Shaving Off The Weekend

I can always tell what kind of weekend I’ve had when I shave for work on Monday.

It’s the simplest kind of litmus test. If my beard has grown a lot, I was most likely very stressed. If it didn’t grow much at all, I was unusually comfortable with my world.

This morning, the stubble on my neck and cheeks was extraordinarily long. And I know why. Stability was threatened. A perfect (“perfect perfect,” we agreed with one another over the phone) opportunity presented itself along with the threat of ethical complications and terrible loss. The conflict of the two wracked my nerves all weekend.

Just the very thought of realizing this goal in such an excellent (“perfect perfect”) manner was so tantalizing that when I told Head Chef about it, he donned an uncharacteristic project management role to make sure I followed up. He became so businesslike about it that it made me want to tell him, “Hey, quitit, that’s my job!”

But always, in the recesses of my consciousness, I knew of the risk inherent in even investigating this possibility. And then, in the course of a third call late Friday, I found myself face-to-face with it. The ethical challenge, the potential of loss. Of actually making things worse, not better. So much worse that I actually experienced a moment of panic as I itemized the horrors that could befall my little family if my delicate proposition failed. Head Chef witnessed my abject terror, which humbled me.

But he was all business, and so were others who knew of my plight. And so I repeated their reassurances to myself over and over again to calm my nerves. It worked, much of the time. Yet, left alone without the distractions of an imaginary world, an immediate remodeling challenge, or a pet-management task, my breathing became constricted. That knot of nausea welled in my chest. While mindlessly painting baseboard molding in the garage, my thoughts turned to worries of imminent doom, and I nearly had to sit down.

I walked through Home Depot and drank with friends like a man who’d received a Diagnosis. Playing the social games and going through the motions, behaving appropriately but never taking the fullness of my thoughts off the delicate concern that would face me Monday.

So when I shaved this morning, I took note of what my weekend of anxiety had wrought and made a decision. At 8:47 am, I made a fourth call. I was logical and clear, and we talked about how disappointing it was that this chance was not to be explored.

It’s not that I hate shaving. In fact, I rather like it when my beard looks full. But the anxiety necessary to achieve the affect is just not worth it.

I Wanna New Drug

Head Chef and I were talking about the age old Mac vs Windows debate last night.

Just for fun, I launched World of Warcraft (Oh, and could you hand me the tourniquet and syringe?) last night and turned up the video settings as far as our current Mac would support them. My character could basically only stand there and look around a bit because the animation became choppy and unbearable. But the view was amazing. I think Head Chef may have actually gasped. "There are mountains in the distance," he exclaimed. "I've never seen those! Is that a cave up there?"

And thus began the lament. I knew about this hidden view that better video hardware could bring, but he had never experimented before. Undoubtedly, such higher-quality video makes the game more immersive. Perhaps even more effectively playable. Hence, more fun. Possibly, even move it up a notch on the federal schedule of controlled substances.

So it’s official. We want gaming-quality machines, now, and the Mac mini and eMac aren't suitable for such tasks. Almost. Just barely, but not quite. Such a shame, since the Mac Mini's not even a year old. And so cute.

So I launched Firefox and did a comparison of the low-end Power Mac tower against a gaming machine sold by Dell. Naturally, the Dell has a better video card and faster hard disks and a monitor for about the same price as the stand-alone Mac tower. So, add faster disks, upgrade the video card, and buy a display for the Mac, and it costs almost $1000 more than the equivalent Dell. But Head Chef *likes* the Macs and wants to stick with them, and naturally, it's my religion. And yet, even as devout as I am, economics like that are hard to argue.

"Why the difference?" He asks. I answer by telling him that it's the difference between a very fast Hyundai and a Lexus that goes the same speed. He understands, but it's disappointing nonetheless. Still, he's willing to pay the price, and starts working numbers.

But there's another issue: He wants these to be investments, not machines we replace in another year. And so that brings up the question of whether these machines will last - will they be upgradeable and suitable for this purpose for a longer period than an iMac would?

Yes, I say, and Macs are kept longer by their owners than Wintel boxes. But there are also catches: Video cards, RAM, and hard drives can be upgraded readily, but CPUs and motherboards aren't replaceable on most computers, let alone a Mac. Add to that the question of Apple's switch to an Intel architecture over the next year, and that leaves a big question about future software compatibility, from an investment perspective.

