Whimsy

It has been half a week jerking its way along in fits and starts. Just when things begin to resemble a routine, something new and unexpected appears to keep you on your toes. This is important, presumably, for promoting flexibility and personal growth &c.

Of course, I don't mind change. I'm even known, at times, to embrace it, but it is generally taxing in one way or another. Lately I think I’ve been staring at it too closely, which hasn’t done much for me beyond giving me a migraine. I’ve needed reminding to step back, look at the bearing I’m actually turned toward, and trust that each step is taking me roughly in the right direction.

I’ve been adapting as gracefully as crutches on ice. My attitude has remained stubbornly committed to stoicism, provided nobody asks it any follow-up questions.

Still.

I finally arrived at work this morning within a reasonable margin of “on time,” having, notably, forgotten nothing at home. I also completed my third audiobook in five days. That last one, I admit, was listened to at 2x because it was bordering on tolerable. Once you’ve tasted General Mills, no Cinnamon Crunch Square is going to satisfy. Just down the hatch and hope for the best.

I shouldn’t be so critical. Writing a book is hard. I haven’t properly tried my hand at it. However, editors and publishers exist for a reason. Perhaps that book should simply have been a blog.

I toggled the nugget into park, gathered my things, and opened the door to a Puerto Rican serenade.

The parking lot I’ve taken to using belongs to a residential building that is perpetually under construction and therefore costs only $4 a day. This represents a 33% increase over last year, but I’m not complaining. The top floor of the adjacent building is being gutted, and the operation is complete with one of those long tubular chutes down which laborers can throttle bits of drywall into a receptacle below. Through the open window drifted the auditory assault of a sledgehammer pounding against Marc Anthony’s pipes.

The man in the window beside the chute leaned his head out, looked at me, and shouted, “¿Y para qué sufrir, pa’ qué?…”

I returned his smile and took a step toward the sidewalk.

But I couldn’t help it.

I turned around and belted, “Voy a reír, voy a bailar, vivir mi vida, la, la, la, la!”

He laughed heartily and threw another chunk of drywall down the tube.

About a block down the road, my smile was already fading.

Why can’t I hold on? Why is it so easy for it to just slip away? How do we keep our joy pure and holy? It’s such a subtle thing.

Lost in thought and staring at the lines of the crosswalk, I heard someone shout from an approaching vehicle. I looked up suddenly.

A man in a baseball cap and black T-shirt was leaning out of the driver’s-side window of a truck with an unfortunate cat sticker on it.

“Pick your head up, girl! Pick up your head, girl! It’s a beautiful day!”

He flashed the widest smile—all teeth.

Immediately, I started laughing.

Am I in an episode of that program where all those puppets live in the barrio or something?

He laughed and waved. “Have a good day!”

Apparently street-level personnel has been assigned to my case.

The drudgery of the morning settled in quickly afterwards. Cover sheets, TPS reports and the like. New York called.

During his address to the department, he said alarming things about our immediate future, including something to the effect of, “We need AI agents building synthetic users for Q1 product testing, because the one remaining inefficiency in this organization is the continued involvement of actual human beings.” There was also something highly motivational, “We need more omni-view penetration in the field.”

I actually wrote this last one down in a physical notebook with an ink pen for the express purpose of transcribing it into memory, which I suppose makes me the obsolete technology in this scenario.

My New York experience was further complemented by the bestowal of unsolicited texts that we’ll call “nearly nudes” from my secret admirer, who may have moved away but is currently vacationing somewhere tropical, scantily clad, and wanted to make certain I knew about it.

I will say, she can pull off a brunette look, and also 400cc implants.

Pas mal.

After the town hall, I schlepped out to the prison yard for a break and to jot down these thoughts when I was unexpectedly joined by a colleague, MacDonald, for some lighthearted departmental commiseration.

“Right, you know, all of us here corporate wankers are just pissin in the wind, mind.

My husband used to tell me he was spent at work and I always just told him,  ‘nah, you just need to muster a bit of whimsy and that’ll put you right’. Now after eight months of this place robbing me of my will to live, I know it’ll take a lot more than a bit of whimsy.”

Before she began to slowly leave the yard and head back to the post, we agreed to infuse our lives with some measured amount of whimsy, as an experiment. To go dancing at the best venue in town. Sure, I’m an eejit and don’t know what I’m at, but I know, in time, maybe I won’t have to go dancing quite so alone.

Perhaps whimsy isn’t enough to put everything right. But it might be enough to pick your head up. And, some days, the world will send two strangers, or a mate, to remind you.