Things I understand and things I don't

It starts when I arrive home after work to more thoroughly investigate the bag of crap (though I haven't yet officially decided it to term it bag of crap) left next to my welcome mat. I hadn't had enough time to look it over much on my way out, being surprised by its presence right after I locked my door. But a quick peek revealed some ramen noodles, what might have been a container of OJ, and, inexplicably, a t-shirt.

Perhaps it's supposed to be a care-package, I thought, left by some well-meaning neighbor who somehow heard me hacking and coughing through the walls.

But now that I have more time to look it over, I realize that the OJ is actually a half-full gallon of skim milk; the t-shirt is an old one (discerned by carefully poking around it since I am reluctant to actually touch it); and in addition to the ramen (which I wouldn't deign to eat since ramen is disgusting), there is, evidently, a can of beer. Not the tools of the convalescent.

So on my way to the park for the walk that will hopefully help clear my sinuses and stimulate my immune system to fight off the blasted sinus infection, I toss the bag of crap into the Dumpster.

I don't understand why someone would leave a bag of crap on my stoop.

***

I arrive at the park about five minutes later, lungs thankfully untaxed by the short distance. The parking lot is at about 80 percent capacity; the cement path around the tiny lake is crowded with walkers, joggers, and a few cyclists; and bright-eyed children who most certainly do not have sinus infections climb on the playground. I understand why; it's 60-degree day in Colorado, and snow is in the forecast for later that night. We all get out while we can.

I identify another thing I don't understand as I wend my way through the parking lot: I do not understand why parents swear at their two-year-old children. The little girl isn't throwing a tantrum. She isn't complaining about a sinus infection. That the girl probably doesn't understand what the word means seems inconsequential. Of course, I'm not a parent, and I don't know the mother or her situation. Still.

Moving now onto the path. Even with my slower pace, I first draw even with and then pass by an older woman, obese, and I hear her wheezing breath. And I try not to pity her, that a person who two days ago was laid up with a fever and has spent the forty-eight hours from then till now hacking up and blowing out gunk can so easily pass her, but pity is there nonetheless. And I do understand that this kind of obesity, the kind that leads to labored breathing even with light exercise, is rarely just about food.

Then again, I don't know this woman or her situation, either. Maybe she's sick, too.

After one turn around the lake, I pass a hand-holding teenage couple. At my invalidish pace. I'm cheered. Granted, they have the whole slow-lovers'-stroll thing going on (day before Valentine's, after all), but maybe my--what would it be called? benchline health? Well, maybe I underestimated my overall healthiness. Huzzah!

And then my body decides to force itself through one of its now-familiar phlegmy coughs. Hubris is a fatal flaw and all that.

Third turn around the lake, a trio of teenage boys whizz by me; they're going clockwise and I'm going widdershins*.

Well, it's really the first two who whizz by. They're both riding BMX bikes, knees pumping up nearly to their ears with the effort of achieving a cadence worthy of racing. On BMX bikes. Here's another thing I don't understand: why teenage boys apparently believe they look cool with their knees practically gouging their ears. There is no skate park nearby, so they can't be on their way to that. The ground around the park is level; it's not like there's anywhere to practice tricks. Maybe they had to pick between a BMX bike/mountain bike/road bike/whatever, and BMX and dreams of the X-Games won out? Still, do they realize the damage they could be doing to their knees?

But the last boy, who isn't as svelte as his companions, follows more sedately on a mountain bike and wears a sheepish grin on his face. Ah, I think, his knees will probably be all right. And perhaps he realizes the foolishness of his peers.

The teenagers drift from my mind as I head around the bend that brings me westward. And because I'm already thinking there's a semidecent blog post somewhere in all of this** I'm casting about for other things I do or do not understand. And there before me is the orange and pink sunset. So I think: Do I understand sunsets? Yes. No. And I think Does anyone understand sunsets? even as I realize that this is becoming maudlin or contrived or something that means "overly and falsely deep," and I feel a smile stretch my lips a little, because now I'm trying too hard.

Eh, it can go in the post, anyway.

And I think I could also go into how I don't understand why, now that I am coming near the end of my novel started for NaNoWriMo, it's so difficult to finish the thing. But I do, partially; it probably has something to do with fear, because once I finish the first draft, that means I have something I can edit, and once I edit it, that means I may have something worth shopping around, and once I can shop something around, it can be rejected, blah blah blah. So there's truth to that, but I don't want to delve into it because there's truth to it, and dealing with it fully is beyond the scope of my half-hour walk and my infection-addled brain.***

At the beginning of my fourth and final circle around the lake, I re-encounter the teenage bikers (I can't bring myself to call them cyclists), who are stopped on their bikes and having a discussion. Says the BMXer who had led the three to the one on the mountain bike: "We can't slow down for you, man. It's not like it's a race or anything."

Ha. They're teenage boys. Of course it's a race.

Not-so-svelte teenage boy keeps ping-ponging his gaze from me to his companions as I approach, still with that sheepish expression. And that, I don't understand. Can he not tell that I'm about eight years older than he is? Particularly since it has been made painfully clear to me that I look older than my 25? 26, actually, in four days. Plus, with the red nose from being sick and whatnot, I'm not looking my best. Surely my sunglasses don't magically make me seem younger and sinusitis-free. Still, it's ping. Pong. Ping. Pong. Maybe he's into older women.

Disturbing.

Or maybe I'm being true to my INFJ nature and overanalyzing everything to begin with.

And after I've gotten about six feet away from them, the lead BMXer continues: "Let's just roll somewhere, dude."

And I don't understand why that amuses me so much, but it does. A stupid grin forms on my face. Let's just roll somewhere, dude. How . . . teenage-boy-who-rides-his-BMX-bike-everywhere-ish. Let's just roll somewhere. It's just so apropos, somehow.

Heading west again. I still yes-no understand sunsets. And that thought is still contrived.

But my breathing remains relaxed, I'm getting better, and I do have an idea for a decent blog post, though I'll probably ruin it by making it too long for anyone to want to read.**** Oh well. It'll entertain me, at least.

And it does.


*No, I'm not a wiccan, but it's fun to use widdershins. Try it. You'll see.
** Yes, probably another form of hubris. But at least I'm aware of it.
***And no, I still haven't explored that topic fully. Don't worry, fanbase. You won't be subjected to those particular musings.
****Which I did. If you got this far, I salute you!