If you've been reading my blog for over a year, you will find this post to be a reiteration of a staunchly held policy opinion.
When it came time to moving the clocks back one hour last year (the so-called "Fall Back"), I presented a rather wordy exposition of my firmly held beliefs on Daylight Savings Time practices.
I was recently perusing another fine blog, A Blogger Around the Clock, and came across an entry highlighting recent studies which indicated that the seemingly innocuous one-hour time change may have longer-term effects than previously believed.
I, of course, used the comments section of this entry as an opportunity to share the time-changing truths I hold to be self-evident.
Then, a week later, I performed a routine vanity Google search for "yajeev" (no, Google, I did not mean rajeev, thank you very much) and found that my quote had been picked up by anthropologist and professor John Hawks and featured in his excellent blog. He tagged my comments as "humor", but I will forgive him for this small oversight.
I am honored, and I direct you here to my stump speech (much abridged from last year's version).
And, remember to turn your clocks back Saturday night. You'll have an extra hour for sleep (or keeping up with my blog).
Showing posts with label falls. Show all posts
Showing posts with label falls. Show all posts
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
A funny thing happened on the way to the fieldhouse.
I’ll continue this leg-injury-themed string of posts with a Yajeev flashback.
I am often asked about the bright pink six-inch scar on my left knee. I usually brush off the question with a short, technically correct response: “wrestling”.
I had decided to join the wrestling team in the seventh grade. I cannot recall what it was that made me think that this sort of thing was up my alley. It may have been my stellar performance in the KWF (Kids Wrestling Federation), the WWF-mimicking imaginary wrestling league founded by my childhood friend, Ed. My best friend Justin (ring name: White Tiger) and I (ring name: Black Panther—I swear I came by the name honest—I had no idea there was an organization by the same name) dominated the other wrestlers in the federation (most of whom were younger or smaller than we were)… my brother was the Texas Hillbilly… Ed was the Executioner… Dave was The Wavedog (he was truly a legend in his own mind… he moved away to Detroit. When he returned to Youngstown to see old chums, he insisted on keeping his visit a surprise, revealing himself to his friends by sprinting into a makeshift wrestling ring in our backyard to his very own theme music, Eye of the Tiger). Ed always told us we’d lose to the wrestler whose ring name was the same as his birth name: Jesse. Justin and I never met this kid, and, to this day, I believe Jesse to be a figment of Ed’s imagination.
I digress.
For some reason, I thought I’d like the non-professional variety of wrestling.
I made it through a couple of hot, sticky practices and quickly learned that my eminence in the pre-pro wrestling circuit in no way translated to success in the fieldhouse. On the third evening of wrestling practice, I was walking to the fieldhouse with a few of my co-wrestlers (they refused to be called tag team partners), when I stepped on a patch of black ice. My leg twisted, I felt a pop in my knee, and I was down.
The next day, I was on crutches. People asked me how I hurt myself. I tried to give the one word answer indicated above: “wrestling”. It didn’t work, however, when other wrestlers were around to hear me being asked. They relished the opportunity to describe my embarrassing non-wrestling-related injury.
That was the end of my wrestling career and the beginning of a string of non-sports related knee injuries that culminated in surgery my freshman year of high school. The most humiliating injury came at a church youth group event. We were playing an icebreaker game called “Mingle.” The rules were simple. Everyone had to mill around in the crowd of youth repeating the words “mingle mingle mingle”. At his whim, the youth leader would call out a number and the mingling youths would have to immediately form small groups of that number. For example, we adolescents would be milling about, mumbling “mingle mingle mingle mingle mingle ming-“ and the youth leader would shout “THREE!” Immediately, frantically, the youths would attempt to cluster into groups of threes. Any leftover kids who couldn’t find two other friends to cluster with would be eliminated. And on we would go until the group was winnowed down to two lucky young souls.
Well, we were two or three rounds into a competitive game of Mingle when Pastor Rich yelled “FOUR!” The next thing that was heard is normally not a part of the Mingle game: a blood-curdling yelp from a pained 15-year-old: “AHH, MY KNEE!” And I was down, my knee dislocated, the first Mingler in the history of the game to suffer an injury requiring medical attention.
