Chrisonomicon

Monday, June 3, 2002

One word?or lack of one, for that matter?can turn a mediocre morning into a boiling barathrum of resigned frustration. My irritability is probably due to a lack of sleep over the weekend, aggrivated by frustration over not being heard, being talked over, and feeling generally devalued, professionally, but instead of placing blame I was content to wallow in my anger for a while and entertain thoughts of running off to Florence or Paris for culinary classes.

Lack of sleep is, of course, never accidental. Friday I met up with Ford at Pikes Perk for some coffee, which is really another way of saying that I drove around downtown for a good hour looking for parking while dodging inebriated military men and their scantily-dressed arm candy. We met up with John-Michael at the bar around eleven to partake in weekend imbibing, ourselves, and once sufficiently cruised and lushed we headed to Stan's for some hot-tubbing.

I had been offhandedly chiding myself over a lack of weekend activity lately. When I finally accepted that and settled into a nesting mode, invitations naturally began to fly. One came for dinner on Saturday night with Ricky and Tom at the Blue Star: pecan-encrusted chicken, garlic mashers, and a waiter resembling Jason Behr offering himself for dessert (yes, please). Again, coffee?this time at Montague's?and another run at the bar with Tom, who's boyfriend was out of town for the weekend.

Tom and I caught each other up on the past six years and drew some closure on those early, high-school dates we had avoided talking about for so long. What makes that sort of retrospective closure so satisfying? We talked well into the sunrise, and although I thought I'd be getting some shut-eye, I was initially angered at an eleven-a.m. wake-up call from Matt to hike William's Canyon. In instances like these, I repeat to myself: Sleep when you're dead.

My hiking boots still look like new. I pulled them out and thought of the 50-odd miles hiked last summer on Outward Bound ( 1, 2 , 3, and 4) while I was re-conforming my feet to the stubborn leather that refuses to be broken in. The day was warm and orange, reddish dust rising from the old mines and washed out road-turned-trail that we followed into the forest. Aspens and elephant-ear lined the trail and the ground gave uneven footing as we slid along talus and newly-laid gravel.

Matt found a smooth, golden rock, which we stopped to examine with a hushed excitement and I suddenly felt like I was twelve years old again, exploring the hills behind my old house. Amusingly enough, the rock turned out to be some sort of animal dropping from an unfortunate creature who had attempted to digest what appeared to be a candy or gum wrapper. The whole discovery seemed somehow analogous to so much of life.

If I release some of the control I believe I have over events in life, things usually seem to somehow fall into place, further confirmed?or at least mocked?by a viewing of the endearingly cheesy Serendipity last night with the pops. He had brought a George Foreman Grill as a housewarming gift. He's always got me covered.