Three Middle Men

Today on the list of things that we are not going to address is the elephant in the room. Also, most of what follows is true.

That being said, my inspiration for art comes from people. Those people come from everywhere. On interacting with them I make small notes in the back of my head; not to be confused with the actual notebook that I have in my backpack to literally write it down because experience has shown that I sometimes remember dreams better than the things I’ve seen.

If you’ve rolled your eyes thinking that me saying ‘art’ is pretentious, you’d be mostly correct. It’s like watching a movie that is so out of touch with everything around it that it’s forced to be called Avant Garde. But, but, there is a black and white picture of a corridor hanging on someone’s wall that will make me disagree with you.

With fair certainty, I can say that every 10 posts or so, I reference airports in some way. As a wide-eyed, low-maintenance kid(subjective), airports are something out of the promised land from Pied Piper for me. The time between completing security and prior to boarding is time that is exclusive to you, if you’re travelling alone. I mean think about it. Next to showers, I’ve had the most clarity of thought when I’m inside an airport; although nothing groundbreaking has come out of it, yet.

Today, we have three middle aged men that I came across on the same journey, hopping between aircrafts and airports on my way across the Atlantic, the Arabian sea and pretty sure there were a couple of other water bodies that we crossed along the way. The first middle aged man was Indian. For sake of convenience and historical accuracy, he shall henceforth be referred to as ‘uncle’. So, this uncle, along with twenty other people, mostly a young-ish crowd, was waiting for some delayed baggage. Now, uncle has absolutely lost his shit because it’s apparently disrespectful for his baggage to be late. Some of you have met an uncle at some point in your life; you know the type- entitled, unreasonable and puts on reading glasses to operate a mobile phone with two hands and calls it ‘WhatsUp’. Granted, a lot of people who adapted that technology later in life are guilty of the last one so we’ll let it slide. If you don’t know the type, I have some very interesting people for you; hit me up at your own peril. Uncle was jumping up and down even after the airline gave him free coffee. It was 5:30 in the morning but uncle literally wanted the director of the airport to personally come over and hand him his luggage. He said unironically,

“If he is sleeping, pour hot water over his face and wake him up”

At which point I left because the airline had already lost my bags and I was legit standing around just for the drama.

The second was a nice non-entitled Brit. Everything we’ve heard about how British people are obsessed with queuing, it’s true, all of it. I’ve seen it and it should probably be a law of nature with gravity and the other weird stuff. Imagine, getting out of an airplane in economy and everyone gets up at the same time and reaches for their overhead compartments and absolutely nothing gets done? Now throw ten uncles in the mix. Absolutely terrible right? The greatest resistance to British culture that we’ve shown as a nation is by making queues irrelevant. This one is not about the uncles, it’s about the Brit, who in all the commotion, made eye contact with me and said,

“Everyone has to get out of the same aircraft. It’s not like you lot will be left behind”, even as an uncle pulled a bag out of the overhead, dropped it on an old lady’s head and huffed and puffed about like it was the old lady’s fault for sitting on her seat.

Scratch that. Maybe this is about the uncles after all because the third one is funny to me. So, last leg of my journey and this uncle has absolutely no clue on how to look up information on the boards about gate information. He sees me, color matches with me, figures out I’m Indian because duh and starts rapidly talking to me in Hindi, the popular language in India which I do not understand, and uncle does not seem to know English. The only sentence I can say with confidence in Hindi is,

“Muje Hindi patha nahi”, which is, and you’ve guessed right, “I don’t know Hindi”.

Quick side note; a Hindi speaker once told me, for a non-speaker, I did not have an accent to my Hindi. It was the way it was meant to be.

So, being the good Samaritan that I am and also because I have two hands and have watched a lot of movies, I wave my hands around to help him with the gate and stuff. All through security and random checking, this guy is turning around and smiling at me that it was a surprise that the TSA did not call me over as well.

We finally take off and he’s sitting like three rows ahead of me and as the drinks cart passed him, he said,

“Jack and coke with no ice please”.

Maybe that was his “Muje Hindi patha nahi”.

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She’s Got a Smile

The title is clickbait. I did come up with a better idea, but it did not effectively sit well with the content so we’re going to run with this and see what the cosmos throws back at us. If you’re here from Facebook, the preview should have delved away the clickbait information so if you’re still here I’m assuming you want to read on. Also, you’re a nice person. If you’re also here because you think I’m going to say something scandalous about myself, I dig that you think there is something scandalous about me.

