Shower Thoughts and Shelf Lives

What is the shelf life of a luffa? I have no idea. The Pirate Queen does.

"We're buying a new luffa. The old one is dead."

I never argue with My Queen over items of ships or safety. She knows both.  So out with the old, in with the new.

Our latest luffa purchase leads to my new morning scrub down with a rainbow-tribble of cleanliness. I suds it up, and have to admit, halfway through the first chorus of A-Ha's "Take on Me," the new luffa does feel less scratchy.

I wonder, though, "Is that better?" How can a luffa work if it doesn't scratch? I try posing my question to My Queen, but she only dismisses me with a, "Get inside. Finish your shower and get dressed. You're too old to stand outside in the cold, naked."

A shelf life on my public nudity too? Who knew?

Obedient, I slosh back to my shower to consider my questions alone but for the Norsemen of A-Ha.

Halfway through a thigh scrub and second "Take on Me" verse I lament the Thompson Twins. What ever happened to their songs and why is it four out of five shower singers croon A-Ha instead?

Perfect for scrubbing my manly parts

Shelf life?

A lather and a rinse and I repeat my previous question: does everything have a shelf life?

Yesterday The Pirate Queen and I discussed how some of my family still hardly stomach thoughts of MyEx. Their distaste lasted longer than my marriage shelf life. Me, I've given the marriage and divorce their time, but let them go after the expiration. There are no leftovers in my fridge, good or bad, just memories.

"Remember that pulled pork?"
"Yeah..."

Some people still keep their bundles of bad vibe-meat tightly packed way beyond their shelf life. Why do that? It only makes you sick. My problem isn't letting go. My problem is over analyzing before I throw things out.

"The old luffa was a little scratchy, but the color was nice. I like how it held the suds without losing the lather. Do you think that will ever happen again? I may never have another luffa like that..."

It's like serving a sentence of self abuse. On it goes for the prescribed time, then I'm free.

The Pirate Queen is like me in that she lets go. Her problem isn't over analysis of what's past, though: instead she monitors the shelf life of things she hasn't bought.

"What if the pumice stone makes me  bleed?"
"Do you need a pumice stone?"
"No, but if I bought it, it could contaminate the pork in the fridge."
"You're going to use it on the pork?"
"No. I'm just worried what could happen."
"Why don't we worry about the luffa for now?"
"The luffa can't contaminate pork, silly."
"You're right. I am silly."

And I'm silly in love with a Queen who worries over things she can't control. What's an over analyzer to do? Well, if it weren't for shelf life, this superfluous analyst would analyze why she worries about the shelf life of a pumice stone that she will never buy and eventually come to the conclusion that it must have something to do with me...

See? shelf life serves two purposes:

1.  It lets us move on.
2. It keeps us from adding subtext and creating new problems.

Shelf life frees us to revel in the mini-miracles of the now, by cutting off the past and restraining the future.

So as I hit that final "Take on me!" falsetto I'm glad for my new luffa. I'm in love with the reality I have someone who cares enough to protect me from things expired. Most of all, I'm overjoyed at glorious moments like this that have no shelf life at all.

Reboot

 

When I was 16 my dad made me quit my burger job because of my grades. In his mind, Rob's flippin'  time was better spent passing chemistry.  I didn't fight him. I was working too hard to think about priorities. Sure, I was disappointed; I'm Rob. I don't quit. But at 16, Dad's house was Dad's rules, and Dad had prioritized not failing over not quitting.

I made sure this was just a temporary setback. At the end of the quarter, my grades had returned to normal and I was allowed to return to my polyester uniform and plastic smile.

"Welcome to Generic Burger Emporium! May I help you?"

In college, the supervisor for my on-campus job sat me down.  

"Rob, I notice that you're arriving late to the mail room. What's going on?"

"Great question!" I wanted to reply, "Have you ever carried 3 jobs, 20 units and maintained a 3.8 GPA? Do you think Football Bob is worried about waiting 15 more minutes for his black-plastic wrapped magazine? How about I show you where to punch in your 15 minutes?"

After a breath, my lips edited the words worthy of publication: "Nothing," they said.

It was the right choice. My boss Howard had priorities. Getting the mail out on time was key to achieving them. Three months later, I adjusted my priorities and quit the mail room. 

If my dad had been in charge, he'd have made me quit a lot sooner.  That's the problem: I'm not a quitter. I'll dig my hole until I can't climb out. That said, I have created some amazing holes.

I've learned a lot since then. I still dig holes, but I also have better command over what's important. I've learned to climb out when it's time. I've got three dead blogs that could attest to that, if I were still writing them.

Right now, my priority is Steamtopia. My underground empire requires razing with some bulldozer quality editing. To accomplish this, I'm refortifying the literary foundation using Stuart Horwitz's Book Architecture method. That process requires a lot of reading and writing and reevaluation.

Unfortunately, my presence here has suffered. And that's not fair, because this is neither the Generic Burger Emporium or the College of BS mail room. This is my window to the world.

"Hi!"

I think this is important place, but if I don't want to turn it to a subterranean abyss with fancy furnishings, I need to realistically prioritize it. So, to that endeavor, I promise to show up. But you won't see me here every day. And that's why the reboot. Rather than me not showing up daily, let's make sure I arrive once a week, okay?

My dad would be so proud.

Boot