Maybe Some Flummery
I had an epiphany a couple of months ago while I was driving with my dad, as we attempted to get onto another ghastly NJ highway. The entrance lane was clearly an afterthought; it afforded no merging space, just a feeble yield sign leading into ceaseless oncoming traffic. And a bus was dropping people off, to boot.
We watched perhaps the most stereotypical demographic pour from the bus steps. Men in suits, leaving their white collar jobs. Men in jeans, boots, and soiled shirts, leaving their blue collar jobs. Working moms with their school-age kids in tow. A stray 20-something with a backpack and AirPods. All the people you’d expect to get off a bus at 4:00 on a Wednesday afternoon.
“You see, that’s the thing I love about New York and New Jersey,” I began. “The people here—they just seem so real. You know that word, ‘sonder’? It’s the realization that individuals—strangers you know nothing about—are living lives just as complex, difficult, and unique as your own. Recognizing that they are experiencing the trials and tribulations of living just as much as you are. And I don’t know why, but I feel sonder here more than anywhere else. I don’t get this same feeling about people in Colorado.”
My father agreed: “And you know, they probably have it real bad. Things are probably challenging for them for a number of reasons, so it’s good to remind yourself that things could be a lot worse for you.”
And with that, we entered a strip mall restaurant that merely said PIZZA in big bold letters on the exterior, and had the best thin crust I’ve had since, well, I was last in the tristate area.
I recently told a group of friends that I always cry at the airport these days. As I’ve become an increasingly emotional being, I’ve gotten almost too comfortable crying in public. Couple that with traveling, and water works are sure to follow. I’ve wondered what it is about the airport that brings tears, but I’ve realized it’s not the airport, necessarily; it’s travel.
My life runs at a breakneck speed constantly. When I’m not engaging in one job, social activity, or workout, I’m actively planning the most seamless transition between them. I can’t sit still for more than a couple of hours or I just feel nagged—like there’s surely a more productive way to spend my time.
The beauty of travel is that my life comes to a halt. Sure, I may be planning something upon return, but for the duration of the trip, that’s where I am. None of my usual nonsense can be tended to, thus forcing me to reset. The trouble is, during this reset, anything in my life with an emotional slant rises to the surface. Whatever that’s been troubling me, simmering on the back burner, is suddenly at the front of the stove and at a rolling boil. I have to confront the demons, and since I’m often at the airport when this happens, I subject a whole lot of strangers to my tears.
Psychology says moving through space helps process things. That’s why it’s good to go for a walk to think through things. If you’re trying to discuss something important or heavy with someone, even better to walk and talk with them. You don’t have to look them in the eye, and there’s natural sound fillers when the conversation goes silent.
The last time going home to NY, I cried a whole lot on the drive to the airport, leaving me with dry eyes in DIA itself. And I think it was because I was moving through space more obviously. Some of the tears weren’t exactly sad. I was reflecting on how far I’ve come in a year, healing myself on a lot of fronts. While I felt a sense of pride in myself, I also felt heartbroken for my past self, how much she had hurt in the last 12 months. And acknowledging how much further she has—I have—to go.
I’ve been thinking a lot about routines lately. I never want to be too rigid about my own routine, since spontaneity is really what makes life worth living. However, visiting family in New York really opened my eyes to just how programmatic my life has become.
Though my work schedule changes somewhat, the reality is that my life revolves around the same basic things day in and out. Wake up, eat a snack, work out (running, lifting, and/or climbing), stretch, eat breakfast, go to work, go to other work, get home, pack all the clothes and food I need for the next day, get into bed by 10, journal, read, and then asleep by 10:30. I generally get 8 hours of sleep, rarely drink alcohol, and spend probably too much time each day hemming and hawing over my protein and electrolyte intake.
Drop me in New York and all that is out the window. I was jet lagged, eating and drinking whatever and whenever, running if I could, and not working at all. What a relief it was to break out of my constant logistical stress. The fact of the matter is, though I am very good at making my life as efficient as possible, it takes such a cognitive toll on me. To constantly have to prepare meals and snacks and outfits and transport is exhausting, and sometimes I wish it would all just turn off. Because for most people, this fundamentally isn’t a stressor. There’s no concern about training fuel and hydration, squeezing multiple types of exercise in, properly recovering, all while jumping between multiple jobs. Most people, I think, don’t willingly live like this. So why do I?