To the uninitiated, I recently turned 25. The mark of a milestone age. The age where if a kid on the street calls me “Uncle”, I’m going to live with it. When I was a wee kid myself back in early 2000, 25 was always the age where I imagined that I would have my life figured out and in front of me. It was very much like hitting a fast-forward button and waiting for 25 to magically appear and sort my life.

While that hope has been buried under freshy mowed grass, I have in the years leading up to 25, tried to be wise beyond my age, thinking that surely, maturity will help me figure out my life. This is partly why some of my content (if you’ve followed enough of it) used to be extremely preachy. It continues to be; but now I preach to myself and put it on display for the whole world (like the 100 people who read this) to see.

There is objective joy in being silly. Saying a joke so bad that the entire room groans back at you is a special kind of satisfaction; I know this because someone gives me flak for it everytime. 25 also brought with it a lot of self-realizations. With a little nudge and a whole week broke and alone in a different country, I have concluded that I am antisocial. There was a time, in the mid-2000s where I wanted to be edgy like the other kids, listening to the same 7 Backstreet boys and Eminem songs every day. Hey, that worked out for some people because they went on to do some really wacky stuff. Not for me. I now take my music at my own pace and sometimes sound like a snob for talking about my tastes. That’s okay. I used to be shy. Like ‘I will take a B grade on this paper so that I don’t have to confront my instructor’ shy. Now I am not. I can talk my ass out of most sensible situations, but I don’t actively go searching for conversation. Still extremely anti-social though.

The best realization was that I am a jack of all trades. In quick terms I’ve tried my hand at standup comedy, some wild ish cooking and a lot of cricket. While I’m not particularly good at any of them, I really don’t mind because I do them and it’s nice.

This has been a lot of me tooting my own horn but let this be a letter to my future self. You may identify with one or more of the things in this post and if you did, cheers, if you did not, then you’re cooler than me.

There is a bit of universal preachy stuff though. Someone told me a long time ago, not verbatim though, closest paraphrase,

“Come try this with me, maybe it will be your passion”

If you’re ever in this situation, nine times out of ten, absolutely do not do that thing because, while it is their passion, it may not be yours. Finding a passion takes time. There may even be a Jack phase before it arrives. This could be the scandalous takeaway that you could have wanted.

To turning 25 and to being silly. This is what I wanted the title to be.

Outgrown

India has a notoriety of making mama’s boys out of a lot of well, um, boys. Personally, I think this is why a lot of matrimonial talks bring in the ‘Can the girl cook?’ question into the picture. The Indian matrimony industry is a can of worms that I will get to shortly. We have to work through the mama’s boy and cooking first. So, strap on and let’s get into a personally biased anecdote of an opinion that has no basis in fact.

Mothers pamper their sons, in a few cases that I have seen, to an alarming extent. Tamil and in a larger scope, Indian cinema also seems to support this opinion. The son/hero can be an absolute scum of a human being who stalks the heroine 24/7 and the only reprimanding from his mother is that he did not eat on time. It is exaggerated but art imitates life and some of this is rooted in the things around us.

This is why the daughters are badass. I’m 100% not sure how to put this into words, but the daughters are simultaneously trained in playing by the rules but survival, when the rules around them are broken is drilled into them. This makes them more independent; also a little scary. I don’t have anyone particular on my mind while I’m writing this. Trust me.

With the philosophical out of the way, let us dive into the cooking. Now, I believe I mentioned this earlier but my mother’s number one concern when I left India about 10 months back was not the mountain of debt I was creating; no, she was worried that I would not eat properly. I was a picky eater, always have and always will be, by the looks of it. The running joke in my family is, “Get Arvind a girl who can boil and salt some dal and he will be set for life”.

Over the past month, without an internship and other discernable ways to let my summer pass, I wandered into two unknown territories. Cooking being the second. This made me realize that following recipes from the internet is amazing if we all had patience; I also realized that 1 cup in volume is like a lot of whatever it is that you’re measuring when cooking for one person. I’m lazy to the extent that in the last 10 months, I’ve cooked and eaten my mother’s sambar recipe for nearly 5/7 days in a week and that is a fact. So, when I got around to cooking for myself after my roommates skipped town, I cooked a lot of dishes that I am accustomed to eating only in restaurants; pizza(fancy), paneer and co, channa and others. Now, with the exception of channa, my mother has not attempted to cook any of them. Garlic while being a primary reason, it was also because I was a picky eater and in the traditions that we pick and choose, we were TamBhram when it came to food. This led me to ask myself an important question,

“Have I outgrown my mother’s and to a fair extent my father’s cooking?”

