I write this post at the source of the constant headaches: the classroom. Day in and day out, the frustrations continue to amount and new surprises are always uncovered. Then again, I don't comprehend why I'm still surprised that my students continue to find ways to frustrate me.
Previously touching on this subject, I want to elaborate more on my frustrations. My memories of a child in the United States educational system, particularly the Minneapolis Public Schools system, I was an obedient child. Our classrooms consisted of between 18 and 20 kids (roughly, it's been over 12 years) and the students were well-behaved. You sat in your chair at your desk, legs under the desk, pencil and notebook out. Your mouth was closed, your voice turned off, and you were listening to the teacher. Only when the teacher granted permission to speak is when you dared to open your mouth.
Classrooms back then had maybe one or two students that were out of control. You know who they were... they were notorious for causing a disruption and speaking out of turn.
The classroom was structured. As a student, my desk was mine. The contents inside the desk drawer were organized, not a hint of chaos to be found. Ask me to locate my english notebook and I'd have it out in seconds. Ask that of any student for the most part and they'll whip it out in a few moments.
Food was nowhere to be seen in the classroom. You didn't even think about bringing food in, as to save yourself from the wrath of the teacher. It was a scary sight you didn't dare risk experiencing. Your water bottle was close by, if you chose, but no sugary drinks or food in sight.
These practices are absent in Honduras.
It's a daily battle in the classroom. Students here simply don't give a shit. If you are trying to speak to the classroom, they carry on their individual conversations. When your voice grows loud, theirs grow louder. There is no sense of respect from the students towards the teacher, even if you discipline them and take away privileges. There is no sense of responsibility to take notes, to write down problems, or to do them correctly.
Desks are a melting pot of chaos, disarray, and unrest. Papers, trash, books, and pencils scattered about. The hourly complaint from a student not having a pencil or pen. Four books on top of the desk with the appropriate book for that class nowhere to be found.
Students waltz into the classroom with food like it's a cafeteria. No, this is how we get ants and flies. This is how the floor gets dirty. I don't give a damn if you won't spill it, this is my classroom. I have a strict rule against food. If I see it, you throw it in the trash, finished or not. But the food is persistent.
I'm not sure if it's a generation difference, or a cultural one. One of two things will have to happen: tears will be shed under the firm rule hammer of Mr. Ian, with discipline being handed out left and right, or I will have to give up out of frustration and go home. I guess time will tell.
Tegucigalpa
Monday, February 9, 2015
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
unattainable dreams
Everyone has dreams of what they'd like to be when they grow old. A firefighter, a movie star, or a garbage man. If you say you didn't have any dreams or aspirations as a child while growing up, you are lying to yourself. Even if it was a flash-in-the-pan dream, you still had one.
My dream as a young child in Kindergarten was to be a garbage man. I have absolutely no idea why the sight of them coming down our street once a week to pick up our trash fascinated me, but it did. I was young, my mind immature. They had a weekly responsibility, and without them, trash would accumulate. Shit would hit the fan in a literal sense. No longer do I have that aspiration, as it died out around age 8 after realizing they get paid a meager wage to make ends meet.
I do still have one aspiration and dream that unfortunately I'll never be able to obtain. Sure, this may be a partial confession, but I'd always love to be in a band. Regardless how painful to the ear the band may be, I'd still love to be part of a music group. To play in a garage, or to rock out in front of tens of thousands in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil and Nurburg, Germany. Music for people to nod their heads to, raise their hands, or start a mosh pit. Sure, many people think they sound great when they sing, but once it's played back reality gives them a hard slap to the face and they're put in check. Letting my fingers run along the frets of the guitar, some of the tones are pleasing to the ear. Sounds and chord combinations I haven't heard before, but seem to work well in harmony.
Even if it were to make one album with other musicians and to play one show in front of one or ten thousand people, that would fulfill my dream. Alas, it won't happen. I sit in my shared living room in Honduras with my guitar plugged into my laptop, Garage Band running with specific amplifier settings, headphones plugged in, the world deaf from my music.