What to do, what to do. I don't think we'll do much of anything in the short term - the Mac Mini and eMac are fine. Not good, mind you, but fine. Too bad I had to show him that view of the mountains.

In A Name

Every time my subconscious overhears someone saying, “Hi, Sean,” I experience a deluge of memory and nostalgia.

When Head Chef and I made our journey to China for that long week of adventure, we experienced a lot more than we realized. In the frozen Chinese North, we ate dumplings in buildings made from plywood and cloth and witnessed teams of traditional dancers on the side of the road performing for no one but themselves. But those are only the things you do and see.

We also got names. Well, at least Head Chef did. He got a name that is memorable because it sounds like English. It sounds like “Hi, Sean.” And so every time I overhear a phone conversation with a man named Sean I picture myself sitting in that hotel room in Beijing.

I sat on the floor and leaned against the wall, watching as Head Chef got his name. He bounced about, not attempting to hide his enthusiasm, and it seemed as though perhaps the small room with the odd Western decor might not succeed in holding him. I remember how the rest of my family sat as they chatted with the poised Chinese girl. She perched on the edge of the bed with her two books at the ready while she worked studiously and with great humor at naming the Americans. Her posture was flawless and she seemed to be enjoying the excitement in the air. It was her first time to Beijing, too.

I didn’t get a name then. Since my own name sounds like the Mandarin word for “zombie,” I got a lot of laughs, but no real name. Not for a long time. Too long. Because terrible, terrible things befell That Lovely Chinese Girl.

From across the ocean I timidly made a desperate request. I needed that name, and I needed it before it was too late. I needed it from That Lovely Chinese Girl, or it would be useless to me. Boulanger, strong and understanding even as she braved another chapter of grief, took my message to the dying girl, and I was named.

It was a name that astonished me. Its meaning was flattering beyond all measure and the importance of it took me by such surprise that I was struck dumb. It was something to live up to. Something grand, and bold, and strong. It was as though an angel had taken me into her wings and said, “I believe in you” just before letting go. I am still humbled.

But I have lost the words. I’ve lost the paper I wrote them on, all those times. And I’ve forgotten how they are pronounced. I have forgotten my own name. But I have not forgotten how it feels to be given one that is greater than I am. It vibrates inside me like a triangle that is struck gently in a great concert hall and never stops ringing. I think that’s what you call a legacy.

So if I should catch my breath when someone nearby greets their friend Sean, it’s just the deluge washing over me. Just a memory of beauty and wisdom, and that ringing that never stops.

Paths We Take

Coming out to my family and friends was so much easier than I could have intellectually expected, and vastly less traumatizing than my emotional fears had prepared me for. When my Mother said, “Well, Honey, you know I don’t give a damn,” I cried. Just because I was prepared to cry, because I was expecting something awful. I cried even though she was right – I did know she didn’t give a damn.

I was 21. I am now 33.

This year, Coming Out Day came and went. I read a little blurb on a website and read a friend’s blog entry, but I did not come out. I can’t think of anyone I could have come out to. And I wanted to add to the day, to somehow contribute in these important times, but I couldn’t think of anything relevant.

Then this morning I found myself thinking of someone I know who is contributing. He wrote me months ago, asking for help. He was 32, local, and in desperate need of happiness he’d been unable to find in his church, on Christian dates, and living with shame. He was gay, he said, but didn’t know how to come out. He signed his letters anonymously, and said that he’d give me his name if we ever met in person.

We exchanged a lot of emails, and I tried to be as honest as I could. Coming out is terrifying for most people. While some may not experience difficulty at all, many experience a lot of rejection from their families or friends. And then there are the problems associated with being newly out amongst other gay men. Predators, heartbreak, rejection based on your inexperience. And for him as a Christian, drinking and drug use would make a lot of the social scenes I was familiar with uncomfortable.

We finally met for lunch, and naturally, he was frightened. Hell, I was meeting a strange man at a difficult time in his life and I was nervous. I could only imagine how he must have felt, having lunch with another gay man in open daylight. What if someone saw us? What if he bumped into someone he knew? What would he say? Surely, they’d know!

But the meeting went well. We talked about fears, plans, hopes, and we decided that everything was going to be OK.

I’ve talked to him since, and he is as I promised he would be: alternately elated, heartbroken, ecstatic, and crestfallen. He is going to a local gay church and meeting real, live men. Some, he says, are very handsome. He is having crushes and suffering disappointments. Such is the path of one learning to love, and it is difficult and exhilerating beyond description.