And ladies and gentlemen, I will tell you that if you have liked that cooking from the beginning, you will never ever ever ever ever outgrow it. We’re all suckers for certain things and I am for a lot of things and I’m proud to say that I’m a sucker for that cooking.

As promised, the can of worms. A lot of people before me will have realized this but matrimony websites in India are basically the Tinder for our more functional adults. Now, most of this post is the reason why I’m fairly sure why a section on my profile (that my mom will eventually create and manage) will have a section that says “Boy can cook”, with an addition of “Indian and Italian” if she decides to be cheeky about it.

Home Alone : Broke in Raleigh

Let’s get cracking.

Summer vacations in India are the most glorious days in the life of a kid. That is, until the kid grows up to be an edgy teen, where we become too cool for vacations, lamenting about how home life is a chore and all that jazz. On the off chance that there is a kid reading this, you’re wrong. You will always be wrong. I grew up and then finally realized that having that break where we were responsible for essentially nothing is as good as it gets.

Unfortunately, once I graduated engineering, I’ve never been blessed with that period. I started my first job, literally 4 days after a long cross-country trip. It was an amazing trip, but it is difficult to not appreciate that feeling of wanting to do absolutely nothing. If you dear reader, unlike me, are one of the people who go mad at the first sign of nothing, you might not exactly get the idea; but I would go mad in your shoes, so there is that.

I ended up having a week off and by the looks of it, the rest of the summer due to events that have not yet come to pass. But that is not the point. I was home alone for a week in my apartment and feared that I would go mad with nothing to do. False. It was an eye-opening experience. I’ve been in this boat before but back then, I was not a broke grad student who had to cook for himself. I investigate the refrigerator and it stares back at me with the emptiness of the void. Around this time is when I came to the full realization about the wonders of the internet. I can now cook a mean channa and pizza; those are like crazy different ends of the spectrum, but the idea is that I YouTubed my way to a lot of good recipes. I did talk to myself a lot and played some borderline weird music but if you can’t go even a little mad, then what is the point?

I feel like I’ve not promoted this enough, but I have started doing standup comedy as an outlet to all the self-depreciating humor that is creeping up. You can check out the videos on my Facebook Profile if you’re genuinely curious about how bad it is.

The next one is going to be a post on age. Not a big deal just a snippet on how I am coming to terms with reaching a milestone age. Also, food for thought, we as adults convince ourselves that we are stable people capable of making rational decisions. This, in my observation, is as close as it gets to the placebo effect. The fun part is, even if we are self-aware about this, we continue making irrational decisions. An argument can be made for “That is what makes us human” for the higher actions but eating an entire loaf of garlic bread because I “felt like it” serves no higher purpose.

A Life without Molagapodi

This post is almost entirely about what the title describes. Moving beyond the excuses of the past, I’ve seen a lot of our, ‘proverbs’ or ‘sayings’ enacted in real life around me. Don’t bite off more than you can chew being one of them. I picked an additional course at school and it is coming back to bite me in a big way, in my unmentionables. When in Rome, be a Roman being another one. I now pronounce my name to Americans, the way Americans say it; saves some time in the initial phase where they try to get it right.

Let’s get on with it then. The title is essentially a question. What is life without molagapodi?

The short answer, it’s depressing.

I’ll tell you why in a minute; but we need some clarity on what molagapodi is. Even in the limited geographic area of my home state, this word has different meanings. Google translate calls it ‘Chilly Powder’ and that is fair. But molagapodi is a more Tambhram word that it is a Tamil word; it is part of the staple diet that primarily consist of the idly or the dosa.

Now the why. I grew up in a household where both parents were working. This means that you kinda start seeing a pattern in terms of food. There is batter for dosa throughout the week and it is easy to make. Now, if you, like me, have no preference towards fancy sides for your dosa, molagapodi will come through for you, every time all the time. My love for molagapodi is now the stuff of legend in my family and when I visit them, they know for a fact that pleasing me is as easy as it gets.

Things change with time all the time. People come, people go. Things get old, new things take their place. Memories fade away, the good ones stay back. Some you keep under wraps, but the point is, change happens and it comes for all of us. I moved to a different country about six months ago. I now call football, ‘soccer’ which is a crime. I already told you how I say my name. I can now drive on the right side of the road without it getting weird that it is the opposite side of what I am used to driving. I have adjusted to cooking my own food; which is, coincidentally my mother’s biggest concern.

