Day 52. I'm so tired that I balked at buckling my dog's collar. And she was holding perfectly still.
When I checked my e-mail today (I try to look once a week, whether it needs it or not), I had a message from blogger.com informing me of the fantastic new blog templates that are now available. Bright colors! New fonts! Custom design! I am not yet over the triumph of the confident ease with which I can set the timer on my cell phone, and along comes another cyber-reminder that I am not hip. I'm not really that invested in being hip; I just hate the constant evidence of how truly unhip I am.
When I was in grade school, one of my favorite things to do was sit at my dad's monstrous wooden desk and type on my mother's ancient portable, manual, Royal typewriter. It was made of heavy, substantial metal, and made the most amazing, industrious sound. The keys literally clattered when I typed. I bet the font was Courier, and I remember specifically the little lever that switched the font size from 10 to 12. Every once in a while, when finances allowed, my mom purchased a ribbon for the Royal that produced red type. I thought it the most amazing invention in the world. It was probably made around 1955. I didn't take an official typing class until my junior year in high school, where I busted out about 120 wpm because of my familiarity with the Royal. I was in my element. I am filled with fondness for that young girl who was enchanted with words from the very beginning.
Nestled closely to our ADD chromosomes, our family has a fairly hefty set of obsessive-compulsive genes. We're counters and checkers and ritual-performers, though everyone seems to have successfully dodged the cleaning component. I'll elaborate in a future post, but suffice it to say that my brain lights up in the presence of symmetry the way the Disney Channel lights up when it features a Shia LaBeouf movie. It was my biological destiny to delight in the presence of a 1956 Royal typewriter. Compact, precise, hardy, dependable. Easy to operate. The thing could tumble down the stairs, bounce twice before landing on our floor furnace, and you could still pick it up and start typing on the same line. If I look sideways at something with a silicon chip, it blows up. I should be banned from all technology after about 1972 (whatever year followed the invention of the microwave - I rock on those).
I'm sure I have a point in this tangential bit of retro-babble. My point is that I like old things. I am a reasonably smart and capable person when I am motivated, and I can usually figure out something when I care to. But I rarely care to. Call me a pragmatist (or a dinosaur!) - but I loathe anything that is developed beyond what is necessary to achieve its purpose. Things that look like they are trying too hard make me anxious. My OCD genes tremble in the face of too many choices -- especially when they make no substantive difference. I am an ardent admirer of metal paper clips, rubber bands, twist ties, bungie cords, baking soda, ear candles, three television networks with the option of PBS, my Sears Huffy bike, and -- my all time favorite -- Post-it Notes.
I realize this makes me a lousy capitalist and probably a bad American. It is highly likely that my blog will continue to be in black and white with the default font, and I will focus on attempting to write something substantive. Thankfully, these exact traits make me damn suited for Zen. Think I'll go have some rice and tea.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
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