walking adventures; evolution

EVOLUTION

I reject the one-dimensional view of a beneficent Mother Nature. I prefer the balanced acceptance of Nature that leaves dew drops on roses AND drops houses on orphanages. Evolution is also one of my favorite amoral concepts. Natural selection has led us to opposable thumbs and walking upright. And continues to produce virulent strains of disease that morph and dart so rapidly we can't dodge them or develop protections fast enough.

(By the way, my body-focus-bored friends, this is the last of this subject for awhile. Stay with me.)

The exercise-sweat theme has recurred because all this steady exposure to the record-breaking heat outdoors has produced stunning results. Everybody should sweat. Our bodies have pores for this purpose. Else we would overheat and explode or just expire. But my cooling powers were getting downright awesome.

I used to be embarrassed. And that was back when I sweat pretty evenly over my body. It wasn't until I began, some years ago, to sweat from my head in such profusion (I wondered if something was awry) that I began to marvel rather than hide. I had an epiphenita that my body was going through it's own evolution because at my age, the most important item to cool down was mission control: mi cabeza, my thinking cap, me noggin'. Most everything else was wearing down but my head, well that was still running things and by god, it wasn't going to spontaneously combust while I still had salt water reserves.

People, it's amaze-ing. Like white water rapids and Iguazu falls for mosquitoes and gnats. Like water sluicing down a rainforest mountain. My daughter saw me with soaked bandanas around my neck and forehead and joked about what a good look it was on me. I told her that the only thing that would stem this tide would be a terrycloth ski mask.

And I am grateful. Furthermore, anyone who doesn't hesitate to hug me while I'm sweating is getting put into the will. Word.

public transportation calls me grasshopper

I'm back to riding the bus. I won't test your patience with mathematical computations (fun as they were). Suffice it to say, public transportation is now an economically significant savings over driving, for a cheapskate money-wise woman like myself. (Damn you W, for forcing out my reluctant hippie.*)

*stolen shamelessly, but with warning, from my son.

Aside from the savings are the health aspects of walking an extra 15-20 minutes a day. I walk most of that via the downtown tunnel system as the sun has been cuddling right up to Houston of late. And if all that weren't enough, I'm surrounded daily by rich anecdotal material. Which coordinates nicely with the rich aroma. Ramped up by the cuddly sun.

I have long loved a rant. The world is never at a loss for providing crazy-ass things on which to comment. For laughing and catharsis. I have also learned to treasure the ability to rage. Stay with me, you peace-loving, non-confrontational readers (both of you). There's a good ending.

Rage, if you haven't enjoyed it, is powerful. It is especially powerful for women, who while maligned as shrews have also suffered as doormats. I'm not trying to be reductionist here, there are certainly examples all over the spectrum but I think it's fair to say that traditional women have been taught to curb expressions of anger to their detriment. They haven't, to be fair, been taught not to compress that suppression into flinty shards of passive-aggression (so poetical I am today) which is dangerous, to say the least.

Okay, to get personal: I was a cowering, frightened girl-child. I was obedient and self-sacrificing for god and survival. I was afraid of my anger. Of anyone's anger. This hamstrung me on more than one occasion. So, when I found my ovaries, I expressed my rage. It was good. Really good. I wanted to beat the shit out of anyone who threatened me or mine. Empowering.

But you can't stay there. You simply can't. It eats you alive and exhausts you and sends your loved ones running.

No surprise then, my social tolerance has not been...zen-like. I find inane phone, loud restaurant and boring office conversations Mad-Den-Ing. I'm actually not proud of this because I haven't been very successful at filtering that shit out.

Enter my yogi: Metro. Since I have grown quite fond of the remaining, unscarred sections of my stomach lining and am loathe unwilling to donate these to the idiocy surrounding me, I have decided to calm the fuck down. It's ridiculous to go apeshit about behaviors over which I have zero control.

Case in point. Riding home today involved the conscious defusing of my reaction to Rash-Inducing-Cell-Phone-Lady. She spent 15 interminable minutes talking loudly to some other presumably straw-hatted crony about the bus system. The bus she missed. The bus that passed her without stopping. She was going to call Metro. Maybe. She was on the bus that didn't travel via the HOV lane against her wishes. The connection kept petering out, Janey, are you still there? Janey, you're cutting out. Then, we talked about bus stops and schedules. All this at a difficult-to-tune-out volume.

I only glared once. Then, I thought, look at the bright side: she didn't plop down next to you and drill that tedious noise into your tired head! I retracted my fangs and redirected focus towards a happy project or a plan...you could almost hear the stomach acid spigot slow to a drip.

When we hit one more cellphone dead zone, Sister Gabby finally gave up and scolded Janey (like she purposely picked a phone service that sucked on bus route 50), Look you keep cutting out and it's driving me nuts. I'll just call you later. Click.

And someone in the next row, in that under your breath/loud enough for everyone to hear says "Thank you Lord, thank you Jesus!"

And it wasn't me. Ooommm.

houston mid-june a.m.

Our vehicles were sweating this morning. Not dew-covered. Dew implies something cool and refreshing. When you wake up to a humid 75°F, it's sweat. Warm, oily car perspiration.