But oh, is love ever worth it. Everyone should know how that feels, shouldn’t they?

Golf Opposition

I do not wish to like golf. Golf is expensive, time-consuming, and fussy. It’s a tool of the insider’s old-boy network and it has been co-opted by the rest of the world so that they can feel like they’re in on the joke. Or, at least, to enable them to get an angle on the deal.

It’s popular because it’s a business skill used in lieu of physical combat. I would much rather engage in some old-fashioned wrestling match than dress up, spend all that money, and swing a stick at a ball. At least then you could justify the competitive tempers that have to be suppressed for the civility of the golf course.

But I did have a good time. Still, if it’s all the same to anyone, I’d rather not like golf on principle alone.

Quietude in Motion

I walked home through the rain wearing my work clothes.

We’ve had a rainy spell here as the result of a tropical storm that (thankfully) dissipated before it reached us. We had flash flood warnings, even. But as the storm’s remnants have passed over us, the bands of rainclouds have become less and less remarkable.

And I don’t mind the rain one bit. I turn off the water on the garden, yes. I stand at the windows and envision the green that will soon cover Puowaina at the other end of Pauoa Valley. I feel the great big sigh of “Thank You” that everything seems to say.

And I walk home in the rain. Head Chef isn’t available to give me my ride home, so I walk. Just a half an hour on foot, I take it as an opportunity to get exercise. I walk with purpose. The rain is incidental. It’s not a factor; it’s just the environment I must perform this task in. And still I relish the feeling of the sprinkle of moisture on my face, the observation of headlights blurred by drops of rain so small I don’t feel them alight in my eyes.

I walk almost the whole way home without thinking a thing. Feeling visceral and damp. Pointed at my destination, walking, watching, being. It’s a pleasant thing, to move blankly through the rain.

Time Travel

We were waiting for new tires on the white car when we inadvertently stepped into a world I’d almost forgotten.

To call the Dole Cannery complex in Iwilei a mall is to be unnecessarily generous. Yes, it was definitely intended to be a mall. The structure is there. The theatre still operates. But the signatures of a mall – people, teenagers (if you must make the distinction), and open shops – they are simply not there.

Like the sad little shopping complex across the street from Temple Square in Salt Lake City, it is no longer a mall. It is a ghost mall.

But it is also across the street from Costco, one of O`ahu’s busiest businesses. While our car got new shoes we were on foot and hungry. So we entered the empty corridors of the Cannery Ghost Mall in search of food and an hour to kill.

Fitting, then, that we lost track of time.

After our disappointingly successful attempt at food, we stopped into an unmarked Asian imports store near the Cannery’s exit. The front room was what you’d expect. Some Chinese wedding chests converted to entertainment armoires, tea sets, fabrics, lotus pots, and more Chinese tchochkes than you could shake a stick at. The proprietor was behind a desk, and she greeted us wanly.

Head Chef made it into the back room, and dug in. Here were the gems. Beautiful decorative planters in rare glazes at ridiculously low prices. Gear for the discerning Bonsai gardener. Chinese teas, and more classic Chinese furniture than appeared in the first space. I spotted an unpriced pot the right size for our night-blooming cereus, and mentioned it to Head Chef.

At that moment, the proprietor peeked into the room. She was a Chinese woman in her fifties or sixties with salt and pepper hair, perfect posture, and a beguiling grace. In her mild Chinese accent, she asked, “Do you bonsai?” Our bond was established.

Head Chef negotiated a wonderful price for the pot I had found, and I unearthed it from beneath the stock of other items that had been stacked upon it. And all the while, we talked of gardens. Of common shared fondness for China. And as I pushed our new find to the register in the next room, they talked of teas.

When I returned to find out where the conversation had lead to, I was ushered to a chair at a little table in the back room. “Shoshi shoshi ba,” she said, and warmed hot water for our tea. And there we sat, chatting and drinking the best oolong tea I had ever had. We talked of palaces, gardens, walls, and the exceptional individuals from Old China who touched us.

She spoke fondly of family, friends, and places she longed to return to, and spun our memories into new imaginations of the places we had not yet seen. Of another Star Pupil who would make an impression we would never ever forget. Time passed only when the bell on the shop door marked the entrance of a potential customer who then left without a word. Our proprietor never stood and only barely glanced their direction.

