Painful Pleasure
I don't have any music on at the moment, but on the way home from Boston i was listening to Pink Martini (the day's smooth finish called for their smooth music), followed by Joni Mitchell's album "Both Sides Now" as the evening became a bit more on the mellow side.
While moving Joe's various items out of his apartment today, i came to an odd realization. More of an observation, really.
There came a point where the seventeen foot UHAUL truck had to be moved from its parking spot to a new one, just 30 feet away. When you're moving a bed, bureau, small refridgerator, among many other items of varying weight, thirty feet makes a huge difference. It was going to be parked directly behind my car (by direclty, i mean three inches off the bumper).
I had to go up the stairs to aid in the descension of a bin or two of random items, so i was probably going to miss the excitement of reparking a giant truck. For a guy, that is exciting. So i'm at the top of the four flights (eight sets) of stairs for the twenty-seventh time today. And what do i want to do? Take it slow, keep from straining my already tender muscles, enjoy the view from each window i pass on the way down.
Nope.
I want to bolt down those stairs, trip over whatever's there, tenderize my muscles all the more, and not even bother with the windows. Why?
So i can see them repark the truck.
Yep. That's it. So i can be there when this large box-shaped piece of Americana moves thirty feet from one parking space to another. So i can watch the gap between its front bumper and the rear bumper of my own car (small enough to fit inside the truck) slowly decreases to an amount of space a man is proud of. Three inches of joy for seventy-two steps of pain.
But you know what? I'm not alone. We all do that. My cousin Chelsea, my best friend Joe, my ex-girlfriend Heather, and that guy that invented boneless buffalo wings. Everyone.
And the worst part? It's a voluntary action. Unlike the circulation of blood, the digestion of food, the sorting of sensory input, this takes conscious effort.
There's something. What it is for you is different than it is for me, but there's something in your life you go through pain to experience, to be part of. If there isn't, there should be. I know when i don't have my painful pleasure, i miss it. Something in me is not right. Something in me is lonely.
I'm not trying to make a point. Just sharing a thought i had while working my way down some stairs today.
While moving Joe's various items out of his apartment today, i came to an odd realization. More of an observation, really.
There came a point where the seventeen foot UHAUL truck had to be moved from its parking spot to a new one, just 30 feet away. When you're moving a bed, bureau, small refridgerator, among many other items of varying weight, thirty feet makes a huge difference. It was going to be parked directly behind my car (by direclty, i mean three inches off the bumper).
I had to go up the stairs to aid in the descension of a bin or two of random items, so i was probably going to miss the excitement of reparking a giant truck. For a guy, that is exciting. So i'm at the top of the four flights (eight sets) of stairs for the twenty-seventh time today. And what do i want to do? Take it slow, keep from straining my already tender muscles, enjoy the view from each window i pass on the way down.
Nope.
I want to bolt down those stairs, trip over whatever's there, tenderize my muscles all the more, and not even bother with the windows. Why?
So i can see them repark the truck.
Yep. That's it. So i can be there when this large box-shaped piece of Americana moves thirty feet from one parking space to another. So i can watch the gap between its front bumper and the rear bumper of my own car (small enough to fit inside the truck) slowly decreases to an amount of space a man is proud of. Three inches of joy for seventy-two steps of pain.
But you know what? I'm not alone. We all do that. My cousin Chelsea, my best friend Joe, my ex-girlfriend Heather, and that guy that invented boneless buffalo wings. Everyone.
And the worst part? It's a voluntary action. Unlike the circulation of blood, the digestion of food, the sorting of sensory input, this takes conscious effort.
There's something. What it is for you is different than it is for me, but there's something in your life you go through pain to experience, to be part of. If there isn't, there should be. I know when i don't have my painful pleasure, i miss it. Something in me is not right. Something in me is lonely.
I'm not trying to make a point. Just sharing a thought i had while working my way down some stairs today.
posted by Still Daddy at 8:49 PM
3 Comments:
That has to be the most random way you have mentioned me in your blog yet. Rockin'
You have got me thinking. What do I do so that I experience pain to get to the pleasure? After all, one must suffer through rain if one wants to see the rainbow. I'll think about it and let you know.
I know that feeling too dude! One summer my dad had to bring down four trees in our backyard. I really wanted to see them fall, too! But I woke up later than expected and he was already done! Grr... I missed it! And I missed the cement truck fill our patio! Ah!
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