I had surgery that fall. I’ve got a big red scar to show for it.
The doctors fixed my knee, but they could do nothing to prevent the multitude of unprovoked falls and injuries I would experience the rest of my days.
It is my lot.
I am often asked about the bright pink six-inch scar on my left knee. I usually brush off the question with a short, technically correct response: “wrestling”.
I had decided to join the wrestling team in the seventh grade. I cannot recall what it was that made me think that this sort of thing was up my alley. It may have been my stellar performance in the KWF (Kids Wrestling Federation), the WWF-mimicking imaginary wrestling league founded by my childhood friend, Ed. My best friend Justin (ring name: White Tiger) and I (ring name: Black Panther—I swear I came by the name honest—I had no idea there was an organization by the same name) dominated the other wrestlers in the federation (most of whom were younger or smaller than we were)… my brother was the Texas Hillbilly… Ed was the Executioner… Dave was The Wavedog (he was truly a legend in his own mind… he moved away to Detroit. When he returned to Youngstown to see old chums, he insisted on keeping his visit a surprise, revealing himself to his friends by sprinting into a makeshift wrestling ring in our backyard to his very own theme music, Eye of the Tiger). Ed always told us we’d lose to the wrestler whose ring name was the same as his birth name: Jesse. Justin and I never met this kid, and, to this day, I believe Jesse to be a figment of Ed’s imagination.
I digress.
For some reason, I thought I’d like the non-professional variety of wrestling.
I made it through a couple of hot, sticky practices and quickly learned that my eminence in the pre-pro wrestling circuit in no way translated to success in the fieldhouse. On the third evening of wrestling practice, I was walking to the fieldhouse with a few of my co-wrestlers (they refused to be called tag team partners), when I stepped on a patch of black ice. My leg twisted, I felt a pop in my knee, and I was down.
The next day, I was on crutches. People asked me how I hurt myself. I tried to give the one word answer indicated above: “wrestling”. It didn’t work, however, when other wrestlers were around to hear me being asked. They relished the opportunity to describe my embarrassing non-wrestling-related injury.
That was the end of my wrestling career and the beginning of a string of non-sports related knee injuries that culminated in surgery my freshman year of high school. The most humiliating injury came at a church youth group event. We were playing an icebreaker game called “Mingle.” The rules were simple. Everyone had to mill around in the crowd of youth repeating the words “mingle mingle mingle”. At his whim, the youth leader would call out a number and the mingling youths would have to immediately form small groups of that number. For example, we adolescents would be milling about, mumbling “mingle mingle mingle mingle mingle ming-“ and the youth leader would shout “THREE!” Immediately, frantically, the youths would attempt to cluster into groups of threes. Any leftover kids who couldn’t find two other friends to cluster with would be eliminated. And on we would go until the group was winnowed down to two lucky young souls.
Well, we were two or three rounds into a competitive game of Mingle when Pastor Rich yelled “FOUR!” The next thing that was heard is normally not a part of the Mingle game: a blood-curdling yelp from a pained 15-year-old: “AHH, MY KNEE!” And I was down, my knee dislocated, the first Mingler in the history of the game to suffer an injury requiring medical attention.
I had surgery that fall. I’ve got a big red scar to show for it.
The doctors fixed my knee, but they could do nothing to prevent the multitude of unprovoked falls and injuries I would experience the rest of my days.
It is my lot.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
But wait, there's more to blog about!
So last night, I was in the middle of composing a new blog post entitled “In Praise of Rulebreakers” thanking the anonymous fellows who were illegally driving down the road marked “authorized delivery vehicles only” (think: UPS, FedEx, singing telegrams) when I (birthday cake in tow) took the now infamous ankle-spraining tumble (see my previous entry). These two Samaritans stopped their car, thereby increasing the risk of being spotted and apprehended by campus law enforcement officers, and insisted on driving me to my lab.
