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Weekly Post-Ed #66

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

A NEW GAME TO PLAY

Over the past two weeks, I’ve been cold-approaching women in public. Cold-approaching is a term used in the pickup artist community; it means to go up to a person and begin a conversation. Ever since I started reading Neil Strauss’s The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists, I’ve been fascinated with all the things I never knew about being social (as opposed to the psychological toolkit proffered by pickup artists to optimally seduce women).

Courtesy of Amazon

I don’t fancy myself as someone who wishes to seduce (or could pull off the sorts of magic tricks, blatant techniques offered in the book).

But the social-skill aspect of approaching people…That has been fascinating to experiment with.

Some background: I wouldn’t call myself socially inept. I’m not clueless with how to speak to others, even women. Like many creative types, I’m predisposed to an introvert’s lifestyle, finding pleasure in time alone with hobbies/projects than seeking the battery refill of social interaction. That being said, when it comes to speaking to others, I have a fairly rote set of skills that aren’t up-to-date. Much of what I learned involves asking open-ended questions and keeping someone else talking. This is fine if my intention was small talk, or a polite conversation with a stranger, but when it comes to a more meaningful connection, asking questions is like a table with only three legs—it can stand upright but, you know, just barely.

The problem with wanting to test new social skills as someone older is there isn’t a steady place to practice. In my situation, I happen to have a burgeoning college campus full of students just waiting to be spoken with. So, setting out to try a few lessons from Neil Strauss’s book, I set out to test my skills this past week.

***

THE TOOLKIT

The first step was to apply a few useful tips from Strauss’s book. In no particular order, I sought to do the following:

Have an Opener: Really, just a rehearsed scenario that I could begin a conversation with. Here’s what I used:

“Hi, let me get your opinion on this. My sister’s birthday is coming up and I’m buying her a shirt she’s been wanting. I’m not sure if she’s a small or a medium, which size should I go with?”

It’s a solid opener because it invites a casual response (something that isn’t too difficult to have an opinion about) and appears harmless. It’s disarming and allows me to convey confidence in approaching a perfect stranger about this dilemma.

Set a Time Frame: Don’t just approach someone and gab on about something you’d like their opinion on. Most likely, a stranger is thinking two things when you approach: What does this person want, and how long are they staying around? So, to mitigate one of these concerns, it’s a good idea to disarm the concern that you’re not about to leave with a statement of how long you intend to stick around.

I used this one since I was on campus: “I only have a few minutes and then I have to get to my next class.”

I was skeptical that this would be so impactful, but I could see the tension drop away. A time frame was relieving. Who knew?

Don’t be Results Dependent: A huge problem with my previous social interactions has been expecting a certain result: exchanging phone numbers, assurance of a followup interection, acknowledgment that I was the most perfect man and how could I have not come along sooner…

(You can see some of the psychology for why it’s been a struggle. I haven’t, as Esther Peral famously prescribed, “calibrated expectations”.

With strangers, frankly anyone, I wanted to be the most likeable person who could win their affections. If you’ve tried this before, the results are obvious: If you’re desperate to be liked, not only do you appear disingenuous, but will fail miserably. Desperation is potent like Body Odor or blood in the water—people have a sense for it and it isn’t desired. Not socially, at least.

Letting go of results also takes away the pressure of approaching others—simply saying a few lines, playing with the conversation, and then saying, “Thanks. Nice to meet you,” are all acceptable ways of ending things if it isn’t going well.

And many times, things going poorly is as much about luck and chemistry as it is about social prowess.

Speak in Statements: Statements are the language of intimacy, I’ve come to realize. Statements take a stand. Friends talk to each other in statements. In fact, I’d wager the reason we love and care for our favorite heroes in stories is because they mostly speak in statements. It’s simply the door opening to the soul.

Questions are interrogative, like being on a job interview. I’m a great listener and question asker, which isn’t surprising—the writer in me is a natural investigative journalist. But being a great question-asker also means I don’t participate in conversation. Asking questions, I’ve realized, means I’m not offering anything to the conversation about myself. Essentially, I’m hiding behind the lopsided expectation that others should speak and I can sit back and watch them—like an audience. Is it surprising, then, that I’m the one to fall in love with others instead of their falling in love with me?

Of course: They’ve been making statements and have demonstrated character, while I’ve been most often anonymous and asking questions.

With this toolkit memorized, I set out to talk to women on campus.

***

IN THE FIELD

If the pieces of advice I listed above seemed intuitive enough, putting them into practice was a completely different experience. For example, I had not taken into account the entire lifetime of built up social fears and belief systems that made it impossible not to flounder on the first few approaches.

My first approach was with a fashion designer at a coffee shop. She had been reading a book about entrepreneurship and I started with a question, “What are you reading?”

She answered. I couldn’t recall what she said because I was petrified. Up close, she was prettier than I had anticipated. Everything I had coached myself to try had gone out the window. So, I reverted to my default social ability: I asked interview questions.

“Are you looking to start a business?”

“What other things have you designed?”

“Is this for college?”

On and on and on about her fashion dreams. And me? Nothing to report—I didn’t say anything about myself. I could have been an undercover IRS agent for all she knew, which is about how she looked at me after the fifth or sixth question. To my credit, though, I recognized the conversation wasn’t going well—certainly not organically—so I thanked her for her time and said it was nice to meet her.

A class crash and burn, but also a start of something. Where I might have just walked past this person’s table, I stopped and attempted a conversation. So, at least a passing grade with a first attempt.

Partial credit is better than none.

The second interaction this past week was on campus. Spotting a girl sitting in the warm sunlight outside of the library, I approached with an opener I had been turning over in my head. I mustered up the courage and then approached to say:

“Hi, I could really use your opinion on this. My friend was dumped by his girlfriend a few weeks ago, and he keeps texting me that he needs closure in order to move on. Should he text her about what happened?”