Sometimes I think it’s a badge of honor that I unfairly hold onto. Other times, I wonder if it’s a form of escapism, an unwillingness to confront my real problems. I know it’s my own brand of neuroticism. At the end of the day, I’ve been living like this for as long as I can remember, so I don’t know how to stop.
My brother and I were sitting outside and talking a couple of months ago, recounting some of our friends’ and family’s “phases.” For instance, my grandfather had a phase where he got really into canning, particularly different formats of jam (I recall him talking about making a “flummery.” According to Google, “The word flummery can refer to a soft, gelatinous dessert or to meaningless flattery or nonsense.”) Fletch’s college buddy, Mike, has gotten so fixated on the quality of his coffee, he’s comparing the effects of different types of water used and slight changes in temperature degree for each brewing style. I regularly marvel at how some of my best climbing friends get obsessed with particular boulders. Like, literal rocks in the forest will occupy all of their thoughts. And while I surely have gone down rabbit holes or gotten deeply interested in certain topics, I can’t say there’s one thing in my life that demands so much of my attention, at least right now.
Fletch made a good point, though: “Having an obsessive personality is fun.” You have to admit—people who are so entrenched in something clearly love whatever that thing is. They’re emotionally and mentally invested, and their excitement and curiosity for it can’t be satiated. It tunes out all the noise of life if you have something you can channel your energy into.
I had sort of forgotten about this conversation until recently, when I was at my family friends’ cabin in Fairplay. My most recent library book had vanished off my Kindle, since I had, as usual, failed to finish it in three weeks’ time. I needed a book, and seeing The Bomber Mafia by Malcolm Gladwell on the coffee table, naturally picked it up. I love Malcolm Gladwell. Though I was skeptical that I would jive with the subject matter, I found the writing style so entrancing, as I always do, that I was blasting through it immediately. What struck me first was actually in the author’s note, when he talks about how the interest in the subject matter—and writing a book on it—came to be. He writes,
“I realize, when I look at the things I’ve written about or explored over the years, that I’m drawn again and again to obsessives. I like them. I like the idea that someone could push away all the concerns and details that make up everyday life and just zero in on one thing—the thing that fits the contours of his or her imagination. Obsessives lead us astray sometimes. Can’t see the bigger picture. Serve not just the world’s but also their own narrow interests. But I don’t think we get progress or innovation or joy or beauty without obsessives.”
I think he’s absolutely right. If we weren’t obsessed with sports performance, how would we see breakthroughs like the sub 4-minute mile? If we weren’t obsessed with the chemistry of baking, how would we arrive at the perfect pecan pie? If I wasn’t obsessed with the steps of resoling, how would I restore a shoe to fantastic climbing condition? Sure, a myopic view can be a dangerous one at times, but how would we subsequently broaden our view without it?
A few months ago, my coworker, Stephanie, created a personality questionnaire for us to fill out. The idea was, we’d answer questions like, “Who’d you have dinner with, dead or alive?” and “What’s your greatest accomplishment?” and then we’d play guessing games to determine who said what [answers: Paul McCartney and qualifying for the Boston Marathon]. One of the questions was, “What would be the title of your memoir?” That one was easy for me: “Why Am I Like This?”
It’s a phrase I adopted from my dear college roommate, Mira. On a practically daily basis, I have moments where I do something supremely clumsy, I’ll get obsessed with doing something a particular way, my thought patterns will shift dramatically, etc. If I can separate myself from what’s happening in the moment, I very often find myself asking, Why am I like this? I can’t pinpoint a particular friend, family member, or circumstance affecting me to this extent. And that’s OK—but sometimes, I just want a reason.