Mid-blogging, the wife and I decided to go out for ice cream. I saved what I had written so far, and (with some pain) put on my shoes and socks. My wife and Watson (our faux labradoodle) were the first to go outside. By the time I had made it to the door, Watson had found the neighbor dog, and they were frolicking by our front steps. I reached down to pet the neighbor dog, when my uninjured ankle did a little wobble wobble. I kid you not: I sprained my second ankle in two days. This time, I fell the distance of two steps to the grassy lawn in front of our house.
“Are you okay?” my wife asked, rushing to help me up.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Let’s just get to the car,” I replied, hurrying to my feet, embarrassed by my most recent collision with the ground. Our neighbor hastened to the scene of the crash, but I quickly brushed off the dirt and grass, and darted (as best I could on two swollen, unyielding ankles) to the car.
This morning, I have two bruised ankles, and an ego to match. I probably won’t be leaving this couch for a while.
Mid-blogging, the wife and I decided to go out for ice cream. I saved what I had written so far, and (with some pain) put on my shoes and socks. My wife and Watson (our faux labradoodle) were the first to go outside. By the time I had made it to the door, Watson had found the neighbor dog, and they were frolicking by our front steps. I reached down to pet the neighbor dog, when my uninjured ankle did a little wobble wobble. I kid you not: I sprained my second ankle in two days. This time, I fell the distance of two steps to the grassy lawn in front of our house.
“Are you okay?” my wife asked, rushing to help me up.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Let’s just get to the car,” I replied, hurrying to my feet, embarrassed by my most recent collision with the ground. Our neighbor hastened to the scene of the crash, but I quickly brushed off the dirt and grass, and darted (as best I could on two swollen, unyielding ankles) to the car.
This morning, I have two bruised ankles, and an ego to match. I probably won’t be leaving this couch for a while.
Friday, August 24, 2007
“Then at least I’d have something to blog about.”
Those were my penultimate words in the cell phone conversation I had with my wife moments before I got out of my car with the birthday cake she had finely crafted for a fellow lab member.
The cake was a culinary sensation. It was bi-layered and chocolate, stuffed with a vanilla-pudding-based banana cream filling, topped with delectable icing, and drizzled with chocolate fudge. A sight to behold, painstakingly assembled with meticulous attention to every last excruciating detail.
The night before, she had spent literally hours preparing and putting the finishing touches on the dessert. Opting against a standard Tupperware-style container for cake transport, she carefully packaged it within an optimally sized special cake box to prevent accidental contact with container edges, preserving detail along the confection’s perimeter.
I typically park about half mile from the lab. “Couldn’t you park any closer?” she had asked, fearing the distance was too great a span she could expect me to traverse without incident.
“Not unless I pay ten dollars. Relax, I’ll be careful.”
As I turned into the parking lot this morning, cake in tow, my cell phone rang. It was her. She wished to remind to me exercise extreme caution when transporting the precious cargo from door to door.
“Be careful,” she repeated. “You never know when a little mouse will trip you up and send you to the ground.”
“Ha,” I laughed, insulted by her doubt in my agility and coordination. I then uttered the dooming words at the title of this post and bid her goodbye.
Amused and slightly irked by her skepticism, I carefully gathered my belongings and the chocolate delight. Through the parking lot, down the steps of the garage, around the corner, I walked, gingerly, even daintily, watchful for curbs, mice, and distractions of all varieties. “Left, right, left, right,” I uttered to myself, concentrating alternately on the forward motions of each foot.
I must have been thinking about the wrong foot, or maybe it was a tiny mouse that scurried around my feet outside of my peripheral vision, because all of a sudden, I know not how it began, but I was falling— no, hurtling— forward. The pavement-aimed descent seemed to occur in slow motion. One thing was certain, though: I was not going to release my grip on the cake box. I began to lift the box (lovingly marked “this side up” to preempt careless transport or placement) over my head to prevent it from crashing to ground in front of me when—crunch—an intense pain exploded in my ankle. The rest of the plunge occurred in shaky-cam fast-forward as my limbs flailed uncontrollably and the box burst forth from my hands. It must have experienced about 2 seconds of weightless air-time before it crashed and rolled.
