5.30.2004
The Wondorous Architecture of the Nose
So call me naive, but despite my years of biology studies, I have never quite understood the nasal passageway of the human being.
Unfortunatley, I've come down with a terrible virus... the common cold upped two notches. Let me just state that I've never had this amount of pressure to recover. Before, I could sit quietly in the back of class, tissues, lozenges, and echinacea tea in tow, and then retreat to my room to pass out. I would call in to switch a shift at work, or just take it easy while getting through my duties.
Now, I have so many obligations, and with such a requirement of speaking and communicating, and advertising a company with my presence, that this is a major setback. For the first time, I downed over the counter drugs, and plowed through my 18 hours of work without rest. This of course has stunted my getting better.
One of the more traditional treatments I tried was a Neti Pot. Basically it's a small ceramic version of Aladin's lamp. One fills it with salt water, shoves it up one nostril, and tilts the head over a sink. To my surprise, the water went up one nostril and out the other! I kept my mouth open to breathe. It replicated the sensation of swimming too deep in a pool, or doing an underwater headstand. The theory is that irritants build up in the nasal and sinus cavities, and can be washed away to prevent mucus buildup. It can be integrated into a daily routine, they say.
Unfortunatley, I've come down with a terrible virus... the common cold upped two notches. Let me just state that I've never had this amount of pressure to recover. Before, I could sit quietly in the back of class, tissues, lozenges, and echinacea tea in tow, and then retreat to my room to pass out. I would call in to switch a shift at work, or just take it easy while getting through my duties.
Now, I have so many obligations, and with such a requirement of speaking and communicating, and advertising a company with my presence, that this is a major setback. For the first time, I downed over the counter drugs, and plowed through my 18 hours of work without rest. This of course has stunted my getting better.
One of the more traditional treatments I tried was a Neti Pot. Basically it's a small ceramic version of Aladin's lamp. One fills it with salt water, shoves it up one nostril, and tilts the head over a sink. To my surprise, the water went up one nostril and out the other! I kept my mouth open to breathe. It replicated the sensation of swimming too deep in a pool, or doing an underwater headstand. The theory is that irritants build up in the nasal and sinus cavities, and can be washed away to prevent mucus buildup. It can be integrated into a daily routine, they say.
5.27.2004
Still an embarrassing thing...
As I've posted before, very little embarrasses me any more. Sure, I get ashamed, but not embarrassed. Except for being sick.
Previously, being ill meant I would groggy-eyedly hide in the back of a class, tissues and a thermos of echinachea tea in hand, mindlessly writing whatever the professor was professing, sucking on lozenges while watching films (I was a movie major) and then stumbling back to my dorm to pass out. Once in a blue moon I would switch a shift at word, or forget class all together.
But now, a company is depending on me. I am the voice of a CEO, the thread into a startup. I need to be there. And I cannot be gross or frightening. My dear coworkers would cheerfully try to make conversation with me today, only inducing from me a series of phloem coughs and occasional gurgles in attempts towards speech. I felt like the sick kid in third grade: the one with the crusty snot down his nose and baritone coughs. The worst part is, my office friends merely waited patiently and seriously asked, "Are you alright?" That's the worst! Laugh, dammit! Say "eeeeeew!" Otherwise I feel like a social handicap. Recognizing the yuckiness or humor signals that you consider it an abnormal ACT, while "bearing with me" points to me as an abnormal PERSON.
But I must say, the advantage of reverting to be a sick KID rather than a sick health-minded homeopathic young adult is the cough medicine! I haven't let myself take medication in ages, not even Advil! Yoga and echinacea have been by second line of defense. Until now, now that there is no allowance for being ill. I must get my body running! I must weaken my pain receptors to get through the day! Let me tell you, 10% alcohol, a bunch of sugar, and some other unpronounceable muscle relaxers can bring some more confidence to the workplace. Screw wine, I'm bringin' Robitassum to the next party!
Previously, being ill meant I would groggy-eyedly hide in the back of a class, tissues and a thermos of echinachea tea in hand, mindlessly writing whatever the professor was professing, sucking on lozenges while watching films (I was a movie major) and then stumbling back to my dorm to pass out. Once in a blue moon I would switch a shift at word, or forget class all together.