Ok, maybe a little too autobiographical for complete comfort, but it worked. She told me that it was never a good idea to try to get back or ask for closure with an ex (a sensible and correct answer). I asked if she’s ever had guys try to contact her after a breakup. She said no and that her mother always steered her right on these matters.

“Help my friend out,” I said, feeling more confident after sensing things were going well. “If you’re being approached by a guy, how should he come up to you?”

She thought for a moment and said, “Not like this. If I’m at a library, I’m working on something. At a coffee house, I’m just trying to get away and have a cup of coffee, maybe read.. If I want to meet a guy, I’ll go to a bar or to a club and go dancing. It makes sense to come up to me there. Anywhere else and it isn’t organic.”

I was surprised by her answer, organic. “You wouldn’t want to be approached at the library? Even if it was Downey Jr. coming up to you?”

She smiled. “Well, that’s different.”

I laughed. “Ok. So, at a bar or a club. Is that where you meet guys?”

She dropped her smile. “Oh, I’m not 21. But, yeah, that’s how I would want to meet guys.”

Ouch, that age difference between her and I. Yes, it was time for me to leave. “Well, I have to run to class, but thank you—I’ll tell my friend what you said.”

“Hey, what class are you going to?”

I smiled. Yes, the hook; the point where she’s interested and asks a question about me. I hadn’t expected this moment, but was flattered that it had come. Too bad the age gap between us was about 13-14 years—something I’m not willing to pursue. I said a class, the lie was white and innocent, and I took my leave.

And gave myself full credit as I walked on.

***

DRUNK TESTING

Whether cold-approaching does anything for my social life, the jury is still out. It’s true that I have more confidence since trying some of the approaches from Neil Strauss’s book, but this could also be an uptick in confidence due to experience. I’m not convinced that any of these prescribed techniques works for me specifically, but I am also at a crossroads in life and trying something new is entirely worthwhile.

The process of cold-approaching, like anything that’s been worth doing in my life, has been the most fun anyways.

Over the weekend, I travelled to Detroit to visit a few friends. I talked about cold-approaching at an Irish pub, and after a few Guinness’s each, we each took turns pretending to cold-approach the table as though we were striking up a conversation with a bunch of strangers. Each attempt was more ridiculous than the last, and we never were convincing to one another. It didn’t matter—after every try, we all sat down to laugh at how ridiculous we looked and sounded. It was great fun.

I realized on the drive back to my friends’ apartment that the fun rested entirely in the aftermath of any of this cold-approaching business. It was never about being successful with women or being considered a social darling—it was all about the fun of having an experience and sharing it with some close friends. We were all drunk, having a great time, and there wasn’t much else that mattered (besides getting home safe).

I’ll have to test some more in the coming weeks, but I did discover a new technique for mitigating the anxiety of approaching others: When one is hungover with blistering headache, there isn’t much energy left to care about how socially graceful you are.

So cheers to me and you, my friend: To more adventures, wherever they may be.

***

Justin Timberlake’s “Everything I Ever Thought It Was” album, courtesy of Spotify

Justin Timberlake’s new album “Everything I Ever Thought It Was” album released over the past week. It’s wonderful. Everyone should have a listen. I’ll listen the three tracks I’ve had on repeat, but the album is truly a work of renown.

In a sweeping series of promotions, Justin Timberlake also featured on NPR’s Tiny Desk Concert series, reprising some golden favorites. It’s a fantastic use of 25-minutes of your life to give it a watch. I’ll include a link.

  1. “No Angels”
  2. “Sanctified (feat. Toby Nwigwe)”
  3. “Selfish”

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #65

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

SEASONS CHANGE

In the past week, the temperature in West Michigan rose to 72 degrees in Allendale, and dipped to below freezing with mild snow showers the very next day. It was the most bipolar weather conditions I’ve seen in winter here. Things have normalized since then, thankfully, but it was a sign of seasons changing: This Sunday the clocks roll forward an hour for Daylight Savings Time, March 19 is the first day of spring, and in three weeks I’ll be turning 35-years-old.

Seasons are changing.

In a month in a half, I will have graduated with a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature, launching into a new season of my life. Perhaps this is a characteristic of age, but the newness of change is less frantic or scary than it used to be. I’ve been through significant change more than I can count at this point, so the thought of leaving campus to head out into the real world isn’t so intimidating.

It is, however, intimidating to many of my classmates—most of whom are 14-15 years my junior.

Attaining a BA in English Lit has been wildly different than my first go-around with college. Instead of pursuing a degree in my early twenties, I went out in the world confident that I could do without one. This was true to an extent (I certainly could have committed to numerous career paths outside of a degree of some sort). The truth is that choices are limited without a slip of paper to get into other fields. With some luck, I was able to return to to college in my thirties, which was a radically different experience. Instead of being concerned with forming an identity and the constant anxiety of who I fit in with. I was free to do the work–which was the benefit of working in all those odd jobs: Showing up and completing a day’s work is the extent of responsibility. In the many years I spent working as as a freelance writer, in advertising, and as a preschool teacher, I found there was a common theme with every workplace and its hierarchy of people and rules: Every place is different and there’s no telling what it’s like until you’re in the thick of it.

Call it life experience or wisdom from age, but the road one takes is always going somewhere. In my experience, there isn’t much need to worry about where you’ve come from.

That’s why I’m always taken aback by the epidemic of fear of failure pertaining to test scores/assignments/papers and final grades. In the logistical sense of applying for scholarships (money for tuition), grades matter, but this concern is always insulated—no one outside of college cares about grades other than which university you acquired them from.

I spoke with a classmate in my thesis class who was convinced that the rest of her life was dependent on our professor’s decision pass or fail us. “Our professor has the power to decide what happens to me, doesn’t that scare you?” she asked me.

No. Of course not. That’s because college is another season of life—and like most seasons, you experience them while they occur but without much memory for when they change. Do you remember last summer? Vaguely, I imagine. Your recollection likely goes something like this:

“It wasn’t very hot, it was nice to get outside, and I went to the beach a few times.” 