Before the falling object that was my person came to its final rest, my body parts strewn unnaturally in three dimensions, I realized what had was now happening: I had ruined the cake and fulfilled my own prophecy—I now had something to blog about.
For those interested in the rest of the story:
* My lab mates still happily devoured the dessert formerly known as chocolate cake. Fortunately, my ever-creative spouse, in unaccounted-for prescience, had separately packaged little signs that said: “Happy Birthday!” attached to popsicle sticks. Before serving the cakeslop, I neatly inserted them into the pudding/cake/banana amalgam.
* My ankle is sprained. I could place little weight on it after I fell. Tonight, it can bear almost none.
* Both my wife and the birthday girl forgive my misstep. Pretty hard to hold a grudge against a hobbling mess such as myself. (My wife insists: “Give us more credit. Even if you hadn’t hurt yourself, we wouldn’t have been mad.” She pauses. “Although, hurting yourself doesn’t hurt your cause.”)
The cake was a culinary sensation. It was bi-layered and chocolate, stuffed with a vanilla-pudding-based banana cream filling, topped with delectable icing, and drizzled with chocolate fudge. A sight to behold, painstakingly assembled with meticulous attention to every last excruciating detail.
The night before, she had spent literally hours preparing and putting the finishing touches on the dessert. Opting against a standard Tupperware-style container for cake transport, she carefully packaged it within an optimally sized special cake box to prevent accidental contact with container edges, preserving detail along the confection’s perimeter.
I typically park about half mile from the lab. “Couldn’t you park any closer?” she had asked, fearing the distance was too great a span she could expect me to traverse without incident.
“Not unless I pay ten dollars. Relax, I’ll be careful.”
As I turned into the parking lot this morning, cake in tow, my cell phone rang. It was her. She wished to remind to me exercise extreme caution when transporting the precious cargo from door to door.
“Be careful,” she repeated. “You never know when a little mouse will trip you up and send you to the ground.”
“Ha,” I laughed, insulted by her doubt in my agility and coordination. I then uttered the dooming words at the title of this post and bid her goodbye.
Amused and slightly irked by her skepticism, I carefully gathered my belongings and the chocolate delight. Through the parking lot, down the steps of the garage, around the corner, I walked, gingerly, even daintily, watchful for curbs, mice, and distractions of all varieties. “Left, right, left, right,” I uttered to myself, concentrating alternately on the forward motions of each foot.
I must have been thinking about the wrong foot, or maybe it was a tiny mouse that scurried around my feet outside of my peripheral vision, because all of a sudden, I know not how it began, but I was falling— no, hurtling— forward. The pavement-aimed descent seemed to occur in slow motion. One thing was certain, though: I was not going to release my grip on the cake box. I began to lift the box (lovingly marked “this side up” to preempt careless transport or placement) over my head to prevent it from crashing to ground in front of me when—crunch—an intense pain exploded in my ankle. The rest of the plunge occurred in shaky-cam fast-forward as my limbs flailed uncontrollably and the box burst forth from my hands. It must have experienced about 2 seconds of weightless air-time before it crashed and rolled.
Before the falling object that was my person came to its final rest, my body parts strewn unnaturally in three dimensions, I realized what had was now happening: I had ruined the cake and fulfilled my own prophecy—I now had something to blog about.
For those interested in the rest of the story:
* My lab mates still happily devoured the dessert formerly known as chocolate cake. Fortunately, my ever-creative spouse, in unaccounted-for prescience, had separately packaged little signs that said: “Happy Birthday!” attached to popsicle sticks. Before serving the cakeslop, I neatly inserted them into the pudding/cake/banana amalgam.
* My ankle is sprained. I could place little weight on it after I fell. Tonight, it can bear almost none.
* Both my wife and the birthday girl forgive my misstep. Pretty hard to hold a grudge against a hobbling mess such as myself. (My wife insists: “Give us more credit. Even if you hadn’t hurt yourself, we wouldn’t have been mad.” She pauses. “Although, hurting yourself doesn’t hurt your cause.”)
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