After all this, something that I cannot get away from is molagapodi. At this point, I know you think that I’m romanticizing something waaaaay too much and you’d be right. I am. That’s the point of media or art or whatever you want to call it.

This is not a metaphorical story of a boy who is losing the grip on his past. This is not a story of a boy who wonders how good the past used to be.

This is very simply, the story of the boy who misses his molagapodi.

Driving, Metaphors and Coffee

In my motherland of India, there is a very weird phenomenon that we like to call, starting trouble. The consensus is that starting trouble is the discomfort and general feeling of I-don’t-want-to-do-this that occurs before any undertaking. Driving, for example, or even dating, if we can stretch some imagination, typically has a lot of starting trouble. But as a wise man once told me,

“All it takes is 3 seconds of madness”, where you basically let the clutch go and throttle up and then you are on your way. The same applies for driving also.

Thus we arrive at the small fact that I had nothing to begin the post with. I do know what I want to say in the middle but a little faux philosophy and metaphors (wink wink), to start off with, does not hurt.

Those who don’t know history are doomed to repeat it. This quote has come across as numerous facebook posts with different inspirational pictures in the background.

This is a post for those who know history and still repeat it; in the hopes that time might bring about different changes. Or in other words, insane and occasionally disillusioned people. This is not to be confused with outcomes that are effort based. I started playing a new sport, I was absolute shit on day one but eventually, I did improve; no, effort towards something will always give results. Suffices to say that I have learnt that in more ways than one; and no, I am not proud of that fact.

That being said, it would be great to have a statistic of people who roll their eyes when they read these things. Wink once in the comment section on Facebook for this post, if you are one of them. I’d really like to know how many people I have an effect on.

No shave November is what all the drumrolls have been about. See, I share a lot of fairly distinct traits with my dad. We are both capable of comfortably staring off into the distance without feeling awkward. We have a really short fuse (I’m still working on this) and have trademark tells when we get angry. We have a craving for excellent filter coffee. My hair is going through a pattern baldness that I have seen on him. We sound the same over the phone (people have a hard time telling the difference). I’d actually attribute what little writing I have to him. We have a really good ear for music, albeit, his sense is way better than mine.

In addition to all this, we share the fact that beards don’t like us. I did some observations on this and it might stretch back to my great-grandfather.

You know how Liverpool fans keep saying “this year is our year”? I stopped saying that about my beard two years ago. I mean, at one point, you’d have to accept the reality that not a lot of titles are coming your way right? At least I’ve been marginally sensible than them.

So, starting last year, on principle, I went around clean shaved in November. This was my way of sticking it to the man. Year on year, the tiniest bit of hope for a beard keeps getting thrown out the window. I will wait until 55 to see if that changes. Observations indicate that a full grown beard might turn up at that age.

This was a mostly pointless post but here’s something to ponder, I think it’s useless to have a bland social interaction. Things that we say should start having an impact on the people we’re telling it to; otherwise, it becomes two walls talking to each other. Words demand responses, good, bad or downright nasty, depending on the intent behind them.

 

 

Perception and Myth

There is something that I have come see about my posts; sort of a big picture view of the thing. One being that I get a little sidetracked about the central theme (if there is one); two, my posts are kinda like a half-blended smoothie with ingredients still evident, but not really at the state that anyone wants them to be. Also, something something, metaphors.

I made a mention about a little black book in which I started putting in ideas again. The objective behind that being, impulsive writing cannot sustain in any way. At least with the ideas down, I have a false sense of security that every other post was properly structured. This might be another one of them.

Crossroads of life is an oft and frequent philosophical concept; it came under my nose when I was reading a short story, some eight years back. I dismissed it as an idea of simple decision making that a person is faced with. Ignorant I was to the fact about the things that go through said person’s mind before having to make the decision, until I had to make one of those decisions myself. This side held the promise of something new and potentially wild, a feeling that was exhilarating at first and then took its time to seep through my head, putting me to face with a new, albeit different, kind of reality; that side held the comfort of the old and natural ways in which things had been done up to that point. The question is, take the plunge or stay in the circle?

I can tell you that I took the plunge, and everything was for the better after that. It was a new world of possibilities in many ways and the confidence that it came with was amazing. Gone was the stone drop at the pit of my stomach when I had to approach strangers. Now, I consider myself a passive introvert; someone who will not go out of the way to talk to people but will be fine interacting with them if the situation calls for it.

