Observations – Page 23

March 30, 2017

Winter Attire

scouts I am not from Ohio. I spent my adolescence in Texas. Consequently, upon moving to Ohio, I discovered cold winters to be a bit of a novelty. I certainly wasn’t a stranger to cold, by my experience with it was primarily derived from Boy Scout camping trips in the mountains of New Mexico. As a result of these very specific circumstances, I learned how to dress appropriately for the elements because I couldn’t escape by going inside. Apparently this respect for the natural word is a bit uncommon in our overly-comfortable lives.

Upon moving to Ohio, I gradually realized that I needed to wear a coat/jacket 5 months of the year. That’s right, almost half the time I need some sort of protection from the cold. What does this mean to any self-respecting young man who mildly cared about his appearance? It means, if I am to wear a coat constantly, it should at least have a modicum of style.

Like most people at the time, I had a tactical fleece coat with a brightly-colored nylon outer shell. In hindsight, I find it a bit odd that this is still the general preference, since I highly doubt that anyone wearing one is about to depart on some expedition into the wilderness. A tactical coat might be effective, but it looks juvenile when worn out of context. For example, it doesn’t pair well with slacks and a button-down. And yet, for those who even bother to wear a coat at all (more on this later), it is the go-to combination.

Boy Scouts has paramilitary origins (i.e. scouting). And unlike the scouts programs in more liberal regions, scouts in Texas definitely honored its beginnings: we marched in uniform, carrying our gear; we hiked to exhaustion; we trained with rifles; we routinely practiced field medicine. You get the idea. And I believe that my involvement in this program as a youth still influences me in adulthood–even though I’ve always remained a civilian.

Ultimately, through some combination of the above factors (sense of style, function, and regimented discipline), when it’s cold, I turn to a garment which embodies this function/style fusion: my trenchcoat.

Ah yes, no doubt you’re having visions of school shootings now, or flashers, or Nazis, or…The Matrix (people still think it’s funny and original to call me Neo (it’s not)). I find it curious that a garment has become an icon for the violent and sexually deviant. I’d like to say that I’m neither (fairly certain). But the trenchcoat does has military origins, and was therefore born of practicality.

Granted the ones I wear now have been adapted from their original purposes, but the protection they offer is unequaled. They cover the whole torso and upper legs, have multiple layers of differing fabric, and an air gap. In terms of coverage and insulation, you couldn’t ask for a more effective coat. My point being–this type of winter wear has form and function, and a good choice for the modern man to look well-dressed, respect nature’s brutality, and to posses the discipline to wear the appropriate clothing despite comfort and convenience.

As an aside, I’ve also noticed that many don’t even bother with winter attire at all. I’m definitely the only one in a building of ~1400 people who wears a trenchcoat, yes, but I’m also one of a small number who puts on any coat. It was 18 degrees outside recently and I only saw hoodies. I’m not sure if this is common in the Midwest in general, or if this is an Ohio thing. But, it has been my experience that these regional natives never wear winter-appropriate clothing, and yet they complain about the weather constantly.

Why do functional and stylish garments fall into disuse? I could make this same argument for the fedora, but even I’m not quite ready to go that route.

So, you might look at me strangely, but I’m dressed appropriately for the weather, but when your car breaks down, it’ll be your frozen corpse on the roadside.

–Simon

March 25, 2017

Wet Bags of Cement

That’s what my neighbor (the village elder) likened them to: wet bags of cement. The context was teaching children how to swim. And until recent developments, I would have to agree. I would watch my daughter jump into the pool, and immediately sink like a wet bag of cement–quite the trust exercise, considering.

When I received swimming instructions, my parents had one source of income–my dad’s salary as an associate professor–and 3 kids. My wife and I have two salaries–both from banks–and one kid. We’re certainly not rolling in dough, and the current economic circumstances still pale in comparison to the prosperity of the 90s, but we’re managing to keep the kid in a private swimming school, as opposed to the YMCA (where I learned to swim). Now, I was of the belief that a kid would gradually learn to swim on their own through mere exposure to water, and felt that I should just repeatedly push my kid into a pool. My wife disagreed. And, I do have a friend who won’t go near water, citing early memories of a vindictive uncle who would repeatedly push him into the pool, so it’s possible I could be wrong in this matter. But ultimately, both my wife and I love the water, so I was easily swayed into getting the kid some professional training.