Perhaps it's fate. Perhaps it's not meant to be.
I've started to settle into a morning routine that seems to be working. My alarm wakes me at 5:35 in the morning, and I slap my hand on my phone in desperate hope to press the snooze icon. Usually it works, and my slumber continues until 5:45 in the morning. I then wake, grab my $3 blue-and-white sandals and my towel, attempting to make my way to the shower. After spending 4 minutes washing myself and an additional 11 sitting under the stream of hot water pouring atop my head, I dry off, dress, and proceed to the kitchen.
Coffee. Hot, delicious coffee. I grab my coffee "cone" to put my ground beans into, and start boiling a pot of water. After the water is boiling, it's poured into the cone, allowing the hot water to pull flavors from the beans themselves into a measuring cup. Once I hit about two cups of brewed coffee, I pour it into my thermos "Hydro Flask" (thank you for this Christmas gift... you know who you are. It's amazing) with an ice cube so the coffee isn't too hot for school. I then get my laptop, put it into my bag, attach my watch to my wrist, proceeding to the doorway of the house.
No, I don't eat breakfast. In fact, I don't usually eat any meals until I get home from school around 3 or 4 o'clock in the afternoon. This lifestyle helps me avoid indulging and overeating.
On a side note, when people say "time heals all", they speak the truth. Time does heal all.
~
Monday, January 26, 2015
everything happens for a reason
Months have passed since I've posted another blog entry. I've separated myself from typing my thoughts on a keyboard, but that has allowed my mind to mature and to settle in.
A long while ago I posted a blog entry regarding my hatred for Facebook. I revoke some of my hatred as of recent. Last night amongst friends I was able to reflect on my recent past, with the assistance of Facebook; scanning through my pictures, watching myself grow. In addition to the dose of melatonin I had taken, a dose of reality set in as well. I had a hard time believing I was here. Of all places, Honduras.
Some things didn't work out as planned. Relationships, friendships, and passions all have one thing in common: they come and go. I'm not upset though, as I'm a firm believer in fate. Everything happens for a reason, whether it's good or bad. That's fine though, as the book of life is being constantly written as each second passes. It's a beautiful book.
A few weeks ago I was having a conversation with a new friend about the ups and downs of Honduras. While it's not a paradise, the things I left behind in the United States were worth it. The new friends that I've made during my stay in Honduras triumphs over the trophs of this experience. We share laughs, stories, sorrow, and memories. I've never actually had a true roommate, as my only previous roommate up-and-left overnight and left me with a 2 bedroom apartment to myself, rent included. Now I'm living with five other roommates, and it's been a blast so far. Animosity is nowhere to be seen, and we seem to jive quite well.
About those trophs... I'm not going to lie. Honduras has its problems. The country is filthy, littered with trash everywhere you look. If a local doesn't know, they won't say "I don't know", rather, they'll lie. Living at a higher elevation near the Santa Barbara mountain, our days can change in an instant. At one moment, the weather will be hot and sunny. A few moments later, torrential rain and a chilly breeze. Healthy food is expensive, and can be hard to locate at times.
And the students.
They're a different generation. A different culture. As a grade school student in the United States, I sat in my seat, and outside of the occasional chat with a neighboring friend, would keep my mouth shut. The students here aren't the same. It's David versus Goliath when trying to keep the kids in their seats, let alone quiet. The respect the students have towards teachers is little, if at all. At the end of each day I feel defeated, wondering if I was able to make an impact on any of my students. Appreciation can be found in my 10th grade chemistry class, thankfully.