Last week, however, I didn’t think, “Why am I like this?” but rather, “I’m really glad I’m like this.” It had been a progression from the moment I woke up. I had slept pretty hard and came out of a bedroom at my family friends’ cabin in a groggy state. Thankfully, David, the family’s older son, was already making pancakes, hashbrowns, and bacon, and handed me a cup of coffee in the process. I easily demolished a couple pancakes and downed a couple cups of coffee. David had a group of friends staying the night, and so all of us suited up to hike Pennsylvania Mountain, a 13,000-foot peak, yes, but starting at 11,600 feet and less than four miles round-trip. It was only 9:30 am, so despite the grey skies, we weren’t too concerned about weather. We packed layers and gloves and wore beanies.
As we ascended the mountain, I couldn’t help but think: I love this sh*t. We had 360-degree views of the mountains around us. The clouds hovered, a stark contrast to the colors of the peaks and the beginnings of fall leaves. I felt my heart pounding from the altitude and my breathing getting labored, and I loved it. We were barely starting our descent when we heard thunder—time to run. As I began scampering down the mountain, hail falling faster on us, I found myself cackling with delight. Type 2 fun is my kind of fun. My fingers were growing numb but my legs felt strong and my mind felt alive.
We got back to the cabin, safe and sound, and snacked around the fire for about an hour before David declared he was going outside to split wood. Restless as I am, I joined him. When I got outside, I found him blasting the classic rock station. I quickly busied myself, loading wheel barrow after wheel barrow with logs and creating stacks and stacks in the basement. And I was having a grand time doing so. As “The One I Love” by R.E.M. floated out of David’s speaker, I couldn’t help but feel I am so glad I ended up this way. I’m so glad that I moved to Colorado and fell in love with running through the mountains. I’m so glad I’ve learned to relish doing hard things, doing uncomfortable things. I’m so glad I’ve learned to love manual labor, to have a can-do attitude. I’m so glad I’m a girl whose perfect day consists of slamming some pancakes, running through hail, and stacking firewood logs—rather than be a girl worried about what she’s eating and how she looks, a girl who’d rather sit back and let the guys do the work. Sure, I don’t know why I’m like this, but I’m thankful that I am.
Several years ago, I started making playlists of new songs that I liked. I don’t think I’m very special for doing this—however, it might be weird how consistent it’s been.
Every playlist gets some sort of witty or niche reference as a title, and I compile up to 100 new songs before I decide it’s “done.” I will listen to the playlist as I’m making it, but I also try to listen to the whole thing on shuffle once it’s finished. And so begins a new “new song” playlist.
The current playlist is called “in clover” with a little four leaf clover emoji. It’s a double entendre, because my baby niece, Clover, was born back in June and I started this playlist not long after. One of my favorite bands, Joywave, has a song called “In Clover,” and when I looked it up, I learned that to be in clover means to be in luxury or abundance, which I thought was nifty. Pretty much all of the playlists have a title like that—”2021 will u think bout me” is a reference to a Vampire Weekend song and a nod to the start of that year, while “my forearms are tan af” is a direct quote from me, when Ryan called me pale (I had had at least a couple of beers, and my declaration was a little belligerent).
I’ve always wanted to make some sort of poem out of the titles, simply because they’re so random. They are, in roughly chronological order:
- quarantunes
- más bops
- nevermind
- twenty twenty fun
- 2021 will u think bout me
- Hot(el) Girl Summer
- sad girl fall
- Winter is Coming
- idk about u
- in bloom
- Fools Gold
- you’ll always be that sunburn on me
- Sheesh
- I just wanna not be sedimentary
- I got it on video !!
- glad gal autumn
- final push
- 2023nme
- the cucumber affects the water in such a way
- my forearms are tan af
- her name is Sarah
- No half sends
- figure this out
- this could be the start of something new (funemployed)
- push start
- f*ck around and find out
- Be ungovernable
- Some running b*tch
- in clover
What strikes me about these playlists is that even though they seem incongruous, they capture an era—usually 3-4 months of my life—really well. There truly is a vibe to all of them, if you listen closely. And each one has particular songs that invoke specific memories and take me far away. I’ve been listening to “in clover”, now that I feel it’s done, and I’ve found it’s soulful yet upbeat—which feels accurate to where I am right now. The best part is, I can revisit these any time and take myself to another chapter. Sometimes you need that when your current chapter is stuck in a rut.