Also, the thing about crossroads is that during the event, it is not evident that it is an actual crossroad. After a solid passage of time, as you look back at the decision and realize how everything after said event has been drastically different. If the choice at the time is conscious, it’s probably not a crossroad.

But let me tell you a different story. One which defies the whole ‘mind-body-equilibrium’ idea.

See, confidence, like feminism, is a state of mind (not my words). It has jack shit to do with how your body reacts to things happening around you.

Those, like me, who failed to see the difference, are in for a world of sensations not necessarily comfortable.

As I was experiencing this new feeling of confidence brimming over all my actions, a long-standing idea took root and gripped at my mind. Conquering my fears as they were. It’s a simple equation right, more confidence, less fears?

Coming back to that feeling of a stone dropped to the pit of the stomach; try to imagine and you will realize that it is the exact physical sensation that a rollercoaster drop will give you. Fool as I was, strapped myself to one, head full of confidence, thinking that the rollercoaster had nothing on me. Unfortunately, the body, in very decent terms, does not give a shit about what goes on in your head.

Thus, I stepped off the ride, confidence still unshaken, pride a little bit dented but wiser to a couple more truths about nature and still, very much scared of heights.

Crammed In

Can we all agree on a couple of things now? We make impulsive decisions. I don’t want to get into the emotional technicalities of those decisions because there is a maturity gap until I start talking about them. Let me confine the day to impulsive purchases. I for one, acquired a new toy drone and a coffee maker.

My justification on the coffee maker being that I will make up for the price in 15 cups of coffee compared to what I might pay for buying coffee outside. That was a big fat lie and now I must sit at home and feel it judge me for the ungodly amounts of coffee that it makes for me. The drone was a truly mad impulse. I saw it. I wanted to have it. I paid for it. Now I fly it around the house and behave like a 10-year-old. Bliss.

Ideas are formed on paper could well be the underlying theme of this piece. The madness has come a full cycle and I’ve begun to put ideas into a small notebook again. Something about being old school will always have its charm. Now, I can’t put into complete words all the ideas that I have on it. So, we’ll toss em up and see what sticks.

We grow old. It’s nature and all that jazz. Growing up, on the other hand, is not mandatory. It is not on the instruction manuals. Refer to the part where I purchased a toy drone as a grown ass man. This brings us to the culture of birthdays. I have three people who had birthdays falling within the space of a week. All of them know each other. Everybody planned a birthday for the other person. I was like Joey from Friends in this scene (those of you who have watched Friends, explain to the ones that haven’t). Now, the idea of surprises is not new. I remember when a bunch of people forgot my birthday and had to not-so-subtly sneak out to buy the cake. So, when we’re all adults, we know that something is coming on a birthday; everybody knows it. Does the birthday person, a) give it no thought and act nonchalant about it and pass it off as no big deal or b) at least pretend to be excited about the fact that people are taking the effort to throw something (even though it might be just cake) together for the birthday?

If you chose a, let the records reflect that I’m judging you.

Be a kid about it. Have the cake. Smear it on someone’s face and go to sleep. Case closed.

There is something as a casual left hander. Wherein the dominant arm is the left but certain activities such as writing, and eating have been beaten into being done by the right hand.

God will poke your eyes is the crudest translation that I can muster; the original coming from generations of believing that right is right, and left is less than desired.

I’ve spent a great many hours in this regard, wondering what was wrong with me. I’ve stood at the kitchen struggling with a pair of scissors trying to cut through a plastic bag of god-knows-what only to have my mom waltz through, pick up the scissors and slice through the sheet as easily as shaking dry leaves out of a tree.

This was, until I stepped into a class which mentioned that there are left-handed scissors. There is this difficult-to-put-into-words feeling that stems from the back of the head giving a rush of relief when blame is finally shifted towards the system or a non-individual entity. I felt that along with the vindication that it was the scissors that were wrong.

Nevertheless, I have not yet made a move to buy left-handed scissors for the fear of discovering that I am, indeed a shitty cutter.

What’s In a Name?

There is a saying in my mother tongue Tamizh that I am going to try and roughly translate.

Live in a way that people remember your name.

This got me thinking. How does someone want to be remembered? Prodding a little bit brings out a bunch of realizations. Like, remembering a name is not necessarily a good thing.

Which leads to the conclusion that there are certainly some places where I don’t want my name to be.