Last Friday, two of my chemistry students found me sitting next to the large tree in the commons area of the school, and sat next to me. One of them received a new MP3 player over the holidays, and was curious if I could share some of my music with her. I obliged, and transferred an arrangement of songs to it; some rock, some hip-hop, some instrumental, some jazz. While the music was transferring I was able to have a nice conversation about chemistry with them, apologizing how much of the content involves note-taking and studying. Our resources are extremely limited, so I'm not able to motivate them with interesting chemistry experiments. Anyways, I digress. She said there was no need to apologize as she was "learning a lot and is starting to find chemistry very interesting", in her words.
It's been three months, and I wouldn't trade anything in the world for it. Okay, maybe a trip to Norway or something, but the experience has been rewarding. Five more to go. Some would call this the home stretch, but it's a long one. There's still a few things to check off on my list, including more travel around the country (namely La Ceiba, Roatan, Copan, etc). Tegucigalpa and San Pedro Sula are alright, but they're not more than an average city, sans the crime. I've been finding incredible joy taking time to prepare meals and improve my cooking skill. Even cooking for others is joyful, as you get to see them react to the meal, good or bad.
Anyways, I should write more. Jot down my thoughts and experiences on a keyboard. It's relaxing, and I'm guessing it's also healthy for the mind.
~
A long while ago I posted a blog entry regarding my hatred for Facebook. I revoke some of my hatred as of recent. Last night amongst friends I was able to reflect on my recent past, with the assistance of Facebook; scanning through my pictures, watching myself grow. In addition to the dose of melatonin I had taken, a dose of reality set in as well. I had a hard time believing I was here. Of all places, Honduras.
Some things didn't work out as planned. Relationships, friendships, and passions all have one thing in common: they come and go. I'm not upset though, as I'm a firm believer in fate. Everything happens for a reason, whether it's good or bad. That's fine though, as the book of life is being constantly written as each second passes. It's a beautiful book.
A few weeks ago I was having a conversation with a new friend about the ups and downs of Honduras. While it's not a paradise, the things I left behind in the United States were worth it. The new friends that I've made during my stay in Honduras triumphs over the trophs of this experience. We share laughs, stories, sorrow, and memories. I've never actually had a true roommate, as my only previous roommate up-and-left overnight and left me with a 2 bedroom apartment to myself, rent included. Now I'm living with five other roommates, and it's been a blast so far. Animosity is nowhere to be seen, and we seem to jive quite well.
About those trophs... I'm not going to lie. Honduras has its problems. The country is filthy, littered with trash everywhere you look. If a local doesn't know, they won't say "I don't know", rather, they'll lie. Living at a higher elevation near the Santa Barbara mountain, our days can change in an instant. At one moment, the weather will be hot and sunny. A few moments later, torrential rain and a chilly breeze. Healthy food is expensive, and can be hard to locate at times.
And the students.
They're a different generation. A different culture. As a grade school student in the United States, I sat in my seat, and outside of the occasional chat with a neighboring friend, would keep my mouth shut. The students here aren't the same. It's David versus Goliath when trying to keep the kids in their seats, let alone quiet. The respect the students have towards teachers is little, if at all. At the end of each day I feel defeated, wondering if I was able to make an impact on any of my students. Appreciation can be found in my 10th grade chemistry class, thankfully.
Last Friday, two of my chemistry students found me sitting next to the large tree in the commons area of the school, and sat next to me. One of them received a new MP3 player over the holidays, and was curious if I could share some of my music with her. I obliged, and transferred an arrangement of songs to it; some rock, some hip-hop, some instrumental, some jazz. While the music was transferring I was able to have a nice conversation about chemistry with them, apologizing how much of the content involves note-taking and studying. Our resources are extremely limited, so I'm not able to motivate them with interesting chemistry experiments. Anyways, I digress. She said there was no need to apologize as she was "learning a lot and is starting to find chemistry very interesting", in her words.