Right, which isn’t very specific. You’ve moved on and forgotten. College, like last summer, will be faintly memorable like the fading tan that’s in desperate need of more sunlight.

As I’m finishing the final month and a half of classes, I often think about getting back into the real world. It’s true that college has been a strange bubble existence with its own set of rules and expectations apart from the real world. However, the value of college has been a place to harness skills, think about the world in unconventional ways, and to truly expand the mind. The tragedy of graduation, I think, is that the faucet of knowledge is suddenly turned off and it’s all the harder to keep exposed anything challenging preconceived notions about the world.

Workplaces, families, friendships, and social media all make it incredibly easy to fall into a community of practice that insulates itself. There’s no more need to pick up a textbook, read studies, or cram for a test the following morning. There is no longer a forced path to unwittingly follow to betterment. In college there was (with its due criticisms, of course), but now there’s no incentive to keep going. Post-graduation means to adapt to a new world, one of employment and promotion, of hierarchy and financial makeup, of integrating into social systems that lead to that next stage of adult life.

Seasons change, I suppose.

I’ve yet to hear who the commencement speaker will be at Grand Valley State University, but one thing is for sure: This person will be older, experienced, and will likely give wisdom to those too young to understand the full impact of what’s being said. That’s natural—I’m just now learning things that I wished made sense a decade ago, and I’m confident that I’ll feel the same way about things I wish I had known at 35 in another ten years. Whatever this speaker will say to 2024 graduates, I can echo my own sentiment:

“Appreciate the seasons.”

They come and go. The leaves wilt, the snow accrues, and the muddy puddles of spring will evaporate into the paradise of summertime. It all changes so fast, but the lesson wasn’t in recognizing that seasons come and go—it was in spending the time to notice them in the first place. 

So, when someone asks about last summer or what it was like to be in college, time travel back to when that place felt real again. Summer meant sunshine, and college meant glimpsing a world that appears a wondrous, complex organism–one that was never simple to define.

It’s much like the weather this past week: Summer and winter existed within 24-hours of each other in Western Michigan. I don’t truly understand anything.

I appreciate the seasons that remind me of this.

***

A NOTE ON AI GRAPHICS

Some of you may have noticed a distinct stylistic change in Weekly Post-Ed graphics form the past two weeks. There’s an obvious reason for that—they were designed using AI. And while I am naturally opposed to making graphics using AI, the past few weeks of trying out the technology has been fascinating. Viewing an image generate after transcribing a few sentences into ChatGPT might be the closest I’ve come to witnessing magic on the internet (not counting a few TikTok trends). An image is produced in under ten seconds with a level of detail that might take me hours to illustrate.

There are downsides, however. The design choices this current AI makes in graphics generation are very limited in my opinion (in terms of a flat, cartoony style), which makes it easy to identify images made with AI. There’s also a lack of authorship with the images, something that isn’t easy to explain, but something about the images feels lacking. If that makes any sense. Call it artistic integrity, but I can see the difference in something made by humans and not. There seems to be a lack of personal choice with AI generation.

All of this is to say these graphics are a short term experiment. I do not intend to rely on AI for graphics going further. The graphic designer in me will not tolerate the loss of originality with my own creative works.

So, that about explains it. Count on more personalized graphics going further, but every once in a while, if the graphic is interesting enough, I may use elements of AI as inspiration (which, frankly is where the technology thrives).

***

  1. “Hush” by The Marías
  2. “idwtgtbt” by the booyah! kids
  3. “I Gotta I Gotta” by flowerovlove

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #63

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

SOME PRACTICAL ADVICE

Breakups are terrible. No matter how many times I go through one, they are just as painful and mysterious even after a catalogue of past experiences to compare them with. Over the past two months, I’ve been going through the process of moving on from a serious romantic relationship. And while I’ve assumed my usual role of private detective revisiting the scene of the crime in order to solve just what murdered love this time around, I also understand the relationship is dead and that there was no saving it. Since the breakup, I’ve read everything I could get my hands on that offers advice—some things have worked, others haven’t.

What’s fascinating about breakups is that we often find our own methods for soothing and moving on. I’ve found things that have worked that I’ve never found anywhere else. So, in case anyone finds this useful, I’d like to share the THREE THINGS that helped me move on from this past relationship.

***

YOU CAN ADMIT ALL OF THIS IS A LITTLE FUNNY

I remember distinctly the last time I saw my ex-girlfriend. I was driving to her house and had an existential moment of humor: Everything was so ridiculously wrong in that moment that it made me laugh. Everything felt wrong—from the strange distance growing between us, the unreasonable expectations and judgments (that I levied as well, I suppose), nothing felt organic. It was to be our last time seeing one another and I wondered why we were going through with it, honestly.

I’ve heard that there is a moment of understanding right before one dies, as though there’s a recognition that death is imminent and all becomes soberingly clear. I believe the same moment exists in romantic relationships bound to fail. And my advice for if you ever find yourself in that nebulous space is to laugh at it.

It’s ok to admit that what’s happening is funny.

Perhaps recognizing the absurdity of my dying relationship was why I handled the following evening so well.

I was broken up over a text message…after 8 months of being with someone.

I’m already laughing as I reflect writing this. In the world of relationships, you don’t get to break up with a text message after 8 months. To be clear, those 8 months included: exchanging “I love yous”, meeting family, spending nights and weekends together, and even mowing each other’s lawns (well, I mowed hers—which is a whole other story). Given that backstory, it doesn’t follow that a relationship like that should end with a SINGLE text message informing that things are over.

She sent it late at night: 

“Robert, I’ve been sorting through my feelings about our relationship the past few months and now I know that I don’t want this. Sorry it took me so long to process.” 

Ok: abrupt, a little remorseless, but not unfathomable—it’s not like we were a great couple. But still, breaking up over a text message?

