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While driving to work this morning, I passed a large construction sign on the side of the road. You know the type – the ones that are actually a trailer and have large blinking lights spelling out words. They are usually orange in color, at least in places I’ve lived. The sign itself isn’t really interesting as they are everywhere. However, this particular sign stood out in my memory for its content. “STAY ALERT” All capital letters, nothing else. No flashing warning about men working, no “merge left” instructions. Simply the command to stay alert while driving a car.

Now please don’t get me wrong. I find this advice to be spot on. However, the sign does beg the question as to why? Why exactly do motorists need to be reminded to keep their eyes open and look where they are going? What’s more, presumably the drivers who need the warning the most, the ones who are not alert, are the ones who will miss out on the message as they drive merrily along in their non-alert stupor.

Every year about this time, some sort of small alarm goes off in my head and I suddenly realize that another year of existence has passed. Don’t get me wrong, I truly love my life and really have enjoyed every year of it so far. However, this season always fills me with a mixture of wonder, excitement, and confusion. I wonder how in the world yet another year has passed, and I’ve done so very little of interest! I’m excited to spend another lovely year in this existence, doing the “so very little” I was just wondering about. And I’m confused how, after nearly 30 years on this earth, I’m still so filled with alarm regarding the swiftness of each passing year.

For me, 2009 was a great year! Let me start off by saying that I am a very lucky man. I love my wife, my home and my job – a singular accomplishment indeed. And overall, I’m very happy. However, as with any situation where a man feels three wholly different emotions at once, there must be a pause to catch ones breath. Most men are not wired for such emotion filled events. After a suitable length of time, and some soothing breathing, further thoughts can continue and I can sit back to evaluate these emotions at length.

Wonder

It never ceases to amaze me that all conversations with acquaintances, family and even friends eventually turn to the dreaded question of “So… what have you been up to?” or something along these lines. I hate this question. To start with, they have usually just finished expounding on their recent acts of greatness – a promotion, an amazing vacation, a nomination for some prestigious award, or something equally victorious. I then, have to respond with something as trivial as “Not much.” And frankly, in their eyes, I’m sure it’s the truth. You see, my wife and I don’t enjoy the “normal” pastimes of sunny vacations, trips to the ocean or other such notable adventures. Instead, we usually find a fun recipe and make dinner together. Or we forgo showers for a week while backpacking on a muddy trail in a torrential downpour. And we love every minute of it.

But to the rest of the world, these pastimes usually seem absurd. With regards to the latter, I’m usually asked – why don’t you just fly to a sunny spot and enjoy the scenery from a lounge chair with a cold alcoholic beverage in your hand? And frankly, if I have to explain the joy in lugging 5 days of food up a steep muddy cliff, I highly doubt they will understand. With regards to cooking a meal, many times I get the response “That sounds like so much effort! Why didn’t you just go out for dinner?” Once or twice I’ve tried to reason with people and yet usually come across the inevitable point where I have to concede that yes, cooking does mean doing the dishes. With this confession, they feel they have won. This is fine with me as it probably means more secluded hiking trails and shorter lines at the grocery store. These are both positive results in my mind.

Excitement

Often to the chagrin of those around me, I’m a perpetual optimist. Whether or not it comes from my mother’s almost annoyingly cheery outlook on life, or my stubbornness to admit that the world may not fully be on my side, I don’t know. Regardless, I like to look at another year as a gift – the chance to continue for another 365 days doing those things which bring me joy. My wife and I both agree that greater amounts of backpacking are in order this coming year. She’s also begun on a delightful culinary odyssey that will surely bring no small amount of delicious food to our table. This, my friends, is what I call living the good life. Feel free to disagree if you must.

Confusion

Frankly, I must say that being in a state of confusion is not reserved for a new year approaching. Something as simple as locating my cellular phone often brings about no small amounts of confusion, especially when I know beyond a doubt that I left it on the dresser, and yet somehow it appears on the charger near the picture window – right where I would have put it if I were trying to charge it. I know I must have, in a moment of incredible lucidity, placed it there and yet I have no recollection of the act. The same can be said for the unexplainable disappearance of several pairs of scissors, the seemingly impossible act of locating both my hammer and the proper size nail simultaneously, as well as the ability to lose all the hair from my knuckles while light a coal stove, despite extreme care. I take pride in my ability to thrive on confusion.