It's been three months, and I wouldn't trade anything in the world for it. Okay, maybe a trip to Norway or something, but the experience has been rewarding. Five more to go. Some would call this the home stretch, but it's a long one. There's still a few things to check off on my list, including more travel around the country (namely La Ceiba, Roatan, Copan, etc). Tegucigalpa and San Pedro Sula are alright, but they're not more than an average city, sans the crime. I've been finding incredible joy taking time to prepare meals and improve my cooking skill. Even cooking for others is joyful, as you get to see them react to the meal, good or bad.
Anyways, I should write more. Jot down my thoughts and experiences on a keyboard. It's relaxing, and I'm guessing it's also healthy for the mind.
~
Friday, October 31, 2014
life changes
Who'd have thought? My last blog post was over two weeks ago. At the time, I had no idea that two weeks later, my bags would be packed up, then unpacked after a short plane trip in Honduras.
I post now from my twin-size bed in the city of Pena Blanca, Cortes, Honduras. Over 2100 miles away from home. Salsa music streaming in from neighboring houses and businesses. The air humid like south Florida. I live here now... this is home. WiFi is slow. Cellphone service is non-existent. Food, while tasty, is limited in variety. My life as I know it has completely changed in the past two weeks.
Toilet paper cannot be flushed, instead thrown in the trash bin. Food goes bad within days, as opposed to a week or two. The roads like the surface of Mars; rocky, bumpy, and no signs of order. Native Hondurans simply live life differently than back home in the United States. Shops close down at five o'clock. The sun rises around six in the morning, while still setting around six in the evening like at home. Cleanliness has gone way with the wind, as hands simply aren't clean anymore. Feet dirty from the sandals you wore walking down the dirt roads. The opportunity to take a shower presents itself every day or two, instead of as a daily ritual.
I hear raindrops pelting the steel roof of my house. It sounds like a monsoon, when in all reality it's likely a light sprinkle. But it rains often. Courtney said that it hadn't rained for a week, but this is the second evening in a row that it has rained. Last night presented itself with a torrential downpour for hours. Her and I ventured to the local pizzeria to grab some food, and walked through the roads, which now flowed like raging rivers. I appreciate the waterproof sandals I purchased. Being that I appreciate the rain, it's good to see and hear. Rain cleans the dirt off my sandals, cleans the roads, and cleans the houses. It's natures way of scrubbing down the local areas.
Today we went fishing on Lake Yojoa. It was one of the most beautiful lakes I've ever seen. Mountains surrounding the lake's perimeter, clouds covered their peaks in attempt to keep their true height a mystery. The water clear enough to see below ten to fifteen feet in depth. To fish, the guide presented us with pill bottles and fishing line that wrapped around them. Those were our reels. No rods, no live bait. Just a lure, line, and a pill bottle.
Needless to say, not a single fish was caught.
I attribute that to the time of day, which was 12 o'clock noon. Fish simply aren't hungry at this time, and the warm sun drives them away from shallow depths.
On Monday, I will be known as Mr. Ian. A fourth grade teacher at Lake Yojoa Bilingual School. I think of it time and time again. The name is a nice change of pace from Agent Gacek.
I post now from my twin-size bed in the city of Pena Blanca, Cortes, Honduras. Over 2100 miles away from home. Salsa music streaming in from neighboring houses and businesses. The air humid like south Florida. I live here now... this is home. WiFi is slow. Cellphone service is non-existent. Food, while tasty, is limited in variety. My life as I know it has completely changed in the past two weeks.
Toilet paper cannot be flushed, instead thrown in the trash bin. Food goes bad within days, as opposed to a week or two. The roads like the surface of Mars; rocky, bumpy, and no signs of order. Native Hondurans simply live life differently than back home in the United States. Shops close down at five o'clock. The sun rises around six in the morning, while still setting around six in the evening like at home. Cleanliness has gone way with the wind, as hands simply aren't clean anymore. Feet dirty from the sandals you wore walking down the dirt roads. The opportunity to take a shower presents itself every day or two, instead of as a daily ritual.