It gets better. She added:

“Don’t call me, I won’t pick up. I’ll call you tomorrow or Monday if you want to talk about it.”

That’s when I laughed. 

Really hard.

Because until that moment, I didn’t know you could do that: Schedule a breakup in advance.

To her credit, it took the sting of the breakup away initially. The notion that you can break up with someone and then schedule to talk about it later is hilarious to me. It defies the act entirely: 

You’re breaking up RIGHT NOW.

It’s not worth bringing up the cowardice of ending things over a text message (which is also indicative of so much else that was wrong with the relationship), nor all the negative attributes of that moment that aren’t worth elaborating on either. What I will say, in hindsight, I am grateful that things ended so absurdly. There were tears when it happened, but mostly from laughter. It’s hard to completely fault someone else for at least ending things on a joke—even though it was at her expense.

Real tears were to follow, of course—I did love her—but this part was funny and worth laughing about. It was a good start to a long breakup process, really, which helped in the long run.

***

IT’S OK TO COMPARE PAST BREAKUPS

Another surprising strategy that has helped is comparing past breakups. The added benefit of having gone through many breakups is recognizing that some were better than others. In many cases, I started to think fondly of past relationships that ended in a way that was – for a lack of a better term – classy.

No one likes a breakup because it means something wasn’t working, but there is a sense of integrity in finding a fitting ending. I’ve found that those who breakup with a polite and professional message are the ones doing it right. For example, I once hated receiving the rejected job application breakup:

“Hey, sorry to do this, but I don’t think we’re clicking. While I think you’re a terrific candidate and will make some other employer extremely happy in the future, it just wasn’t the right fit for me or my company. I’ve decided to go in another direction at this time. Thanks for applying and I wish you the best going forward.”

It still hurts, and is inhumanly sterile in warmth or tone, but it is a nice sentiment compared to other ways people choose to breakup.

*cough* Like a text message that attempts to schedule an explanation a day or two later. *cough*

I have never appreciated ex-girlfriends like I have from this previous breakup. While those breakups felt cruel and unreasonable at the time, I now see that they also showed a maturity in recognizing the relationship wasn’t going to work and how best to approach its end. Perhaps it is the writer in me, but I always appreciate those who put effort into the endings of things. It isn’t necessary to have total understanding or closure from a relationship (because no explanation erases the reality that the relationship failed; and most often, seeking closure morphs into something unhealthy such as keeping the door open a crack just in case both want to try – and fail – again).

In many ways, I feel better about my other breakups. They seem nicer now, somehow.

***

WHEN IN DOUBT, IMAGINE WHAT YOUR HEROES WOULD SAY

One of the most useful techniques I’ve discovered is to imagine you are telling the story of your relationship to one of your heroes. If I were to honestly tell the story of what happened, how would they respond? Here are what a few of my heroes would have to say:

Colin Jost: “Her brother wore a gun on holster on his chest when meeting you? In his own home? Did he offer to chest bump you to make the gun go off? What a great way of getting away with murder for someone with a severe insecurity complex. “Chest bump with the safety off, bro!” C’mon, even in westerns the cowboys take off their guns in their own homes!”

Craig Mazin: “No. Just, no. You should have left when she said that her “true self” was someone selfish, blunt, crass, and mean. Here’s some advice: when someone says, ‘Oh, here’s who I really am’ and gets VERY specific about the terrible qualities they possess, you BELIEVE THEM. Get away. Get far, far away.”

Neil Gaiman: “You know, when I was writing Coraline, I had an idea to make the little doorway to the other world have a guillotine blade that would shutter down if one wasn’t looking carefully enough, cutting off a finger or an arm. But I found it didn’t work because – and I think this is much like what you were telling me about your ex-girlfriend who believes in conspiracy theories – it was a bit TOO much of the wrong thing.”

Lori Gotlieb: “She wanted to stop saying ‘I love you’ months after you both had declared love for one another, and this was because she didn’t want to say it in case the relationship wouldn’t last? I’m not sure you can preorder a breakup in a relationship, but I think that’s what she was doing there. And you must ask yourself: Does that quality make for a good partner? I think you already know the answer to that.”

***

CAST FOR SANITY

At this point in my life, I don’t know what makes for a healthy relationship because – honestly – I’ve never had one. However, I can imagine what it feels like to enjoy a healthy romantic relationship. I won’t constantly wonder if someone wants to build something with me or not. I don’t think there will be family members or a roommate constantly gossiping about what a wrong fit I am, even though they never asked much about me. Nor will there be constant judgment and seeking out all my faults because I wasn’t, suddenly, impressive anymore (8 months into a relationship, ain’t NO ONE impressive any longer).

In short: it just shouldn’t be so goddam hard.

The director Judd Apatow has said that when he casts actors for his movies, he first and foremost casts for sanity. 

Ultimately, I think this is the best advice for choosing a romantic partner. And it is casting: you are being selective about who earns the role of being in your life (just remember that you are also auditioning for theirs).

So, just remember: When the next audition shows up and says they found Jesus Christ at 4-years-old, has a sibling that is convinced you are a communist because IT WAS A THOUGHT THAT CAME INTO HIS BRAIN FOR NO REASON, and claims that a clinically obsessive roommate’s 20-30 texts in a row are because she’s “just looking out for me.”

You can pass.

Even better: You should laugh, think fondly about past auditions that weren’t so bad in hindsight (but that you wouldn’t cast, either), and that everyone around you – whom is reasonable and wise –  suggests you see other auditions.

Because there’s still a line of people waiting to read for the part outside.

And don’t worry: It’s a great movie. We all believe in it. And the right cast will make it even better.

Until then, you can tell the person in front of you with a smile and polite dismissal, “Thanks, I think we got it. We’ll let you know.” 

