My 8-Minute Obsession

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is serious business, but it has become part of our popular culture; these days, it seems, everyone is OCD about something. One of mine is doors. For some reason, I need to check a door three times when leaving the house or going to bed. Among OCDs, it is pretty minor; in fact, it probably doesn't even qualify as OCD in the clinical sense. I guess it is more of an obsession.

Obsession is an interesting thing. It can take on many forms. You can obsess about people, about jobs, about money...there is no limit to what people can turn into the objects of their obsessions. Managed properly, obsessions are quite harmless and can even be harnessed into positive outcomes. Left unfettered, though, they can become very destructive, both to the person who has the obsession and anyone coming into contact with it.

I've been in that situation. You see, I have an 8-minute obsession. It all started in the 9th grade, when a friend of mine convinced me to run track--why he was doing it, or why he thought I would enjoy it, I have no idea. But run I did, and I managed to find a hobby that would, at times, become my primary obsession.

First of all, let me say that I have never been all that good of a runner. The two years that I ran track (9th & 11th grades) and the two that I ran cross country (11th & 12th) I was, at best, slightly worse than average. But I enjoyed the actual act of running, and I enjoyed hanging out with my teammates. About the only time I could have been considered a decent runner was a few years in my late 20s and early 30s, when I placed highly in my age group in some local runs.

I also don't really consider myself a runner; I am more of a jogger. The difference between the two varies from person to person and running magazine to running blog; for me, the distinction between the two is 8:00. That's not an hour. That's a pace. In my mind, if you can run miles consistently at a sub-eight minute pace, then you are a runner; if your pace is slower than that mark, you are a jogger.

At various times in my adult life, I have actually qualified as a runner--well, according to my definition, anyway When I lived in Indianapolis, I ran the mini-marathon a few times, and my average pace was in the 7:40-7:45 range. For shorter distances, my pace could get down to about 7:00 per mile. But there was a cost. I had to run pretty much everyday, and I would get antsy if I had to miss even one session. My running watch was always close by, and I would religiously track every run...even making sure I wouldn't cut any corners for fear of gypping myself out of even 1/100 of a mile. Yes, you could say I was obsessed with that damn 8:00.

These days I run exclusively because I enjoy it (some of you would consider that another form of mental illness). And while I like to improve as a jogger/runner, I have to be very wary of becoming slave to that magical 8:00. During the winter, I use a treadmill and cannot help but notice my pace. I methodically increase it all winter so I am close to running shape by the time I can start going outside regularly (in northern Indiana, that's about mid-May for me). But once I get outside, I pretty much abandon the stopwatch and Google Maps on the PC and just go. It is very difficult after a long winter of pacing, and, yes, on occasion I will time myself to see how I am doing, but mostly my running is a true exercise in letting go.

Writing is a bad mother (shut your mouth)

With apologies to Isaac Hayes for that title, writing really can be a pain in the ass. As many of my friends know, I was recently wed (about six weeks ago), and my bride and I find ourselves in the unenviable position of living in different area and ZIP codes (those of you who are thinking "She has no idea how good she's got it..."--shut your mouth). To make the time apart more palatable, and to keep me from driving her crazy, she has gently recommended that I start writing blog pieces again--at least one per week. Not that either of us (well, actually, me) think that what I write will interest anyone other than myself, but it may make for a good creative outlet.

So I am faced with the age-old dilemma: of what shall I write? Back in 2008, I wrote about politics, simply because it was easy fodder. But right now I am tired of all the sniping and bickering and just wish the hell Obama had called the pussy Dems onto the carpet when he had both houses and just ramrodded his programs through. He didn't, and now we are paying the price. So politics is too annoying to think about.

Sports. Hmmm...I used to follow sports a lot more closely than I do now. Now it, like politics, is pretty much all about the accumulation of wealth--greedy players fighting with greedier owners about money that those of us who should have more sense keep funneling into their coffers. Seat licenses...really?

Economics? Well, that is something I am no expert at, but that certainly doesn't stop a lot of the loudmouths who work out (even if it is only their jaws) at the gym that I do from pontificating on it--whether or not they have any idea of the difference between a consumption tax and a sales tax. ("It's a tax, goddamit it! It's evil!") And if I hear one more person who normally sings the praises of capitalism bitch about the rising cost of gas....I guess unrestrained capitalism is good only when it benefits you, eh?

Damn, I sound like a crotchety old man. But now that I have gotten a fair amount of bitching out of my system--for tonight, anyway--perhaps that will clear the air (or my system) and enable me to figure out (I had originally typed "ascertain" but for some reason changed it, then felt compelled to explain it...) about that which I shall write (no apologies to Churchill there).

If you read this, I am thankful. If you don't, you will be.