And you do get what you pay for. Often does she receive individual instruction, rather than suffering through a large class. She’s progressed quickly. I find it surprising that a 5-year-old can freestyle swim without assistance. But, since this is a pricey private club, so to speak, the company at said pool is a little–privileged? I’m not sure if that’s the right word, so I’ll try to paint the scene.

The place draws a younger crowd, generally consisting of Millennials. Apparently times are better to the young than they were a decade ago, or younger parents are willing to spend more money on their children now, or they have fewer kids, or some combination of factors. There’s also a class of newborns, wherein a group of fathers jump around with babies whilst mothers watch through a window from the air-conditioned viewing room. I guess it’s good to see a generation of fathers more involved in their kid’s lives than previously, but it also annoys me a bit, as many of the mothers aren’t involved here at all. I generally avoid over-thinking gender roles, preferring to accept changing duties as simple human adaptations for the present circumstances, so whatever. But still, if the times are forcing women universally into the workforce, and men are responding in turn to take on more of the traditionally feminine duties, then we have the benefit of living in more egalitarian times, for better or for worse. Maybe it just annoys me that we patronize men for spending any time with their children at all, as if the bar was set so low that you get an award for making an appearance with the kid, as if it was something we didn’t posses the capacity for all along–something similar to how it annoys my wife that women are heralded in the workplace as brave for even being there at all, as if they didn’t posses the capacity for it all along.

I’m rambling. I’ll move on.

Related to this, is the young men that draw from the perceived boost in sex appeal that they acquire from being seen spending time with their kid, in an environment where such men are expected to be shirtless. Enter: the hangs-his-towel-around-his-waist-slightly-too-low guy who, upon exiting the pool, then struts around the changing rooms with his child. My hand twitched, but I did not push him back into the pool.

I was forced into a conversation with one man while each watching our child through the glass. He complimented my attire. I was taken aback momentarily, as I am not accustomed to casual conversation, nor receiving compliments. What surprised me more, however, was that I was wearing khakis, a polo shirt, and loafers–not exactly Brooks Brothers. But to the Millennials, normally seen in hoodies and sweat pants, I imagine this was unusual. It is always nice to receive compliments though, so we chatted for a bit. Apparently he works in a kitchen knife manufacturing plant, and drives around 50 miles every Saturday to take his kids to swimming lessons. Maybe we do still have a decent manufacturing industry after all.

My final observation as we left, and the original point of this post which I never got around to until now, was the window-paint advertisement that the pool is kept at 90 degrees. I was immediately afflicted with indignation. That temperature presents no realistic scenario. No one is falling out of boats into 90 degree water. Also concerning is that water this warm will not trigger the mammalian diving reflex. As an experienced swimmer, I understand and can recognize when this metabolic conversion occurs and how to benefit from it. It takes practice to do so, but can only happen in water cooler than 74 degrees (if memory serves). Because of this, my child isn’t learning a physiological survival response. I’m considering bringing this up, but maybe that would just be wasted effort.

toohot — Maybe on the Rio Negro during the dry season?

I guess the point of my post is that I dislike Saturday morning.

–Simon

March 21, 2017

Here’s Johnny!

There’s two things I learned from having moved to the suburbs. First, everyone wants to meet me–not necessarily because people are interested in building their social network, but because I might be an axe murderer (more on this later), and admittedly that’s information I’d want to know about my new neighbor too. Second, older men assume I have no idea what I’m doing. In all honesty, this second point I had already known. Even I had to suppress the urge to run out and tell the neighbor’s son, who had taken advantage of a warm day for some target practice, that he was shooting his bow wrong. But still, this concept became even more pronounced than I had anticipated. Maybe with our forced vicinity, thus lifted the veil of respectful indifference to which, having lived in apartments, I was so accustomed.

Shortly after purchasing our house, BP (the oil company) paid us a visit. The property’s southeastern border was under an easement, as a pipeline was buried there. This suddenly became an issue as the trees, which had been growing there for at least 50 years, were on the easement, and BP assured us that “the government” was now requiring aerial line-of-sight assessment of the pipeline’s path. We found out about the easement the day before signing, but after discussion, decided it was not sufficient to deter us from completing the purchase. And now, suddenly those trees were a problem and had to go. I mentally weighed who I trusted less: an oil company, or my own government. This question, when posited to my contemporaries, inevitably elicits laughter.