***

I have one song only to recommend this week and it is the new Justin Timberlake track “Sanctify” that debuted on Saturday Night Live this past weekend. I’ve had it on repeat the past few days and, for the first time, can confidently admit that I’m looking forward to JT’s new album dropping in March. Here’s the performance from SNL, it’s worth a watch:

https://youtu.be/zLC8XiBxV1k?si=cll-mC_-yBNYWN0Q

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #62

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

“I’M A DICK BEFORE I AM.”

I’m currently in my last semester to attain my Bachelor’s Degree in English Literature. After two years of attending classes, I’ve realized there is a tipping point for when one has been at college TOO long.

It came when reading a textbook, of all things. As I was reading opening chapter, I suddenly thought, “You know, this is a REALLY GOOD textbook.”

[planet earth exploding]

A textbook? I was inspired by a textbook. That’s like being inspired by the text of Apple’s Terms and Conditions agreements. “Hey, these are really well written, you know that?”

But maybe I’m not being fair. If you read the textbook, you might also agree that it’s pretty damned good. Here’s what happened next:

The textbook in question is from a linguistics class called Language and Gender: Second Edition by Penelope Eckert and Sally McConnell-Ginet. Essentially, the class is a sociolinguistics course—which is academic babble for how language shapes society. This class, in particular, explores how language has impacted ideas about gender from a historical and cultural perspective. 

The first chapter started with a bang with this argument: Gender is a social invention.

It was incredibly convincing. In thirty pages, the authors of the textbook broke down what it is like to be raised to taught, observe, and otherwise value deeply entrenched gender standards that reach back as far as civilization is concerned. I’ll save the research section for those interested in pursuing the subject, but one piece of evidence has stuck with me:

Infants as old as two-days-old change the pitch of their cries based around if a caregiver is male or female. It’s a slight change in pitch, something measurable only with a fine instrument, but the change is readily observed.

By the end of the opening chapter, I felt like I was yanked out of The Matrix and awoke in a tub of pink goo. I subsequently wondered why it had to be pink and not blue goo, the sort that boys would prefer in a dystopian human-battery plant, but that’s beside the point. 

I spent the following three days casing over how environment has influenced my identity, ideas, likes/dislikes, relationships, career decisions, music tastes – in short, everything. 

By the end of the week, I wasn’t sure of who I was anymore. Was I just a pair of eyes and loosely working system of neurons that has absorbed advertising and consumerist ideals on a scale on an unconscious level? Am I just a mimic for all that has been told or taught to me?

I had turned into a Gender-focused Renée Descartes, pondering if my existence was a figment of some demon’s oddly white male and patriarchal imagination.

Descartes, for those foggy on the famous philosopher, would soon conclude of his existence: “I think, therefore I am.”

But I couldn’t keep the record from skipping when it came to environmental influences. I kept asking myself, “If I ask a girl out and have no idea how she’s been subjugated for a lifetime of unequal treatment, does that make me a dick before even saying hello?”

My conclusion was similarly Cartesian, but slightly different: 

“I’m a dick before I am.”

By the weekend, I was exhausted. Trying to piece together your life by considering EVERYTHING EVER is a little like dumping the entirety of your household belongings in a big pile in the living room and asking, “Ok, but what does it all mean?!” It’s a stupid thing to do all at once.

Admitting defeat, the only thing I could do was pick up the textbook and continue reading. 

That’s when I found a rather surprisingly passage from the authors. Instead of accepting the dystopian future we’re all headed for, they wrote something unexpectedly uplifting about the nature of social systems—for those in apparent control and everyone else. This is what they wrote:

“While social structure and available resources provide constraints, it is people who decide just how constrained they will allow themselves to be (and others who try to enforce or help loosen those constraints)…We do not forget that on a day-to-day level, style is not usually a serious business – rather, it is the spice of life.”

Eckert, P., & McConnell-Ginet, S. (2013). Language and gender (Second Edition). Cambridge University Press. 48.

The pile that was my life that I had dumped on the floor was suddenly cleaned up. 

It was like hearing the famous conclusion of Renée Descartes, “I think, therefore I am”, but with a lemony twist on top, “Plus,” the great philosopher might have added, “it’s more fun that way.”

It’s a much more liveable way of existing, don’t you think? I’ll rephrase: 

“I style, therefore I am.”

 ***

AGDQ 2024 FINALE, HURRAY!!

This past week was the bi-annual speedrunning charity marathon event Awesome Games Done Quick. For those in the know, it’s a charity marathon streaming 24/7 on Twitch.tv for seven days that features a slate of video games being beaten as quickly as possible. The event draws tens-of-thousands of viewers and raises obscene amounts of money from a community of dedicated gamers and fans of games for a great cause: The Prevent Cancer Foundation.

I’ve watched the marathon every year and it continues to impress with speedruns that showcase the toughest tricks without a hitch. And while that is masterful to watch, there is something deeply inspiring when watching something go wrong and how one responds to it.

There was no better example than the finale of AGDQ 2024 when the final run hit a “snag” that had to be figured out in front of a live audience. The runner, Zic3, needed to level up a character in Final Fantasy V: Pixel Remaster, but the only fight was something his roster of fighters were greatly under-leveled for. The result was watching twenty minutes of frantic trial and error as the runner and his Couch Commenters (FOXYJIRA and W0ADYB) conferred back and forth for how to beat this section of the game.

It was the most inspiring example of grace under pressure I have seen in a long time. While the host, PROLIX, kept the audience riveted by reading donations, Zic3 eventually found a way to progress back to the route and complete the run. There were no tears, no gripes of rage or blame, not even a helpless moment of hesitation. The three runners on stage huddled together to solve the problem and eventually found a way through.

There’s something vulnerable and revealing when things go wrong. For me, it showed just how incredible these runners were to focus with all the pressure and continue to work the problem, each contributing solutions.

I’ll link the moment in the video below. It’s worth a watch.

And congrats to another AGDQ for raising 2.5 million for the Prevent Cancer Foundation.

