Treadmill Confessional

I forgot to bring my headphones to the gym today. This may sound like a minor thing, but it has, in the past, sent me into minor fits of nerd rage. Do me a favor and don't ask QC about it. I'll deny anything she says. So, anyway, while I was doing my seven miles on the treadmill, in silence, I had time to do some thinking. (I should note that had there been anything on that I really wanted to see, I would have been irrationally fuming for much of this time.) For the most part, my thoughts revolved around two things:

First, my mental state. Or, at least, I tried to stay focused here. My attention kept slipping to number two in spite of all my best efforts, but in a little over an hour, I had more than enough concentration for both of them. I was speaking to a woman I know by loose association via the co-op and school. She just finished her MFA, for which I duly congratulated her, and I was attempting to commiserate with her about the job materials. Not the job prospects--since the idea of what happens after one sends out the applications seems entirely smoke and mirrors at this point--just the materials. She couldn't really join me because she landed a sweet gig teaching in the department from which she just graduated. Suffice it to say, she's going to be making just a titch more than the lucrative adjunct salary (2300/class). I was sort of moaning to her about it in the way that I do, aiming my comments at some chimeric combination of gallows humor and mild self-deprecation. With a perfectly cheerful face she responded that she was sure it would go well, especially since I had such a good attitude. She didn't sound sarcastic, but I can't fathom how she wasn't. She had to be, right? I was bitching and moaning, albeit humorously *i hope*. Remembering it, though, I still feel like an ass. Like without meaning to, I let myself become one of those black holes who spews stomach acid at anyone stupid enough to come too close. Something like the tiny jew who routinely digs her boney knees and chin into QC's psyche. And then I think, maybe she just didn't appreciate my humor? But, no, I was just repulsively negative.

So, post-realization. What now? This is where I admire the philosophy my Buddhist friends have embraced. While I still don't seem myself going down that path, for reasons I won't detail here, the Buddhist ideas of value and compassion are unsettlingly appropriate. Basically, my coping mechanism (aforementioned gallows humor/self-deprecation) isn't helping. What remains is for me to tread that delicate, treacherous tightrope that negotiates the hairline fracture separating outright panic from exhilaration, terror from excitement. Because, really, I should be excited about this next step. Excited to be finished with this stage of my life and moving on to whatever comes next. Thrilled that the coming years will take a shape that I can't foresee right now. The only thing I'm certain of is that something is going to change. In some important sense, it follows that I can choose this latter path rather than the former. I'm working on it. Fucking hard.

Second, the end of Breaking Dawn, the fourth book of the Twilight series by Mormon vampire writer Stephenie Meyer. These books have made quite a splash, as you probably all know. I was introduced by a girl I work with who claims to have read all of them many times (with the exception of BD, doubtless, because it just came out). I read on the SLOG, *sigh, how I love thee* that a huge portion of the fanbase is pissed as hell about this last book. Even the girl I work with told me she found the ending to be weird and abrupt. There's a petition online with hundreds of signatures damning the book. Check it out. I'm not sure why people are so surprised by this book. It seems, in many ways, where the "saga" was headed all along. I also think that many of the weirdnesses and the abruptness of the ending is traceable to the author's disinclination (or lack of a hand?) for writing action sequences. She practically avoids them at all costs, and it makes for some odd narrative turns. She spends a loooong time setting up the conflict and ten pages resolving it. Happy happy, the end. So? And, really, people upset with the conservatism of the text? At least BD had sex (nothing pre-marital, mind you), pain, and one of the goriest baby deliveries evah. (think broken bones and fountains of blood) My point? All the books are conservative, largely; she quotes Orson Scott Card for fuck's sake. Still, it was lovely reading. Like high fructose corn syrup for my brain, with the ensuing nasty sugar smell and lethargy.