But now, a company is depending on me. I am the voice of a CEO, the thread into a startup. I need to be there. And I cannot be gross or frightening. My dear coworkers would cheerfully try to make conversation with me today, only inducing from me a series of phloem coughs and occasional gurgles in attempts towards speech. I felt like the sick kid in third grade: the one with the crusty snot down his nose and baritone coughs. The worst part is, my office friends merely waited patiently and seriously asked, "Are you alright?" That's the worst! Laugh, dammit! Say "eeeeeew!" Otherwise I feel like a social handicap. Recognizing the yuckiness or humor signals that you consider it an abnormal ACT, while "bearing with me" points to me as an abnormal PERSON.
But I must say, the advantage of reverting to be a sick KID rather than a sick health-minded homeopathic young adult is the cough medicine! I haven't let myself take medication in ages, not even Advil! Yoga and echinacea have been by second line of defense. Until now, now that there is no allowance for being ill. I must get my body running! I must weaken my pain receptors to get through the day! Let me tell you, 10% alcohol, a bunch of sugar, and some other unpronounceable muscle relaxers can bring some more confidence to the workplace. Screw wine, I'm bringin' Robitassum to the next party!
5.26.2004
Best Elevator
Today I rode the best elevator I've experienced in my twenty one years. It's at One Penn Plaza. I was taking a class there for work. The elevator cars are covered completely in large tan marble rectangles, with a row of dainty complementary marble squares with raised letters spelling "One Penn Plaza." To combat any boredom you might encounter, there is a mini LCD monitor displaying MSN news headlines and weather reports.
5.23.2004
Many A Commuter Encountered
Shame on me for my blogs being sparse. I'll make up for it I swear.
Some more Metro-North Commuter Rail Characters:
A ratty little woman with very long hair. This hair is very stringy, and all different lengths. She is soo skinny, without much muscle in her legs. She always wears a suit with the jacket way too big and pants way too small, so she looks like a corporate football player with her triangle shoulders and petite stick legs. She compliments this ill-fitting outfit with dark stockings, and yes, sneakers.
Why do women wear sneakers with stockings? My old principle used to do it as well; reasoning that she was on her feet all day. Then why not relax the dress code and wear designer jeans, a simple tee shirt, and then the sneakers... thus looking uniformly chic. I don't care how much you paid for your Armani, if you've got big white sports kicks on, there is no redemption.
Next, Mr. Diet Pepsi Man. Every morning, after locking up my ten speed at the communal bike lot, I walk up to the platform to join all the coffee-cradling commuters. Except for one slightly potbellied fellow. Rather than the Green Mountain and New York Times, he holds a Diet Pepsi and New York Post. Who reads the Post? And drinks Pepsi for breakfast? I admit to being hooked on carbonated aspertame as well, but not at the break of dawn for crissakes. But it suits his dryness. I can see the tiredness, or blandness, in his eyes. Must be a computer programmer or something logical. He wakes up alone.
My favorite buddy is the Slick Phonebooth Guy. There is perhaps only one car in the pathetically small collection of running MTR trains that hosts a phone booth with a courteously strampotin pull-down seat. I've had the pleasure once of sitting in it, using the convenient counter as an arm rest, and the walls as a barracade from the breath of other passengers. However, what was an even greater pleasure was to sit across from the usual Phonebooth Sitter on several occasions. He is dressed to the tee in a perfectly tailored suit. His slightly-longer than nape-length hair is highlighted and slicked back. He is bronzed. His shoes are shined. He sits with confident as he goes through his paper, usually balancing his elbows on his comfortably spread legs and leaning his weight onto them as opposed to the usual commuter poise of thrusting the pelvis, or more so gut, forward in the seat, to appear casual but come off as gross. That's why Slick Phonebooth Guy is my celebrity. He knows what class is.
Let me add here my annoyance with men spreading their legs open around my crossed legs if they are sitting across from me. Granted, it is a wonderful exercise of muscle control, for my fear of making thigh contact. But how cocky is that? Denying me my fair portion of space, and then rather than scooting over to split the communal area in half, surrounding mine with the continual threat of uninvited intimate contact.
The last character who stuck out was Inflato-Man. Mind you, I had just come from seeing Supersize Me, and once again feeling revolted by American obesity, crap food, gluttony, and sloth. There he sat, taking up two seats. Snacking on a huge cookie. I love cookies. I could eat a handful of them if given a supportive opportunity. In fact, I myself had a cookie in my backpack, which I was contemplating eating. Granted, mine was a homemade sugarless flourless cashew oatmeal cookie, but a cookie nevertheless. I immediately lost my appetite, punishing myself for his bohemethness. What keeps me from being him?