***

  1. “This Time Around” by Beauty Queen
  2. “Skyline” by Hembree
  3. “Fumari” by Peach Tree Rascals

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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Weekly Post-Ed #61

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

SELF-HELP RESOLUTIONS

I have two resolutions that I’m excited to share:

The first is canceling my first resolution. Did you know you could do this? I had an elaborate and specific resolution that I scheduled for the start of the New Year and IMMEDIATELY blew it. It was a bit more involved than working out three times a week or writing in a gratitude journal before bedtime. 

What I wanted to do was go 365 days without reading any self-help books.

My life, I’ve realized, has become a sponge for any advice I can find. Call it the benefit of living in the Age of Everything (the internet, comparison, research, social media, whatever). For as long as I can remember I’ve sought out anything and everything that could shed light on what I was going through. Originally, self-help was designed as a tool – helping oneself, go figure – but has now turned into the goal. If anything went wrong in life, I’d look up the remedy, which was a temporary emotional band-aid, but never indented the larger scope of the problem. Eventually, taking the drug of self-help was all that mattered.

In other words: I had forgone living and was, instead, reading about how one ought to live.

And so I was determined to live a life independent about reading about an ideal one.

Triumphant as that resolution was, I immediately caved no less than fifteen hours into the New Year when I was feeling low and needed a pick-me-up.

As I flipped through the pages of a book from my shelf, I thought, “Is there a self-help book for being addicted to self-help books?”

Wherein I extracted a valuable lesson: When the remedy becomes a contradiction, get rid of the remedy.

So, I’ve eliminated that resolution. Instead, I’m sticking to my goal of living life while not actively seeking how others live for reference. For a few months, maybe.

I’m much more excited about the second resolution:

To post another Weekly Post-Ed.

It’s specific, achievable, and something I’ve been wanting to do for so long. Without further babbling, here’s a new one (finally!). 

See? Goals are achievable—so long as they are bite-sized and easily consumable as actual bite-sized things. I assume I could eat this Weekly Post-Ed if I printed it out…

Am I getting off track? Gotcha, we’ll move on.

***

BALLS DROPPING

This New Year’s marked the first ever ball dropping in my hometown. Around 6000 attended, which was more than any local officials imagined since only two police officers were posted for duty for the entirety of the crowd. Cramming along a single avenue that acts as both the single exciting street in a smalltown (complete with restaurants, a performing arts theater, hockey arena, and a peppering of breweries offering a local culinary favorite: pizza), thousands hereded around a single crane that lifted a luminescent ball wrapped in Christmas lights high above the crowd. The adjoining buildings, no taller than three stories, acted as balcony party sights for those who could afford the new-age apartments that rival apartment prices in NYC (not to be outdone, the landlords are just as negligent when attending to faulty AC units and weird leaks from a guy playing AC/DC most of the night).

Driving to the downtown area would act as a perfect preview for the preferred scent of the evening. Every corner has sprouted a cannabis dispensary and patrons of the downtown area were well stocked. As one attendee of the event said, “I tried to smell anything else, even my armpits, but couldn’t.”

If the smell of cheap and expensive reactional marijuana (a mix that made for a “meh” combination despite the price point) wasn’t pervading the atmosphere of the ball drop, the mood surely shifted. Lines for alcohol ranged from an hour to the following fortnight, and the New Year’s reminiscing gave way to hallunicating optimism.

“Once the ball drops,” said one man, “we’re going to beat the shit out of it and get all the weed!”

During the course of several hits of weed,  a New Year’s ball drop evolved from a celebratory event to reel in the new year to a birthday pinata bash. The two officers on duty were quick to ascertain the plot and apprehend the three or four brooms from those closest to the ball drop location.

As midnight came and went, drinks spilled and kisses given to loved ones and complete strangers, it was a night of jubilee in a small town. One city official was ecstatic about the event, stating the town “was back!”

Others, meanwhile, offered up constructive criticism. One hair salonist said, “Why was the ball so small? I mean, it was like my son’s little kickball size. Couldn’t they find something bigger? I like bigger balls.”

Well, don’t we all?

No official word has been given about budget constraints in terms of the small ball size, but many of the cannibus community had a fix that is catching a lot of attention.

“Just buy a second one and add it to the first one!”

One artist went so far as to draw a mockup for this proposal. Another offered a slogan to go along with it. With enough support, next year’s ball(s) drop will be another huge community hit.

[Balls on crane with slogan: 2025: Get Ready for Our Balls to Drop!]

***

2023 PLAYLISTS

I’ve posted four new playlists! They were my quarterly playlists from 2023 that have (finally) been posted. If the New Year was in desperate need of anything, it was an infusion of new jams to start fresh with. Why not click on one of the banners below and sample some of the best tracks from last year.

Pairs nicely with new gym memberships, I hear.

***

A SMASHING NEW YEAR

Lastly, the site has a new look.

It’s hard to believe that on April 26 of this year, Super Smash Bros. will celebrate its 25TH anniversary. It’s even harder to believe I’ve played the same video game franchise over a 25-year period. When I think of what else I’ve done over such a long period of my life, nothing healthy comes to mind. Coffee drinker? Sure, since I was 14. Light sugar addiction? Even longer: maybe when I was just a baby. Other than having a sibling and parents for the entirety of my life, very little makes the cut of “Celebrating Our 25TH Anniversary!”

I would mention my previous marriage at the age of 4 to now super model Kate Ferrera, but unfortunately we divorced just before our 25TH anniversary. Unlike Super Smash Bros., Kate changed— she wasn’t a super model when we married, but everything changed when she moved away from diapers. It was a long descent into hell after that. Think of the movie “Walk the Line” starring Joaquin Phoenix, except picture the film starring a pair of toddlers with swaths of diapers and ants-on-a-log snacks in the place of drugs, and tantrums (not so different from the movie).