Finally, after a third cup, we had to go. We bought some teas to take home with us, exchanged phone numbers, and then returned to our newly shoed car in the bustling parking lot.

The contrast was jarring.

It Matters Not

If you haven’t been following the news, the California legislature passed a marriage equality bill that would have made gays and lesbians truly equal in the eyes of the law of that state. And their governor, The Governator, vowed to veto it immediately, noting that it should be the courts that decide. He likes him some activist judges, that Governator.

But it took him over a week to get around to his veto paperwork.

A journalist whom I really respect supposed in his blog that The Governator was postponing his veto of this bill passed by the representatives of the people for a good reason. This journalist supposed that Arnold was worried about his place in history. That maybe his conscience was getting the better of him.

But, of course, The Governator did veto the bill. Naturally.

Men of power and ambition are willing to hurt anyone as long as it benefits them. Arnold may have actually wanted to sign the bill. No, really. Maybe he did. But I imagine he didn’t really care one way or the other.

What Arnold cares about it is him. What Arnold cares about is getting where he wants to be. He wants another term, to make his rich friends richer, and to amend the US Constitution so he can do it all for them again from the comfort of the Whitehouse. This is what The Governator wants.

And make no mistake about it, any principle he has is for sale if it will get him closer to his goals. There is no one he wouldn’t hurt. No one.

As for the journalist… he may have been right. I do hope that the Governator cared about his place in history. I hope he saw the ad comparing him to George Wallace and felt a pang of guilt. I hope he looked at his signature line over and over again, delaying the act of vetoing because he knew it was wrong. I hope he had long talks with Maria trying to justify what he knew was nothing more than a career move.

But what if he did? Does it matter?

Sodomite Companies Want Your Children!

The lovely, witty, dirty-minded Wonkette posted today regarding an article at the World Net Daily website about corporate America’s pro-homosexual cuddling.

The World Net Daily is what is increasingly called wingnut, or extreme right-wing. For those of you who wish to know what the opposite of that would be, that’s moonbat. I have no idea what moonbat comes from or what it implies, but wingnut seems pretty obvious.

Although I don’t recommend anyone else do this, I actually took at look at their related reader poll and a handful of linked articles.

As I said, I don’t recommend it for the faint of heart. I am a calloused, jaded homosexual and reading vitriol about people like myself doesn’t shock or dismay me the way it might someone who were simply a friend of equality, say. Think of this as your “Do not attempt. Professional driver on closed course” warning.

One thing I noticed, however, was the repeated use of the term pro-homosexual. Now don’t get me wrong, I definitely advocate for my fellow sexual outlaws. I loves me my homo homies. However, I wouldn’t even describe myself as pro-homosexual, let alone America’s Fortune 100.

To me, pro-homosexual is a lot like the term you used to hear for reproductive choice advocates. Back when, they were “pro-abortion.” But saying someone is pro-abortion is like saying they advocate for abortion in all instances of pregnancy, which is clearly absurd and very misleading.

Similarly, I would expect a company that takes a pro-homosexual stance to be holding classes on homosexuality to teach people the upside of being gay, and discouraging heterosexuality. They could perhaps have a same-sex mentoring program where women taught each other proper cunnilingus techniques, and gag reflex suppression sessions during lunchtime for the boys. They might feature an article in their company newsletter that talks about the diseases you can get from heterosexual intercourse and the horrors of child bearing/rearing, noting that people who date same sex partners need not worry their pretty little heads.

And then, of course, they could throw separate company parties for women and men. The boys would be treated to a white-party styled dance, and they could give out ecstacy and condoms and make sure there’s a back room lit by a dim red light. I don’t know what would be the equivalent for lesbians. Maybe an Indigo Girls concert.

Now that’s what I call a pro-homosexual company. Down with all the trappings of heterosexuality, up with sodomites!

No, instead all we have are these rich firms who simply acknowledge that homosexuals work for them, and promise not to treat them any differently than straights. Although that’s really quite kind of them, it’s hardly what I would call pro-homosexual.

But oh well.

Coincidence?

Salary and Slavery have all but two letters in common.

Coincidence? I think not.

Rededication

Call it a crisis, call it what you will. I am rededicating myself to myself.