However, the confusion regarding the passage of time is somewhat unique. As a year passes, it always seems that the end of the week is very far away. Yet, last Monday seems like an eternity ago. How is this possible? Being of the engineering mindset, I have concluded the following: The future moves much more slowly than the past. Think about it.

Happy New Year! Wishing you and yours a blessed 2010 filled with your own wonder, excitement and of course, confusion!

Usually, I love to grocery shop.  I realize that for a man, this is somewhat abnormal by today’s standards, but I have never been one to conform to standards – just ask my wife.  So on many occasions, I find myself browsing the isles of the grocery store on the way home from work looking for whatever Katherine needs to finish off her dinner masterpiece (or simply looking for chocolate covered pretzels and Diet Mountain Dew).

After living in Houghton, MI for three years during college where the primary grocery store was meager, to say the least, I feel very spoiled now by the variety of produce, the abundance of tasty treats and the shear volume of anything and everything a person could want.  There is even an entire isle devoted to nothing other than pet food, an entire corner devoted to international beers and three isles devoted to ethnic foods.  What’s more, the staff is usually pleasant and most actually know where to find that elusive can of olives you’ve spent the previous 10 minutes looking for.

However, the check out clerks are somewhat of an anomaly.  It seems that as soon as one of them becomes knowledgeable about anything, they instantly get transferred to that department.  Which means that more often than not, the person ringing you out and bagging your groceries still has a name tag stating Trainee, or something to that affect.  Now don’t get me wrong.  I usually have excellent luck picking someone who looks halfway awake and somewhat coherent.  Today I picked a nice looking teenage girl who seemed to be mostly with it.  Arriving in line and placing my groceries on the conveyor belt, I get asked the key question:

“Would plastic bags be okay for you this evening?”

Now I do understand that paper bags probably cost the store a few pennies more.  However, putting plastic bags in the back of a pick-up truck usually ends up very poorly.  To start with, as soon as I take one corner at a speed greater than 5 miles per hour, I hear the telltale clunking noise of my groceries rolling from one side of the truck bed to the other.  In the process, they all roll out of the plastic bag and the bag inevitably blows out of the truck landing smack in the middle of an elderly person’s windshield causing them to careen off the road.  Not good by anyone’s account.

So to counter the million dollar question, I have concocted a very nice, albeit a bit rehearsed, response.

“Actually, if it’s not too much trouble, could I please have paper?  I find plastic bags don’t work so well in the back of my pickup truck.”

Honest, simple and if said with a smile usually wins them over instantly.  Not so tonight.  With a sigh, the girl turns around, fetches a paper bag, and begins to scan items and place them in the bag.  About halfway through my cart of groceries, she’s still on bag number one and it’s starting to balloon out at the seams.

“I’m sorry.  That’s beginning to look a bit unwieldy.  Would it be possible to split that between two bags?”

Without missing a beat she responds, “I haven’t met the quota for the number of items to place in a paper bag yet.” and continues to try to wrangle the half gallon of milk into the already bursting bag.

Now believe me, I do understand quotas.  I understand that they are told to put lets say 15 items in each bag.  This is all fine.  But a little common sense tells us that 15 heavy items such as half-gallons of milk may not be the smartest way to go.  Or how about bulky items.  15 boxes of cereal clearly won’t fit either unless this particular bag served its previous life as a magician’s prop.

“I understand that”, I say sympathetically.  ”But clearly that rule has to be amended based on the size of the items, doesn’t it?”

She sighs again, a bit louder this time, and reaches for a second bag.  This continues until all of my groceries are crammed into three bags.  She heaves the bags back into the cart, looks at me and gives me my total.  As she hands me my receipt she informs me, “Next time, ask for double paper bags.  Then they won’t rip when you try to lift them.”

Curiously, I ask “But isn’t the quota twice as high for double bags?”

“Of course not.  We couldn’t fit that many things in one bag.”

I half expected her to end with “Duh!”, but she refrained.