The thing is, last night I woke up at about three, three thirty, with the title of today's post stuck in my head, flashing neon: An Embarrassment of Riches.
I didn't know what it meant, or what it referred to; I still don't, and yet here I am, writing this blog, and there you are, reading it. (I'm assuming you're reading it, of course, which might not technically be true. You may be skimming this post, rather than really reading it, which is fine by me, kemo sabe; many a blog, many a site has been nothing more than background music for me, too, as the real stuff of life plays itself out before me. Let this site be the wallpaper of your day.)
Sometimes promises made in the dead of night should not be kept. Even promises to oneself. In my groggy, half-there, half-nowhere state of mind, I decided that I would, come hell or high water, write a blog with this title today. (And no, I don't know what 'come hell or high water' actually, truly means, either. I mean, the problem with this particular image is that the really strong, truly frightening component has been placed first -- 'hell'. And so what are we left with to round off the phrase? 'High water.' Oooooh. I'm scared. Either hell is going to get me or, no, it can't be - high water! How terrifying! Maybe I'll get wet and even have to change my shirt! Then again, I chose it, didn't I, so my bad. Which is another phrase, 'my bad', which somehow became popular while I was living in Japan and attempting, in vain, to master the infinite subtleties of Japan's ancient and equivalent phrase -- sumimasen. I think it's already gone out of fashion, 'my bad'. But I'm still using it and hoping to be so unhip that I'm hip. Let me know if it's working.)
So, I apologize, is what I'm trying to say. Here you were, taking time out of your day to find something interesting, enlightening, or at least not-boring, and all I can tell you for the time being is that I was required, by my conscience, to write a post with the above title, even though it doesn't really matter if I change my mind and decide to write about another, even more interesting topic, like Working with Shika or Dating Jacoba Style or Five Things You Should Really, Really Know About My Sister-In-Law -- all future posts, by the way. You've been warned, ladies, and only time will tell if I'm joking. (Cue spooky Dr.Evil laugh...)
There's nothing particularly embarassing in this post so far, despite the title. (Unless you count my writing itself; I'm praying you won't, and don't.)
In fact, all I can relate to you is the flash-flame of memory that lit some kindling in my brain this morning as I was being driven to work in the company van, and something felt familiar, oddly familiar, something about the van, and the people squished together inside of it, captors in a Corolla, and then it hit me, the, I don't know, vanness of it all, and I remembered being in high school, travelling to track and cross-country meets in the backs of vans, and university, too, travelling to various cities around Ontario each and every weekend, a bunch of twenty-something runners crammed in a too-tight van, with one particular wiseass by the name of Lucas Kent, a good guy, sitting in the back of the van and tying the rest of his teammate's shoelaces together, the type of stunt you see in a bad teen movie, and yet there it was, in real life, the group of us trying to stand up at one time only to be jiggered this way and that way by our illicitly linked laces, our cheeks turning red as Lucas laughed his ass off, and we being embarrassed in spite of ourselves, while Lucas laughed his deep and rich laugh.
So there it is: an embarrassement of riches.
Over and out.
Mission accomplished after all.