Over the past 9 years or so I developed a body I was not ashamed of. A taking-the-shirt-off-in-public(-sometimes) type of body that I liked. I put on 50lbs of mostly-muscle over the course of those years and I liked it.

But my ectomorphic body relishes the opportunity to drop weight and has shed 15 of those pounds this year. It has been maliciously rejoicing the entire time. I am not amused.

So this morning I dragged my shriveled and smug body back to the gym for a reasonable (re)starter workout and a stern talking-to. It was a rude awakening. I forgot my sweat towel. I realized my workout shorts did not stay round my waist the way they did before. This eliminated the possibility of cardio lest I provide an entirely inappropriate and potentially illegal erotic exercise show. I pressed weights, and realized just how much strength I’ve lost. The mirrors mocked me. I did not step on the scale for fear the alarms would go off.

Disappointing, yes. But this is where it starts. I’ll be sore, and I’ll build the strength and size back. Quickly, even. I will defeat my nature yet again. I might even be in better shape than before.

I’m only telling you so you’ll hold me to it. I mean, we have guests coming for the Holidays!

What I Am Doing

I am wasting away a bit each day, but I am doing it for a good cause. I am running into battle and swinging with all my might. I am falling behind schedule before I even begin, and going home on time anyway. Some nights I send my animal in to do the dirty work while I thumb at the trigger of my rifle. I am making grand plans and procrastinating on their execution. I am distressing at the condition of the carpets and replacing them even as the menagerie atop them runs amok.

I am watching my expenses. But I am not clipping coupons.

I am standing at the garden silently, watching the life unfold even as my intellect tells me I can’t. I am seeing change that is not yet there.

Someone Truly Remarkable

What a lot of thoughtful, amusing, absurd, and delightful fiddle-dee-dee!

We do so miss the Boulanger in all her prickly pearishdom.

Help John Mayer Find A Boyfriend

I guess he’s a really 00’s man, that John Mayer. His song “Daughters” is a touching lesson on how important it is to treat daughters well. Because the wrongs parents impose on their girls scar them forever.

And isn’t it true? Really? I mean, think of the stories you know. We can all tell one.

But John Mayer is overexposed. On local Hawai`ian (and Utahan) pop radio, “Daughters” has been on a twenty minute rotation for weeks and weeks. And weeks.

At first, I loved the song. I sang along with the lyrics I knew and enjoyed the warm fuzzy I got. Then it became a little too common. And then I heard this lyric:

Boys, you can break
You'll find out how much they can take
Boys will be strong
And boys soldier on
But boys would be gone without warmth from
A woman's good, good heart

And now I’ve had quite enough. Boys, you can break!?

John Mayer has clearly never dated one of those boys who’s been broken. Just like girls, John, they stay broken. And they hurt people – their daughters included. The best wo/man’s good, good heart does nothing to fix them.

So ladies and gentlemen, let’s all help John find a boyfriend who’s been broken to help shake him out of his anachronistic mindset. Shall we?

Unlikely Times

Who would have thought that these days you could elect an actor as your state’s Governor, and then not end up with gays marrying each other?

Maybe The Ocean

When I talk to off-islanders who want to know what it’s like to live in Paradise, the first thing I tell them is that there’s a price to pay for everything. This city is not without the same downsides that are found in any city. Soul-crushing traffic, high prices. You name your gripes about Big Town X, and they’re here, too.

But I begin my list of things that make it worthwhile with the quality of the air. I may be facing another twelve or fourteen hour day at work, but in the car drive to the office I roll down the window and breath deep as I listen to Hawai`ian on the radio. And it’s not just that the air is clean, either. It has magic in it. It has life. And I guess maybe that life seeps into us, because people in Hawai`i live four years longer than people on the mainland.

Or maybe it’s that our own lives don’t seep out as fast.

I also end my list with the ocean. Because no matter what’s wrong, I always feel better if I can just float in the ocean. Just bobbing in the waves for a few minutes does something to the mind and body. It lifts one out of depressions and worries so effectively that sometimes I wonder if it’s my outlook that’s changing, or if the world actually improves as I rock in the ocean’s hands.

So it should come as no surprise that Tuesday came today and I’m a happier man. Lei Bear Day was a wonderful laundry list of goodness. Friends, jovial santa-shaped men, debauchery, late nights, bright beaches, Hawai`ian music, keiki hula, important conversations, invigorating air, and floating in the ocean.