Dehumanizing Technology

I remember at one time watching a TV show about a people who believed that taking photographs of them stole their souls. It was one of those Twilight Zone-type shows; the rub of it was, when the photos were developed (yes, kids, there was a time when photos were taken on film that had to be developed), the people whose photos had been secretly taken (members of a warrior tribe of some sort) came to life and attacked the person/people who had "stolen" them.

This came to mind as I was going through a tote of photographs I have taken or received over the years. As I sorted through countless pictures of tailgates and forest scenes and wondering why I had felt those moments significant enough to capture on film, I started thinking about the whole concept of photography and its effect on our humanity. (Pretty heady stuff for a snow day, I realize.)

Wikipedia will tell you that the concept of photography has been around since ancient times, but that the first permanent photograph was produced around 1826--less than 200 years ago. Not very long given the expanse of human history. That prompted me to wonder--how did we as people preserve memories--images--of the people and things we cared about prior to that?

Well, the wealthy sat for professional portrait painters, and others painted scenes that would be preserved for as long as their canvases lasted. But what about the rest of the people? How did they preserve memories? The shockingly simple answer is they talked and they remembered. They shared stories and descriptions of others who had come before them. While these may not have been as acutely accurate as a photograph, they placed an image in their minds that would not easily be erased.

And today? Hey, grab a photo on your cell phone and e-mail it to grandma. Sure as hell beats visiting her and listening to her ramble on, doesn't it?

Alpha-Numerics

No, I am not talking about the various combinations of letters and numbers that are so common in today's binary world. Rather, I am referring to the attempted translation of mathematical concepts into plain English. For example, during the Packers-Eagles game going on right now, the Packers fumbled and then recovered the fumble for a first down. Troy Aikman was relating the fact that the Packers had a +10 turnover margin--that is, they have recovered more fumbles and made more interceptions (10 more, actually) than they were guilty of committing. He then went on to say that their ratio was one of the best in the league.

Hold on a second, Troy. Margin and ratio are two completely different things. Let's look at the two and see why. If you have 20 takeaways and 10 giveaways, you have a +1o margin and a 2:1 ratio. However, if you have 40 takeaways and 30 giveaways, you still have a +10 margin, but your ratio has been reduced to 3:2, or 1.5:1. What you meant to say, sir, is that they margin is one of the best in the league; we have no idea if their ratio is unless you tell us the hard numbers behind it.

It's all in how you slice it.

Happy Penultimate Day

One of the highlights of Interstitial Week is--of course--Penultimate Day. For those of you unfamiliar with the word, "penultimate," in its adjectival form, means next to the last (dictionary.com). Hence, under our current calendar system (which has been around for awhile and is probably not going away anytime soon), December 30 is the next to the last day of the year--Penultimate Day.

How does one celebrate Penultimate Day? Well, one really doesn't. About the only time anyone notices the penultimate of anything is when there are only two beers left in the fridge (grab one, stash the other, send someone on a beer run) or when there are two pieces of pizza remaining (be sure to grab the larger one). Also, those of you who have or had infants may have noticed when you got to the penultimate diaper.

However you celebrate (or not) this Penultimate Day, be sure to make it an almost good one!

Brother Richard Gilman Retiring

For my last four years in Indianapolis, I served as public relations director for a pair of organizations, the Independent Colleges of Indiana and the Independent Colleges of Indiana Foundation. Our membership consisted of the two- and four-year nonprofit independent (private) colleges in the state.

A great privilege of working with these organizations was getting to know the terrific men and women who lead the 31 member institutions. Today's South Bend Tribune profiles one of them: the retiring president of Holy Cross College here in South Bend, Brother Richard Gilman. A soft-spoken man with a very clear vision, Br. Richard transformed Holy Cross from a college for students who didn't get into Notre Dame or Saint Mary's into a respected educational institution in its own right.

Enjoy your retirement, Br. Richard--although I have a sneaking suspicion that your idea of retirement means merely giving up an office.

Interstitial Week

One of my favorite words, which first came to my attention back in the early '90s, is interstitial. The merriam-webster.com definition of interstitial is "relating to or situated in the interstices." Taking that a step back, the same source's definition (well, one of them, anyway) of interstice is "a short space of time between events." Those events, at least in my neck of the woods, would be the religious-cum-retail holiday of Christmas and the "we need another excuse to party" holiday of New Year's.

Interstitial week has always been interesting everywhere I have worked. It's the time a lot of people take off to burn extra vacation or PTO time that they might otherwise lose--yes, I have been guilty of such an offense in the past, I freely admit. It's also a time when those coworkers who do come in seem to relax a bit and be a bit more casual in their approach to their jobs. There are always exceptions, of course--some people are just wound too tightly to ever really relax, and I do have a few of them around me in my current workplace this week.

Whether you are working or not over the next few days, I wish you a Happy Interstitial Week. Don't work too hard.