Suspended suspense and the absurdities of routine living

Its been about a week and life has continued trucking along. I'm moving places in two days and the words "truck," "tape," and "boxes" have become standards for most conversations over the past couple days so if they reappear here an inordinate amount of times, please be kind in reply posting. Yet, I'm reminded of my blogging motto: "I do not blog to bore;" so, I'll refrain from the mundane sorts of happenings save two: I ran out of tape today knowing that it was going to happen but continuing to tape up boxes from Chase's Frozen Food Packaging (no lie) while also semi-purposefully constructing what I now refer to as my "islands of boxes" in various locations throughout my house and, in doing so, creating a maze of sorts for both myself and my dog.

Its my dog, Andrew Jackson ("Andy" if he likes you or "King Andrew" if you get in his way politically or spatially whichever the case may be), and my life as a pet owner/father that this blog is about, sort of. Suffice it to say, the dog is historically named because he is historically minded. Anyway, my life with Andy, from day one, has been one of sorted adventures; we've seen holiday parties turn ugly, one dangerous battle with intestinal worms (his, not mine, thank you very much) relationships come, relationships go, comprehensive exams, and many long and sleepy Sunday afternoons. However, our shenanigans might find their best summation in our long once-a-week constitutionals. This week was no different from the oddities that always seem to befall the two of us and left me with namely two thoughts: I truly believe that God has never matched up a better pair of beings and that sometimes routines can become routinely absurd, yet necessary.

As we were driving along, Andy, ever the observant passenger, noticed that road construction would obstruct our normal driving route (he and I are equally creatures of habit and so we were both a little thrown off by these inconsiderate bumblers whose main purpose in life, at that moment at least, seemed to be to destroy the flow of a perfectly good Thursday afternoon drive) but we recovered like pros. Andy and I have been together for two years now; we've got this walk think down. Or so we like to think. Upon arriving in our parking spot, Andy and I exited the vehicle equally excited about embarking on frequented paths through North Campus and eagerly anticipating new faces, both human and other, that awaited us. As we walked along, we sniffed the enticing fragrances that always seem to find us on our walks. About thirty minutes in, as usual, we made our way to two portions of campus that have become Andy's most special places. One locale, Andy finds quite relaxing for a "bm" as one older southern women I know calls it...for those MTVers out there, "bm" equals "poop job". Now, you might be saying to yourself, TCH, what is this about pooping and where are you going with this...hang in there!

The other place Andy truly enjoys is an area that most colleges and universities would call "the quad"; I've been here four years, the general description goes something like, "that green space, no, no, not that green space, the one up around Old College and the Arch, you know that elongated track between the main library and Broad Street." Well, no matter what you call it, Andy loves it for primarily one reason: the squirrels (a.k.a. Henry Clay). Andy loves to bark and growl at each one he meets, although never quite able to get to them before they scramble up the huge trees. All of this is part of a normal walk that concludes with me calming Andy down, strolling on through my department for a little water, and then both making our way to the car and on home.

Why let you all in on such a special time shared between father and dog? I think these moments of ritual, these weekly events that might appear to always contain the same possibilities and predictable outcomes provide each of us with the opportunity to live life to the full(est) that we might make it. Eternal optimism running unrestrained from the guy that has just now finished packing up his life into approximately thirty boxes? Perhaps. But, for me, life is all about the suspense that we create in our own minds when we awake and realize that there are forty-five more exams to grade before noon and its already 10 o'clock. Please don't misunderstand me, I'm not advocating some sort of personalized 24/7 stress testing that would no doubt land us all in therapy or on some sort of prescription meds.

Rather, this is a message of hope. I'm trying it out on loan from the Obama people. Our routines present themselves as life...but, blog buddies, I don't think we should allow them to mask themselves as life. I know, as well as the next person, how easy that trap is to fall into. But if we take the routines to be life as we know it, then how do we cope with the extremes of emotional experiences like births, weddings (sometimes), that first kiss, that first glance? Or, better yet, how do we control our exasperation when faced, as a friend was this past week, with the trauma of watching a pregnant colleague suffer a brain aneurysm and die, with child, in front of you? Life is what we make of it, while we are distracting ourselves with absurd, but granted, necessary routines. As another good friend often reminds my gang of 6: "This ain't no dress rehearsal, I intend to have some fun, so where is it, and when does it begin?" Good points all, but I believe that that could be what life is: first realizing that the rehearsal is the show (preferably before you get into the 2nd or, worse, 3rd act) and then, coming to grips with the fact that you are on stage and that the routine that you both love and hate is the script that you are daily editing.

If my life over the past few months has anything to say to this, there might be some truth in that annoying statement: "good things come to those who wait"...or at least to those who are able to distract themselves with routine while noting the suspense of "real" life. The caveat: we must be equally ready to enjoy the shattering of our constructed routined realities when fellow playwrights choose to revise their scripts and/or our pets discover new "bm" locales.

TCH