I hear raindrops pelting the steel roof of my house. It sounds like a monsoon, when in all reality it's likely a light sprinkle. But it rains often. Courtney said that it hadn't rained for a week, but this is the second evening in a row that it has rained. Last night presented itself with a torrential downpour for hours. Her and I ventured to the local pizzeria to grab some food, and walked through the roads, which now flowed like raging rivers. I appreciate the waterproof sandals I purchased. Being that I appreciate the rain, it's good to see and hear. Rain cleans the dirt off my sandals, cleans the roads, and cleans the houses. It's natures way of scrubbing down the local areas.
Today we went fishing on Lake Yojoa. It was one of the most beautiful lakes I've ever seen. Mountains surrounding the lake's perimeter, clouds covered their peaks in attempt to keep their true height a mystery. The water clear enough to see below ten to fifteen feet in depth. To fish, the guide presented us with pill bottles and fishing line that wrapped around them. Those were our reels. No rods, no live bait. Just a lure, line, and a pill bottle.
Needless to say, not a single fish was caught.
I attribute that to the time of day, which was 12 o'clock noon. Fish simply aren't hungry at this time, and the warm sun drives them away from shallow depths.
On Monday, I will be known as Mr. Ian. A fourth grade teacher at Lake Yojoa Bilingual School. I think of it time and time again. The name is a nice change of pace from Agent Gacek.
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
a gift
Today, an idea struck. I wanted to make someone smile. I wanted to make someone's day a bit brighter.
I've only heard stories of this happening to others before... they approach the counter at their nearest coffee shop and the person in front of them purchases their coffee. I've never seen this happen in person; to myself or others. Only stories. A gift certificate lay in my wallet, tucked between credit cards. Sure, I could be selfish and redeem it for four more coffees, but why? Money comes and goes, and being able to make a stranger smile is worth much more than money.
As I walked up the stairs from my local Snap Fitness to the Spyhouse Coffee shop that resided above, I grew excited. Walking in, the excited quickly faded as I noticed the line was empty. "Oh well, another day" I thought to myself. Alas, I spotted two elderly women walking towards the front door. Scooting in front of them in line in the knick of time, I placed my order. A Guatemalan coffee with hints of chocolate, toffee, and Grand Marnier. Turning towards my right, I asked one of the women what they would like to order, as I would buy their coffee. Then, the second.
They smiled and thanked me, saying they would cover the barista's tip. I'm happy, they're happy.
Most men and women my age are fresh out of college with thousands in debt. Every grain and morsel of ground-up coffee represented as money they sip away. Sure, I have my debts and payments as well, but money comes and goes. I would much rather brighten a strangers day than to save two or four dollars.
Slowly as I grow older, I am starting to realize the important of happiness in life. Money doesn't equal happiness. It does allow happiness to become easier to obtain, but it doesn't make happiness appear. I can sit on my bank account and watch the numbers increase, but where's the fun in that? Something in a savings account is always beneficial, and smart, but sitting on money whilst refraining from life experiences is toxic.
That's why I am starting to travel. That's why I have no troubles spending hundreds on a plane ticket. New experiences. New people. New smiles.
New life.
I've only heard stories of this happening to others before... they approach the counter at their nearest coffee shop and the person in front of them purchases their coffee. I've never seen this happen in person; to myself or others. Only stories. A gift certificate lay in my wallet, tucked between credit cards. Sure, I could be selfish and redeem it for four more coffees, but why? Money comes and goes, and being able to make a stranger smile is worth much more than money.
As I walked up the stairs from my local Snap Fitness to the Spyhouse Coffee shop that resided above, I grew excited. Walking in, the excited quickly faded as I noticed the line was empty. "Oh well, another day" I thought to myself. Alas, I spotted two elderly women walking towards the front door. Scooting in front of them in line in the knick of time, I placed my order. A Guatemalan coffee with hints of chocolate, toffee, and Grand Marnier. Turning towards my right, I asked one of the women what they would like to order, as I would buy their coffee. Then, the second.
