Intrusive Thoughts

"I have to make a list, when I do my meditation, just sort of go over a list of things before I start that I think are going to break my concentration."

"I'm pretty sure," I add, "that 'puppy-monkey-baby' is gonna be on the list tomorrow."

When I'm cleaning up after the Super Bowl had endedm I find myself chanting quietly to myself, "Puppymonkeybaby, puppymonkeybaby."

Katie stops me, "Don't you get that stuck in my head."

She Knew

I've got it all planned out: if one of the guilt mongers hawking Amnesty International tries to stop me as I'm walking down the street, I'm going to point over their shoulder behind them with a look of horror and scream, "Jesus Christ, what the hell is that!?" Then, when they turn to look, I slip around the other side, and I'm home free.

My heart rate spikes as I walk into their sphere of attack, and the woman of the pair (they always hunt in pairs) locks eyes with me.

But all she says is, "Hi," and I pass without incident.

Expertise

I ask for a roll, toasted and buttered. With a practiced motion he slices one in half and tosses it onto the conveyor belt that constantly cycles bread, bagels, and rolls over the glowing red electric elements inside the hell of the toaster.

Once this is done, he takes a moment to look over his station, paying special attention to his cutting area, which is made up of two regular sized cutting boards fit together tightly to make one big chopping area. He notices a slight irregularity, invisible to me, and lifts up one of the boards to reveal a towel underneath, out of which he smooths an equally invisible wrinkle before laying the board back down on top of it and fitting the boards back together with an almost imperceptible seam.

Subway Slashings

He gets up from his seat unexpectedly, between stations as the train slowly trundles downtown, and sort of flails up the car to the pole where I'm standing. I do that half-unconscious pivot counter-cross that New Yorkers do when there's room to move in a subway, but he still manages to end up standing too close to me as he grabs the pole.

His energy is all spiky and too big for the contained space, but I try to focus on his hand (beautiful dark brown skin shading to pale on his palm) as a part of my brain wonders if his other hand might be feeling in his pocket for a razor.

The train rolls to a halt still in the darkness of the tunnel, and he sighs in exasperation, leans impatiently against the door, then thrashes down the car to yet another seat next to a woman, who shifts uncomfortably to give him room.

Why Downtown?

I come down the stairs to go to work and the guy who begs in front of our door waggles his eyebrows at me significantly. When I turn to look at what he's indicating, I see a fairly nice electronic keyboard propped up against my stoop.

"All I need's a cable," he says, "maybe get one downtown."

"Yeah, downtown!" I enthuse.

Priorities

"The Super Bowl is this weekend?" I ask.

"Yes. I have told you that, several times."

"I'm sorry, I have trouble keeping that in my brain, sometimes."

Mundane Mindfulness

If the water pressure is too high, the curved cups of the ice cube tray act like parabolas and shoot jets of water up and everywhere, splashing the counters and the floor.

Too low, though, and it just takes forever to fill the tray. There has to be some kind of balance.

I move the tray evenly through the cold water streaming steadily from the tap, holding it at an angle to fill each of the cups and letting them overflow into the next, all the while wondering why I'm paying such close attention to such a mundane task.