With the 25TH anniversary fast approaching, there was no better time to redesign the website in the style of Super Smash Bros. Ultimate. It is the magnum opus of the series that includes every fighter from the entire series (the likes of Cloud Strife, Sonic the Hedgehog, Solid Snake, Ryu and Ken, Sora, Banjo-Kazooie, and on and on and on). This dizzying array of characters epitomized the clashing video game universe we all wished was real growing up. If anything, Super Smash Bros. became a banner title that showed that dreams really can come true.

Anyway, I gush…

It’s a fitting look for the New Year, I think. 

***

I sincerely wish that all of you had had a safe start to the New Year. Maybe things will be easier (or maybe they won’t), but just know you’re not alone. I’ll be here, making playlists and tinkering with what to write next. Feel free to write in.

Wishing you as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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Weekly Post-Ed #60

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

GIFT HORSES

There’s an idiom that baffles me:

“Don’t go looking a gift horse in the mouth.”

If you knew nothing about this phrase, two things come to mind when hearing it for the first time:

  1. What the fuck is a gift horse?
  2. Why am I not supposed to look in its mouth?

The phrase is wisdom wrapped as a riddle. It means to be grateful for what you’ve just received. After all, it was so kind of someone to gift a horse (hence the term “gift horse”), and who are you to inspect this newly acquired animal for gum disease and tooth decay to check if the mangy thing might die in the next hour?

In other words: “It’s a horse! Oh my gosh, what a great gift! You should be grateful.”

It’s worth noting that “Don’t go looking a gift horse in the mouth” is a phrase that isn’t in rotation much anymore. First of all, it’s downright confusing: Was there a time in history when horses were gifted at a rate that called for the invention of the term “gift horse”? On what occasions did people receive horses? And even if a horse was gifted to someone who, logically, made sense to receive one – say: a little girl who dreams of being an equestrian – was she supposed to happily take ANY horse as a gift?

***

COMPLETELY OPTIONAL SIDENOTE

Sidenote: If I’m given a horse as a gift, I’m absolutely going to inspect it. Supposing I wanted a horse at all, I don’t just want any horse—I would want one that might be useful.

Sidenote to the Sidenote: Who has spare horses to give away? No one that I know. And where does the guy giving away horses take any responsibility? What’s his motive? Not generosity, that’s for certain. Why give away a horse? The horse is probably decrepit and about to die; it’s no longer any use to this guy. Otherwise he’d KEEP THE F%&$ING HORSE!! So, instead, this stranger gifts a horse away to someone else instead of retiring it?? 

(Read: euthanize—which sounds cruel, but so is this practice of gifting away livestock, don’t you think?)

I could keep going, but I digress.

Of course, I’m complicating the intention of the idiom. The message is simply this: Don’t immediately inspect a gift for quality. It’s rude.

I mention the phrase because I think it holds up. We should be better Gift Receivers: practicing gratitude and grace when someone goes through the trouble of giving a gift.

Admittedly, it is tough to receive gifts gracefully today. Most people are not gifted gift-givers, and those that are talented at observing the hobbies and purchasing trends of others tend to receive mediocre responses for their thoughtful gifts.

There’s a reason for this, I think. Perhaps it is the current absence of horses as commonly exchanged goods, but the conundrum for why it is so hard to pick out gifts for others is precisely because of this overpopulation of Bad Gift Receivers.

Which, I’m convinced, all started with rectangular giftboxes of clothes.

***

GROWING INTO IT

My nephew is the best to buy gifts for. He’s 3, going on 4, and has so many loves: dinosaurs, Spider-Man, fishing poles, blocks and puzzles. The list keeps growing. Each birthday, holiday, what-have-you, is easy to come up with gift ideas for. I just think of what would add to his already bourgeoning imaginative world.

We all started at this way, with loves of superheroes, unicorns, racecars, and magical lands.

What happened?

It all started with a rectangular box unwrapped at holidays and birthday parties. These mysteriously wrapped presents was large enough to draw excitement at first, but once unwrapped became a symbol for disappointment. What was inside was never inspiring, never any fun.

Just the opposite: It was disgustingly practical. Useful, even.

Ick.

Have you ever seen more a defeated look on a child’s face than when they open up a box of clothes?

That’s because children, even without consciously understanding it, know that the gift of clothes is about forward planning. A child thinks, “How are clothes supposed to help beat the bad guy?” or, “This box could have been filled with LEGOs—why waste it on a winter coat that I didn’t even want!”

As the years go by, more rectangular boxes infiltrate the cache of gifts loved ones purchase.

“I found this on sale,” says a relative at a birthday, “and I know you’re outgrowing your dress clothes. You’ll need these for when you go to a wedding or a funeral. It’s a little big, but you’ll grow into it.”

“I found this sweater on the bargain rack a few weeks ago,” says a delusional aunt with an impaired fashion sense. “It’s 1,004% wool, but it’s a trending right now. You’ll grow into it.”

Years pass by and the clothes keep coming. Soon, you’re the one asking for clothes.

“Mom, I need a pea coat for this winter. Yeah, I don’t really play outside anymore, and all my friends are wearing pea coats now.”

Fast forward another ten years and you get a new sweater. That you bought yourself. To open at Christmas. As a gift that is technically from a relative who couldn’t figure out what to give you.

“There we go,” you say, extracting the sweater from the rectangular box. “1,004% wool. Everyone at work is wearing them. Thanks Dad, you know me so well.”

Who would have thought all of our childhood dreams could be neatly packed and forgotten into such rectangular boxes?

***

GIFT RECEIPTS

One Christmas, I unwrapped a special hardcover edition of Douglas Adams’ The Complete Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I already had the novels, and despite the glossy cover art, this was the same thing I already currently owned.

I didn’t take this gift well.

Image curtesy of thriftbooks.com

I smiled politely, mentioned that I had already read the books, loved them, and that, although this was a different printing, wondered if I could have the receipt to exchange it for something else.