They smiled and thanked me, saying they would cover the barista's tip. I'm happy, they're happy.
Most men and women my age are fresh out of college with thousands in debt. Every grain and morsel of ground-up coffee represented as money they sip away. Sure, I have my debts and payments as well, but money comes and goes. I would much rather brighten a strangers day than to save two or four dollars.
Slowly as I grow older, I am starting to realize the important of happiness in life. Money doesn't equal happiness. It does allow happiness to become easier to obtain, but it doesn't make happiness appear. I can sit on my bank account and watch the numbers increase, but where's the fun in that? Something in a savings account is always beneficial, and smart, but sitting on money whilst refraining from life experiences is toxic.
That's why I am starting to travel. That's why I have no troubles spending hundreds on a plane ticket. New experiences. New people. New smiles.
New life.
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
fulfillment
There's something my mind frequently dreads the days that I'm scheduled to work. "How long will it take for someone to demean my character today?" I ask myself. To the average person, technical support is something you don't want to go through. Much like calling an ambulance for medical help. Nobody wants to do it, but sometimes you have to.
You can save a life in multiple ways, whether it's through medicine and medical services or saving their entire business through software repair. I may not have a doctorate in medicine, but I do try to save lives, or livelihoods for that matter, every day I work. I'm not a miracle-worker, nor a magician, though the qualities I do exhibit have been through years of studying, breaking-and-fixing, and learning from my mistakes. And yet, some people simply don't give a shit. I can work for seven, eight or more hours, skipping meals and staring at a screen trying to save a persons entire business, but at times cannot prevail.
In their eyes, it's my fault. It's my fault they didn't have a backup of their data. It's my fault they don't have a second computer in case the first one outright breaks. It's my fault it took their nine-year-old computer 20 minutes to turn on. It's my fault they deleted their address book without checking to see if they had a backup. It's my fault their printer has physically broken. It's my fault they waited until April 14th to file taxes, but their tax software isn't working. It's my fault I am trying my absolute best to find a solution, but sometimes can't.
The average customer doesn't process that there's another person typing from the other side. Another human being, with emotions, people they care about, and personal lives they have to live. Me. Time and time again I am verbally abused because they feel that the person on the other side of the pixels on their screen is emotionally dead; a robot. Someone in India paid minimum wage to provide technical support.
Disposable.
The rare times I can't fix your issue, I'm called a piece of shit and useless.
Those words don't disappear. Clicking the "Clock Out" button doesn't make the hurt disappear. I don't step away from my computer at the end of my work shift to drive home, pick up food from the grocery store, and sit down with my family, erasing the verbal abuse I received earlier. I step away from my computer, walk to my bathroom and splash warm water on my face. I then sit down and talk with loved ones and friends over Skype, masking the words that were typed to me earlier. But the words still stick. I will remember those words tomorrow. I will remember them the day after. They will eventually fade, only to be rekindled by verbal abuse another day.
But I still smile. Mostly genuine, sometimes not. There's much in life to smile about.
Perhaps the eight years I've worked in technical support have me tired. I yearn for something else. The fulfillment I received from fixing things in years past is dead. One computer fixed, another problem on my table. One in, one out. It's a numbers game now. The thought has been dwelling on my mind for some time now. A new challenge; a change of pace.
I want to travel. I want to see new places, see new people, and teach new things. The world is so big with so many places to go and so many people to see. I grow tired of sitting behind a screen, only to help ungrateful customers. I seek fulfillment on another level.
But what?
You can save a life in multiple ways, whether it's through medicine and medical services or saving their entire business through software repair. I may not have a doctorate in medicine, but I do try to save lives, or livelihoods for that matter, every day I work. I'm not a miracle-worker, nor a magician, though the qualities I do exhibit have been through years of studying, breaking-and-fixing, and learning from my mistakes. And yet, some people simply don't give a shit. I can work for seven, eight or more hours, skipping meals and staring at a screen trying to save a persons entire business, but at times cannot prevail.