Maybe the Pacific lifted my spirits, or maybe it was just a very excellent weekend.

Lei Bear Day

This weekend we will celebrate Labor Day and Lei Bear Day. It’s not Gay Pride, but, as Boulanger would say, it’s still “Homosexual Weekend.” Some of the friends who will be joining us would have been in New Orleans being decadent, but a certain storm you may have heard about changed their plans. We’re glad they’re here, and not there, needing help.

Our guest is still here, and thankfully, has managed to extend his stay. Apparently, he’s having a good time despite the fact that Head Chef and I are working during the days and the house is in full remodel and filled to the rim with dogs. He’s been the perfect sort of guest, and I’m so glad we’ve gotten to know him better.

I’m still feeling very dissociated, though. And irritable. Getting back into the groove has been very challenging, and I think part of it may have to do with the simple fact that the routine I left isn’t here any more. I have lots of questions and so very few answers.

Head Chef wants to know what the questions are, but there are so many that I keep losing track of them. It’s like walking into a record store with a mental list of everything you want to buy. By the time you get back out to your car with your new CDs, you realize that not one of them was on your list. But the list was also full of good, even important stuff. It’s just that you’ve already spent your money and it’s time to get on with the rest of your plans, so you don’t go back in.

Tour Of The Possum Pie Kitchen

I’m something of a privacy advocate. That may seem contradictory if you don’t know me, since I have a public weblog that will be indexed, cached, and searchable for all eternity. If you know me, though, it may seem even more contradictory, since I can’t keep my mouth shut about every detail of my personal life.

Still, you won’t find my name in here, and you won’t find the names of the other cooks who have a hand in making Possum Pie. People who read the menu but don’t order anything I may refer to by name, and I think that’s fine.

After all, I will be talking about my life, and that will inevitably give the truly clever plenty of information to piece together my identity.

Still, if you’re interested in knowing more about the qualities of some of the people in the kitchen, I will update this entry from time to time for that purpose.

• Head Chef: The most important cook in this kitchen. Bubbly, affable, and imminently likable, he inspires confidence and respect in all who know him. He’s always on the lookout for something fresh and exciting to put on the menu.
• Boulanger: The Bread Cook. As infinitely satisfying for the soul as the fresh-baked goods she prepares, Boulanger is lovely and stylish. She possesses a wicked wit, a hearty laugh, and a fervent drive to make a positive difference in people’s lives.
• Friturier: The fry cook. Living his life by a creed of excessive indulgence, he knows well the finer things and people who simply must be known. Easy to laugh or gossip and always ready to entertain, Friturier lives in the moment.
  
• Grillardin: The grill cook. Grillardin is animated and excited, a lover of food, drink, and a very good time.
• Tournant: The rotating cook. Tournant is someone I like, but not necessarily always the same person. I will probably be sharing the relevant qualities of each Tournant in the entry in which they are named.
• The Butcher Commis: The common cook. Not necessarily someone I’m fond of, and not always the same person. People like co-workers, service personnel, and the like are most likely The Butcher Commis.
• Pastry Chef: The maintainer of this journal.

Aloha

I've been writing privately. Once in a while, as a sort of test.

1) Would I blog if I could?

I've passed the first test, and so, since Blogger is free, I am starting the second test.

2) Will I blog when I have one?

I've posted a few of my past writings from the last few months that I felt fit for public consumption, just to make sure there's some content.

If I pass this test, I get to have my own hosted, customized blog that's more full featured. But that's for the distant and uncertain future. We can plan for that just like everything else we do. Naturally, all plans work out perfectly.

For Grounding

We stayed up late last night entertaining a houseguest, and I’m horribly jet-lagged and possibly hung-over. I can’t tell which, or in what ratio.

My return to Honolulu has not been as triumphant and celebratory as I had imagined. On the contrary, I’ve felt disconnected and like I don’t belong here. My home doesn’t feel like home, welcomes have been scant and from people I needed them from the least.

It’s like I have been granted this overwhelming feeling of dread.

But I just saw something that grounded me for a fleeting moment. And you won’t believe what it was. A nametag. Yeah. Of a co-worker I really like and admire. She wasn’t even there, and I think that if she had been the effect wouldn’t have been as profound.

For that moment I felt like my head cleared, and I stopped walking and smiled. “Oh, wow,” I thought to myself. “Her.”

And then I started walking again, and these familiar but unwanted feelings returned.