In an undecided state of mind

Today at work I was bonding with another coworker over our prejudicial minds. We both have a habit of hating a movie, purely because everyone else LOVED it, and has told us 5,003 times how much we are gonna LOVE it. My example was The English Patient; his was Swingers. Both fine, perhaps even excellent movies. But because we missed that window of delightful discovery, they moved into the “This is what I was waiting for?” category.

The reverse is true as well, luckily. I remember traveling through Teddy Roosevelt Nat’l Park somewhere in the Dakotas, and seeing some horses. I thought, “hey, neat, horses,” without really meaning it. I mean, they were horses. I grew up with them. My best friend lived on a ranch, and we had a nice, aged mare growing up. All of a sudden I realized they were WILD horses, and instantly the feeling changed. Suddenly I was awed by the history and grandeur of The West, and the America that these noble animals embodied.

My point is, it’s all your state of mind. Yes, there is a marked difference between a Silhouette book and a Shakespeare folio, but sometimes it doesn’t make much difference to you personally, depending on how you approach it.

Hmm. Not sure if I’m making sense. I’ve had two cocktails (something I’m calling the Las Vegas Tradeshow Special, tequila with lemon, OJ, and ginger ale, garnished with 3 cherries) in a post-acupuncture daze. Yes, acupuncture. I let people stick needles in me. And then I thanked them.

Maybe too many people have recommended this to me. Maybe my expectations were too high. But I am not flying. I did not love it. I didn’t hate it, and I definitely felt something happening, so I’ll go again, but it was not the coolest thing ever. Really, truly, so much that I feel like maybe I’m not a real Californian, NOT.

Actually, the needles were not the big deal. And the diagnostic bit was fine; a bit in-depth about my poop and my tongue, but fine. I did not, however, love the poking before the needles (“Oh, does that hurt? Must be the right spot,”) or the poking mid-needle (“Feel that? No? How about – [here he’s cut off as my thrashing limb shows him I do indeed feel] – that?”).

Am I just a wuss? It wasn’t truly horrible pain. I’m sure I’ve put myself through worse; I’ve had tattoos and piercings and rollerblade scars. It was just that it wasn’t the pain I was expecting. I was waiting for a quick sting, a moment of piercing, and this was instead a dull, horrible, spreading pain. Like a slow weight dropping onto your boob.

That, and I was paying them EXPLICITLY to hurt me. At least with a tattoo I have a lasting defacement to my body that I can show off in clubs.


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