In their eyes, it's my fault. It's my fault they didn't have a backup of their data. It's my fault they don't have a second computer in case the first one outright breaks. It's my fault it took their nine-year-old computer 20 minutes to turn on. It's my fault they deleted their address book without checking to see if they had a backup. It's my fault their printer has physically broken. It's my fault they waited until April 14th to file taxes, but their tax software isn't working. It's my fault I am trying my absolute best to find a solution, but sometimes can't.
The average customer doesn't process that there's another person typing from the other side. Another human being, with emotions, people they care about, and personal lives they have to live. Me. Time and time again I am verbally abused because they feel that the person on the other side of the pixels on their screen is emotionally dead; a robot. Someone in India paid minimum wage to provide technical support.
Disposable.
The rare times I can't fix your issue, I'm called a piece of shit and useless.
Those words don't disappear. Clicking the "Clock Out" button doesn't make the hurt disappear. I don't step away from my computer at the end of my work shift to drive home, pick up food from the grocery store, and sit down with my family, erasing the verbal abuse I received earlier. I step away from my computer, walk to my bathroom and splash warm water on my face. I then sit down and talk with loved ones and friends over Skype, masking the words that were typed to me earlier. But the words still stick. I will remember those words tomorrow. I will remember them the day after. They will eventually fade, only to be rekindled by verbal abuse another day.
But I still smile. Mostly genuine, sometimes not. There's much in life to smile about.
Perhaps the eight years I've worked in technical support have me tired. I yearn for something else. The fulfillment I received from fixing things in years past is dead. One computer fixed, another problem on my table. One in, one out. It's a numbers game now. The thought has been dwelling on my mind for some time now. A new challenge; a change of pace.
I want to travel. I want to see new places, see new people, and teach new things. The world is so big with so many places to go and so many people to see. I grow tired of sitting behind a screen, only to help ungrateful customers. I seek fulfillment on another level.
But what?
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
puncture
Three years ago, my car died at an intersection during a heavy snowstorm. Mere blocks from my house, I grew frustrated that I wasn't able to make it home, and the car remained stranded in the middle of an intersection as it snowed heavily. Bested by a corroded grounding cable inside the engine compartment, my car refusing to start again. I called my father for assistance and he arrived within fifteen minutes, but with the snow piling up, my car was unable to move. A stranger approached my vehicle from behind and asked if I needed a hand.
The only method of assistance I could think of would be for him to use his car to push mine out of the intersection. An idea struck, and I wanted to put my spare tire between my rear bumper and his front bumper so he could use his car to push mine out of the intersection; the spare acting as damage control so neither cars would be damaged. Our efforts were futile and my car refused to budge under the stubbornness of the fallen snow. After growing tired, we gave up and thanked the stranger for his kindness and effort. I walked home as the snow fell and called a tow truck to move my car.
Except I forgot the spare tire at the scene.
I never found that spare tire again. I've gone three years without an incident that required use of the spare tire. Every three to four weeks, I make it part of my routine to check the tire pressure on all my tires. The front tires were a bit low at 28psi. While filling the front left tire, I checked the pressure of the rear left tire. Out of the corner of my eye, a glimmer. A screw, contrasting with the dark rubber of the tire and wheel well. Unfortunately, it wasn't lying on the pavement or in my hands, rather puncturing my tire as if it were making a statement. Thankfully the tire maintained its pressure.
Another close call; another day without the need for a spare.
I sit at Discount Tire in Bloomington, an hour and a half remaining until the puncture is repaired. It's bright red chairs all-too familiar to me. My package from Target was retrieved from its holding cell at the local post office, which always seems understaffed. A line nine people deep was serviced by one United States Postal Service employee, who was preoccupied by a woman attempting to ship seven packages to Mexico.