This is out of personal experience by the way. At the end of a semester of non-subject classes and a thoroughly eyeballed engineering project, I had skipped enough hours to stay within the required attendance percentage until we heard that Yanni was coming to town (not the town we were in; that would have been a travesty).

Here is what we did (my best friend and me), we booked tickets (huge sum at the time), skipped town and went to the concert. I still carry the ticket stub around in my wallet because it was the experience of a lifetime. But here’s the catch. The concert was on the last day of class.

I sheepishly walked back to the department building once the semester exams started. On a tangent, there are very few things that are more satisfying that watching a bunch of people run around to their exams when you know that life is sorted out for the near future.

You should by this time have figured out where this is going. On the announcement board under the list of attendance defaulters,

Arvind Sriram P – 1 day.

Certainly did not want my name on there. That came with a valuable life lesson. Always plan with an allowance for error because last minute changes are difficult to foresee. Alas, that was the final semester of college; now I go to school at a place without and attendance requirement that caused my poor mother’s heart to stop a little bit.

About the good places to see a name, I’m not going to talk about because there are plenty of real life examples.

We have a predisposition to only see the good in us and in those around us. Because of this, all the good places where we see our names, we always remember. There is pride in that. Employee of the year. Best outgoing student. Excellence in social service. These are clearly not from personal experience.

As much as we keep seeing good, sometime later, an inner cynic comes along and starts throwing out these questions.

What if they have ulterior motives?

What if they’re not entirely what they seem?

Innocence is lost on the day that this inner cynic is embraced.

This is not an isolated occurrence. It kinda happens to everybody at some point. This again has no relevance to the title but is not worth a preachy post of its own. Beyond that point though, the world around you changes; it’s how they say that it’s all the same, but it somehow looks different. Something to ponder over? Yes. Something to linger on? No, because at one point it becomes muscle memory.

It appears we have reached a stage where the writing has now become regular. It will ultimately spiral back to a period of hibernation and with winter already at my doorstep, it is a matter of when at this point. Nevertheless, we will strive on with false hopes and fake promises to keep writing.

I do not have a funny way to end this post, so imagine something for yourself and laugh a little as you read this line and get on with whatever it is that you should be doing.

Adult 101

If you have been following my blog for the last three months (please tell me, I’d like to know you), there has been a trend of pseudo philosophical discussion and preaching that has transpired. Narcissism, self-depreciating humor, inappropriate comments and the like have been discussed. You get the gist.

These are not the effects of significant life events that have occurred during said time. Either that, or I’m in denial and this is my coping mechanism.

The question that we’re visiting today is a rather simple to ask.

How to Adult? Or, its sister version. When does adulthood begin?

Personal opinion being that adulthood is when I not only realized how the world works but also how other people made it work for themselves. It is not an instant epiphany in that I can sit below a banyan tree and go ting ‘So this is adulthood’. The first of many parts is realizing that it does not work that way.

On the vein of cause and effect it would do some good to also talk about event and significance. It’s like realizing an argument winning point three days later.

I’m gonna talk about a specific childhood event. The first time my dad drove me around in a car, we were sat at a signal intersection at the front of the line. The engine was off; school educated me on the red-stop, yellow-wait, green-go logic behind traffic signals and that was what I was waiting for. Indian signals have the notorious habit of skipping the yellow part. So, to 13-year-old, wide eyed me, it was suspenseful anticipation while waiting for a signal to turn green. Imagine my surprise when my dad turned the ignition and started inching forward and the car started wading into traffic despite the signal being red; I looked at him and said, “Why are you going when the light is red?”, he just winked at me and said, “I know when they will turn green” and don’t you know it, it was green in the next 5 seconds. I was blown away.

Three years ago, at an intersection of my own, it hit me that the signals have a logical pattern to them and thus my first foray into adulthood was that there is a method to everything.

Another one was a recent incident when I was asked a question.

“How are you always so well put together?”

“Fake it till I make it, I guess” I said.

Saying the answer out loud helped me figure out that sometimes it’s best to toss methods to the wind and eyeball it (term borrowed from my roommate because it is the best way of expressing it).

That led me to develop my working theory. There are a couple of things that can be known with certainty; they have a method to them and it takes some time to establish those methods. The other one being that adulting is mostly eyeballing through life while realizing that other people are doing the same thing. No one has all the answers. There is trial and error involved in knowing what to eyeball and what not to eyeball but everyone keeps revising that list. I know I do and you know that you do too.

I’m too proud to ask for comments but I would really like to know what you think about this.