Whatever. At least this was happening before we did anything with the yard. And besides, they were ripping out the honeysuckle–a project which would have taken us years. One problem had been traded for another, but we’d also have more sun now for a vegetable garden, so ultimately we came out ahead.

Two oaks and two pines later, I had a rather large pile of wood. And in a time when I was otherwise occupied with the house’s interior, I figured that the wood could wait. My neighbors, however, disagreed. Like an unkempt lawn, the sight of un-split and un-stacked timber violated the order demanded of a suburban yard. Three neighbors knocked on my door to inquire–two whom wanted the wood, and one who was simply curious. I decided then that I would begin chopping. Surely that would send the message that the wood was not available, I was bringing order to chaos, and therefore people would stop asking me about it, right?

Wrong. Four more neighbors approached me in the act of chopping, and each time we’d have a general discussion about BP, the easements, that’s a lot of wood, and boy do I have a lot of work to do. The village elder, as I call him (the neighbor across the street), lent me a second wedge. Another neighbor’s son offered to do some of the chopping (I assume he was after some cash). But it was the man with the maul who created the most awkwardness.

One day I was chopping away, and I caught a glimpse of a man walking through the yards. Apparently, the children in this neighborhood have learned from their parents that property lines don’t define where you can walk (see the Get Off My Lawn! series). No matter, he was on a mission of good faith. I could tell this because he was carrying a large axe. Ordinarily, that would seem less than friendly, but I took it in proper context, and besides, I had an axe too, and I’m much younger than he. Alas, he was not seeking an axe fight.

It was a maul, to be exact, and he felt that it was a necessary tool to aid in this Sisyphean task–the missing tool that I so desperately needed. Honor-bound to a stranger’s courtesy, I accepted the boon, and used it with limited success for the remainder of the day. Ultimately the wood was just too green, so the benefits of the maul fell short. Then, with the weekend at an end, it was time to return it.

It was at this moment that I realized I didn’t know where he lived. I had a vague notion though, and so I took off on the way from which I had seen him come–through the yards, disregarding property lines the way he had (hey, I live here now too). During the journey, I casually waltzed through a backyard in which a woman lay in a hammock, talking on her phone. It was an uncomfortable moment, me a random man bursting through the bushes with a large melee weapon, but she didn’t acknowledge me. I hadn’t thought I was being particularly stealthy, but people on their phones drive into emergency vehicles and stationary objects, so I may have been at an advantage. Still, maul or not, I’m a gentleman, so I cleared my throat and lifted the maul in salutation. Yet even after that, she didn’t acknowledge me. I know she had to of seen me–she was facing me. But, she was a very attractive young woman, and in my experience it was nearly impossible to get their attention under any circumstance, short of being a famous athlete, actor, slaying dragons, or wearing a suit. And I was not wearing a suit. Still, I figured under the circumstances that she would at least acknowledge my existence. I figured wrong.

So I continued my trek, tromping through her garden in the process. Yes–that was passive aggressive. I mean, I could have charged and killed her, but she was so self-assured that the thought hadn’t cross her mind. Pity, there was a time when women found me creepy. I guess becoming a family man had lessened that vibe.

Fortunately my feelings of self-doubt were assuaged when, reasonably certain that I had found the man’s house, I knocked on the door. The wooden door opened, leaving the outer glass door between us. There I stood, maul slung over a shoulder. But the resident, a woman, stopped, completely immobilized, yet she was the first to initiate dialog. It was something like this: “Yeah…that’s not creepy at all.”

And I, never one to miss the opportunity to use humor in a tense situation, replied: “Heeeeeere’s Johnny!” Although, I immediately followed with a hasty explanation, so as to not get shot. Apparently, her husband (not at home at the time), had failed to mention that he had lent me the maul.

Months later, we stopped at their house while trick-or-treating. She then mentioned that I was far less intimidating sans-maul, and with a child in tow. We all shared a laugh, but I know for certain that she’ll never forget me.

–Simon