I'll tell you what. He has a bowl cut. He reads "Trains for Recreation" magazine. He was wearing a collarless tee-shirt, suggesting that he is a blue-collar worker or in a job where he can take a Thursday off. These three clues encourage me to assume that he is not as interested in the Progressive Life as I am. I know, that's jerky of me. Maybe he does some awesome things for the community. Perhaps he makes sick children joyful with his trains. God bless 'em if that's the case. Either way, he should cash in his 400-calorie jumbo chocochip for a homemade sugarless flourless cashew oatmeal cookies, cuz the world needs people like him around.
Some more Metro-North Commuter Rail Characters:
A ratty little woman with very long hair. This hair is very stringy, and all different lengths. She is soo skinny, without much muscle in her legs. She always wears a suit with the jacket way too big and pants way too small, so she looks like a corporate football player with her triangle shoulders and petite stick legs. She compliments this ill-fitting outfit with dark stockings, and yes, sneakers.
Why do women wear sneakers with stockings? My old principle used to do it as well; reasoning that she was on her feet all day. Then why not relax the dress code and wear designer jeans, a simple tee shirt, and then the sneakers... thus looking uniformly chic. I don't care how much you paid for your Armani, if you've got big white sports kicks on, there is no redemption.
Next, Mr. Diet Pepsi Man. Every morning, after locking up my ten speed at the communal bike lot, I walk up to the platform to join all the coffee-cradling commuters. Except for one slightly potbellied fellow. Rather than the Green Mountain and New York Times, he holds a Diet Pepsi and New York Post. Who reads the Post? And drinks Pepsi for breakfast? I admit to being hooked on carbonated aspertame as well, but not at the break of dawn for crissakes. But it suits his dryness. I can see the tiredness, or blandness, in his eyes. Must be a computer programmer or something logical. He wakes up alone.
My favorite buddy is the Slick Phonebooth Guy. There is perhaps only one car in the pathetically small collection of running MTR trains that hosts a phone booth with a courteously strampotin pull-down seat. I've had the pleasure once of sitting in it, using the convenient counter as an arm rest, and the walls as a barracade from the breath of other passengers. However, what was an even greater pleasure was to sit across from the usual Phonebooth Sitter on several occasions. He is dressed to the tee in a perfectly tailored suit. His slightly-longer than nape-length hair is highlighted and slicked back. He is bronzed. His shoes are shined. He sits with confident as he goes through his paper, usually balancing his elbows on his comfortably spread legs and leaning his weight onto them as opposed to the usual commuter poise of thrusting the pelvis, or more so gut, forward in the seat, to appear casual but come off as gross. That's why Slick Phonebooth Guy is my celebrity. He knows what class is.
Let me add here my annoyance with men spreading their legs open around my crossed legs if they are sitting across from me. Granted, it is a wonderful exercise of muscle control, for my fear of making thigh contact. But how cocky is that? Denying me my fair portion of space, and then rather than scooting over to split the communal area in half, surrounding mine with the continual threat of uninvited intimate contact.
The last character who stuck out was Inflato-Man. Mind you, I had just come from seeing Supersize Me, and once again feeling revolted by American obesity, crap food, gluttony, and sloth. There he sat, taking up two seats. Snacking on a huge cookie. I love cookies. I could eat a handful of them if given a supportive opportunity. In fact, I myself had a cookie in my backpack, which I was contemplating eating. Granted, mine was a homemade sugarless flourless cashew oatmeal cookie, but a cookie nevertheless. I immediately lost my appetite, punishing myself for his bohemethness. What keeps me from being him?
I'll tell you what. He has a bowl cut. He reads "Trains for Recreation" magazine. He was wearing a collarless tee-shirt, suggesting that he is a blue-collar worker or in a job where he can take a Thursday off. These three clues encourage me to assume that he is not as interested in the Progressive Life as I am. I know, that's jerky of me. Maybe he does some awesome things for the community. Perhaps he makes sick children joyful with his trains. God bless 'em if that's the case. Either way, he should cash in his 400-calorie jumbo chocochip for a homemade sugarless flourless cashew oatmeal cookies, cuz the world needs people like him around.