My to-do list is quite populated today. Visiting Best Buy is next, as I need to retrieve an order I made online on Sunday. After, a visit to the gym is in order, followed by Target (again) for odds and ends. Then, if I'm not stuck in traffic for hours, a brisk jog around Lake Calhoun.
The scale I used to weigh myself has sat idle for over a week. Deciding to step on it today, the display revealed a body weight of 141 pounds. Many weigh themselves every morning or once a week. I used to belong to the former, weighing myself every morning and scrutinizing every ounce of weight I would gain or lose. Food was a science, calculating every calorie or gram I would ingest. Since the State Fair in late August, I've found myself using the scale every two to three weeks instead, and have found myself to be in a much healthier mental state. No longer is food weighed meticulously, and the emotional harm I cause myself by scrutinizing my weight every morning is a thing of the past. In fact, I've lost weight while eating a more relaxed diet. The only reasoning I can find is that, by weighing myself every morning I could justify binging that day if weight was low. It was a rollercoaster; down one day, then up the next. The scale started as my friend and quickly became my enemy.
The weather is partly cloudy with a warm breeze from the west. Winter has grazed Minnesota with its presence over the past weekend, providing us with a taste of its harsh reality. Winter is coming.
The only method of assistance I could think of would be for him to use his car to push mine out of the intersection. An idea struck, and I wanted to put my spare tire between my rear bumper and his front bumper so he could use his car to push mine out of the intersection; the spare acting as damage control so neither cars would be damaged. Our efforts were futile and my car refused to budge under the stubbornness of the fallen snow. After growing tired, we gave up and thanked the stranger for his kindness and effort. I walked home as the snow fell and called a tow truck to move my car.
Except I forgot the spare tire at the scene.
I never found that spare tire again. I've gone three years without an incident that required use of the spare tire. Every three to four weeks, I make it part of my routine to check the tire pressure on all my tires. The front tires were a bit low at 28psi. While filling the front left tire, I checked the pressure of the rear left tire. Out of the corner of my eye, a glimmer. A screw, contrasting with the dark rubber of the tire and wheel well. Unfortunately, it wasn't lying on the pavement or in my hands, rather puncturing my tire as if it were making a statement. Thankfully the tire maintained its pressure.
Another close call; another day without the need for a spare.
I sit at Discount Tire in Bloomington, an hour and a half remaining until the puncture is repaired. It's bright red chairs all-too familiar to me. My package from Target was retrieved from its holding cell at the local post office, which always seems understaffed. A line nine people deep was serviced by one United States Postal Service employee, who was preoccupied by a woman attempting to ship seven packages to Mexico.
My to-do list is quite populated today. Visiting Best Buy is next, as I need to retrieve an order I made online on Sunday. After, a visit to the gym is in order, followed by Target (again) for odds and ends. Then, if I'm not stuck in traffic for hours, a brisk jog around Lake Calhoun.
The scale I used to weigh myself has sat idle for over a week. Deciding to step on it today, the display revealed a body weight of 141 pounds. Many weigh themselves every morning or once a week. I used to belong to the former, weighing myself every morning and scrutinizing every ounce of weight I would gain or lose. Food was a science, calculating every calorie or gram I would ingest. Since the State Fair in late August, I've found myself using the scale every two to three weeks instead, and have found myself to be in a much healthier mental state. No longer is food weighed meticulously, and the emotional harm I cause myself by scrutinizing my weight every morning is a thing of the past. In fact, I've lost weight while eating a more relaxed diet. The only reasoning I can find is that, by weighing myself every morning I could justify binging that day if weight was low. It was a rollercoaster; down one day, then up the next. The scale started as my friend and quickly became my enemy.
The weather is partly cloudy with a warm breeze from the west. Winter has grazed Minnesota with its presence over the past weekend, providing us with a taste of its harsh reality. Winter is coming.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)