Step

Why is it that some tea bags sink immediately into the hot water while others float on the top, slowly soaking in the water before the take the plunge?

Why is it that this step here:

 – and not any of the ones above it or below it – made me sad?

I’ve heard people say, “I can’t complain.”

I’m jealous of these people.

Unless, of course, they mean that they have plenty to complain about, but they cannot bring themselves to do it because of some kind of psycho-emotional block.  Or because a secret society like Quitters Inc from the 1985 movie Cat’s Eye is listening in on their every word and if they complain Quitters Inc will cut off their wife’s pinky.  Or they live in Russia where if you complain about the wrong thing you die.  I’m not jealous of those people.  I’m jealous of the ones whose life balance tips so far into the side of AWESOME that they have nothing to complain about.

I can complain.  I don’t much because it doesn’t do much good.

Ok, I complain here on this blog all the time.  But that’s because you’re me.  You and I are.  And we are the only one’s reading this blog.

But I don’t complain much outside of this blog.  About once a month or so I let it go on some poor soul.  A friend or my wife.  And they offer kind words of hope and support.  But it all seems like air.  As I’m sure my monthly break downs sound to them.  Periodic rants of how terrible a thing is and promises to leave said thing grow emptier with each passing day that those promises are unkept and those terrible things are not abandoned.  So I have no one but myself to blame that those periodic words of kindness and support seem so meaningless.  Invisible flowers thrown to an imaginary matador.

I went down to my office building’s snack bar.  On the way down I passed the above referenced step.  I looked at it for about a minute, trying to decide why that step made me sad.  Probably because since I vowed to quit this job – years ago – I’ve passed this step almost as many times as I’ve passed days.  Days I could have left this job and sought greener pastures.  Days I could have been doing anything but this job.

Maybe that’s it.  Or maybe it’s because for a split second I thought of making a vow to myself.  Right then and there.  I was going to vow that this would be my last time crossing that step.  And from that moment on I would never cross that step again.  But immediately the coward in me said, “You can’t do it.”  And, “You aren’t ready.”  And finally, “You’ll just be back here tomorrow and you’ll take the elevator.  Or maybe the other staircase.  But eventually you’ll be stepping over this step again.”  And I lost my fleeting resolve.  

And a hair fell out.  And another turned grey.  And I walked down the rest of the stairs that don't make me quite as sad as the one above.

K-Pop

I’m sure it happens to every generation.  Their parents don’t understand – or won’t understand – the things that they are “in to.”  So the kids get frustrated and rebel, embracing more holistically that which the parents don’t understand.  And subsequently they promise to never be so out of touch with their children, but they are anyway.

I was lucky.  My parents were fairly liberal.  They never questioned my or my siblings' music.  They rarely questioned our fashion sense.  Our hair was ours to style.  Pretty much anything to do with culture they let us have our own way.  But then again, unlike my siblings, I was pretty slow to notice anything cultural.  I was so entrenched in video games and comic books that I didn’t notice the culture or counter culture all around me.  I didn’t care about my clothes.  In seventh grade my teacher teased me for wearing bell bottoms.  It was 1987.  I didn’t even comb my hair – no exaggeration – until my sophomore year. And I didn’t discover New Wave music until 1994; arguably ten years after the genre's halcyon days.

Still, I had the occasional parental bout and I had more than a few friends who clashed with their parents.  So I promised I was going to be understanding.  I was never going to be one of those parents who said, “That music is too loud,” or “That movie made no sense,” or “Those clothes are ridiculous.”  I’ve done pretty well so far.

So, long story short, my daughter has gotten into K-Pop.  In case you do not know, K-Pop is an abbreviation for Korean Pop music.  I’ve been made to listen to at least three different bands.  How many songs I could not guess.  I have to admit that the dancing and the music and singing are certainly professional.  It is all appealing to the eyes and ears.

But the lyrics.  Ah the lyrics.

I don’t speak Korean.  Though Korean is the second most spoken language in Georgia, my home state, it has never been one of my top languages to learn.  Now I find that I may be forced to learn the language or I’m going to wind up being one of those parents who – very honestly – says, “I can’t understand a darn thing they’re sayin’!”