girls” (those who have passed a Saturday night watching WE know the phrase well), that explanation for my feelings goes only so far. Shoulder pads alone give away the fact that the show has long been off the air, after all. Blanche, in reality, was like a friend I hadn’t seen in a long, long time; yet, I thought of her often.

The relationship between those four women goes beyond the marathon humor their characters masterfully executed. In my estimation, The Golden Girls was the forerunner of shows like Modern Family in its embodiment of the myriad definitions of “family.” It taps into that larger-than-you’d-ever-know demographic of those who have found familial comfort in friends rather than siblings; in those chosen rather than those inherited. In this, The Golden Girls found its subversive edge.

I was recently forwarded an article that argued that The Golden Girls is responsible for a generation of homosexuals. If true, that’s one hell of a legacy, Rue. As absurd as the essay was, its argument wasn’t that far off. While The Golden Girls did nothing to make gays out of straights, it did present a truism–that family, for some of us, is comprised of those we surround ourselves with, trust in and depend on, independent of biology–common amongst gay men and women. That this truth was illustrated by the shared lives of four aging, single women was a metaphor, perhaps, but it was also an entree into the more open and accepting world we all enjoy (and continue to struggle against) today.

The Golden Girls will undoubtedly live on as a timeless television show; yet, there was comfort in knowing that its players were still here…somewhere. While there’s no bringing Dorothy, Sophia or Blanche back, there is appreciating the precedent they set for my own family. My chosen family. And because of them–my family, that is–I know I’ll always be Golden.

photo credit: Lauren Noe (presumably)

“The greatest epidemic affecting our society is loneliness.” It’s a theory that a friend of mine has frequently referenced, originally shared by one of his college professors. In his estimation, everything from obesity and chronic disease to abuse and neglect can be traced back to feeling lonely. It’s at the root of all that is wrong with the world.

While I don’t necessarily disagree with loneliness being a major player in whatever-the-hell is going on with the world, I’d like to throw another card on the table.

Delusion.

Perhaps I’m alone in this, but I can’t seem to escape the consequences of delusional mentalities…and I’m not talking about my own (we’ll get to those later). It really boils down to the discrepancy between reality and perception. While I completely get that “reality” is up for debate, I just so happen not to buy into most people’s definition of it. Even more, I’m pretty sure if we, as a culture, snapped the fuck out of our delusions, we could get some things done. Take care of business. Suffer from Shaken Baby Syndrome, maybe. But whatever. It’d be worth it.

This goes for the large scale (governmental beliefs that printing more money will get us through tough times, making the first cuts in education funding to arts programs, etc.) to the small scale (thinking that just because leggings are the trend, your ass looks good in them. It doesn’t).

On a personal level, the most frustrating instances have been coming from a delusional sense of having things “figured out.” By “things,” I mean one’s self, life in general, others, etc. Because here’s the thing—you don’t. While I can’t say that I do either, I can say that such delusional claims—in and of themselves—are an indication that someone has a long, long way to go.

Okay. Enough of the vague. Specifics. Here we go…

Anyone who uses the phrase “self-aware” to describe himself is a joke. As is his self-awareness. While he’s at it, he should go ahead and tell you how independent and humble he is. Because those qualities, when self-proclaimed, are totally legit. Right. It’s a fact. Like the Bible.

One who thinks that problems fix themselves is another one to stay away from. Whether they be health, emotional or psychological, these are problems that may be swept under the rug, but won’t make for a magic carpet ride. Quite the opposite. They make for a ride in a runaway Prius. Sorry ‘bout your luck, Toyota, and sorry about your delusions, people.

Overall, delusion is like the…uhhh…simple(?) minded person who learns a new word and subsequently uses it. A lot. Incorrectly. And mispronounces it. That’s what delusion is like.

Oh yeah. This is not to say I’m without delusions of my own. As promised, here are some of mine, should it make you feel better:

-My retirement plan is “money will find me.”
-Slow & steady wins the race.
-Buying a size medium t-shirt will motivate me to do more abdominal exercises.

And that picture above? It’s me. In college. Age 18. Talk about delusional—I thought those clothes fit me. And that I could like girls if I really, really tried.

See? I never said I’m exempt. But now I’m 10 years older and not a Toyota owner.