What has always perplexed me about this gift is that I never exchanged it. The edition I received is still on my bookshelf, in its original packaging. Perhaps I unconsciously took it as a symbol: I remember the disappointment from those who knew of my love for Douglas Adams, had remembered that I mentioned those stories as influential for my own writings, and went through the trouble of picking out a rather expensive copy of all his collected works.

But instead, I took my gift horse and inspected every inch of its mouth with a flashlight, prodding and poking its gums with a pick, and had found it a mangy creature.

I have no recollection of what else I opened as a gift that Christmas. But I remember the edition of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

I remember throwing away the gift receipt, eventually.

***

GIFTING HORSES

Our philosophy of gift-giving mutates for those we love. 

It begins simply, joyfully: “What is this person into that would add to that world?”

And, yet, we somehow morph into this: “What makes the most practical sense to give someone that is practical and useful?”

Through this metamorphosis, we turn our loved ones into Bad Gift Receivers: Those who only measure the practicality of the gifts they receive. 

Is it any wonder, then, that the most common gift for adults is either cash, check, or gift cards? 

Money, uninspiringly, is the most practical gift of all—and also completely bereft of anything meaningful.

Today, the currency has changed. We don’t gift in horses anymore. What would we ever do with a horse, anyway?

I’m not sure, but it would be a gift to remember. Maybe.

Next time, I’ll take the horse as is.

***

  1. “Sleepwalkin’ – Daydreamin’ Version” by Better Oblivion Community Center, Pheobe Bridgers, Conor Oberst
  2. “Sit Right” by HONEYMOAN
  3. “Not A Go” by foamboy

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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Weekly Post-Ed #59

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

A CASUAL INTERROGATION SCENE

My favorite social anxiety is when someone asks how something has been going in my life

“You’re taking a summer class? How’s that going?”

Do you feel that oncoming panic? It feels like being in an interrogation room, and there are two detectives with arms folded, standing over the (weirdly) metal table. The detective playing the “bad cop” demands answers, while the other is the “good cop” detective, warm and welcoming, but that’s only because he, too, wants answers.

I’m sitting at the table, looking up, pleading my innocence. I have nothing to hide; I’m not even sure why I’m being questioned in this case. I honestly believe that if I explain everything I know, I’ll be let go, peaceably. So, I blurt out:

“I’m taking a psycholinguistics class, which is about the study of how the brain interprets written and spoken language.”

The detectives look on, both are professionally unhappy with my answer.

I keep going: “Umm, so there’s a debate about if the brain is modular or not when interpreting spoken language: Are we thinking about a sentence as a whole, or is syntax – what a sentence means – broken down into parts that make the meaning clear? And we do this all the time!”

I’m expecting something, anything positive from the detectives. I’m impressed by my explanation, which is a first. Considering the class, this is an elegant description of something that has taken me 6 weeks to understand.

Except, the bad-cop detective slams his hands on the metal table. “I’m going to give you one last chance to come clean about this. How’s the class going?”

I’m about to crack; I’ve just told them! “We also go over how best to teach kids to read, which the school systems aren’t doing. We should be teaching phonics! Phonics, damn it! That’s all I know! Really! You can read it yourselves, in numerous published studies. It’s a really cool class, I promise!”

The good-cop detective shakes his head with a mirthless sigh; he’s seen enough. He reaches for the door and says to his partner, “I’ll be outside when you’re finished.”

The bad-cop unclasps his sleeve and rolls it neatly up an obnoxiously muscled and tattooed forearm. Across his flesh is something that looks like a starfish. It looks faded, like the bad-cop detective personally pricked the tattoo into his own skin with an inkwell and a sewing needle. “You should know,” he says, “I didn’t want things to come to this.”

The dangling bulb light above the table grows brighter. I feel the cobra-quick grasp of the bad-cop detective’s fingers around my terribly outdated T-shirt. He grins and pulls his fist back…

I brace for four bulging knuckles to splinter my cheekbones on impact.

“Finished!”

I open an eye, unsure of what’s going on. “Finished?”

The good-cop detective opens up the door, ushering his partner outside. The bad-cop detective doesn’t even look at me as he says, “Yeah, we’re finished here. You can go.”

“But,” I plead, “what about my story? Don’t you want to hear the rest of it?”

“Save it,” says the bad-cop detective. “I was bored after the word ‘psycho’.”

“It was psycholinguistics,” I say. “You couldn’t listen through one word?”

“Get this kid out of here,” says the bad-cop detective to the guard outside. “His syntax is bothering me.”

***

WANTED

I’m terrible at telling a story about myself in person.

The scene you’ve just read, more or less, is how every conversation goes in which I’m asked about my personal life. I often see questions as interrogations, as though I’ve been arrested and placed in a room for police questioning. Even worse, it feels like I’m that suspect with nothing significant to add to the case. Which, isn’t a good experience for the suspect, either. 

Like any suspect, if you’re put through the trouble of being questioned, one would hope it’s because you had something meaningful to contribute. Why dislodge someone from their day and dismiss what they had to say? Nothing hurts a suspect more than not being found wanted, I find.

But this is how it feels when I’m asked things; it’s the twist ending to the interrogation scene: The detectives leave the suspect behind because he’s BORING them with details that don’t apply to the case.

Even for wanted suspects, this is embarrassing.

***

SOCIAL TIME OUTS

I’ve thought about why I’m terrible at talking about myself out loud. Over the course of this week, here’s what I’ve found:

When someone is asking about how life is going, they want to know how you – as a character – have faced some sort of adversity in the course of what you’re going through.

In other words, they want to know how YOU started to approach something, how YOU were met with an obstacle, how YOU figured out how to get past said obstacle, and, finally, how YOU are different from what happened. 

This makes for an enticing story. How do I know this? Because this is the literally the playbook of what makes all stories worth hearing.

Were you ever told a story that didn’t include a character you gave a shit about? Case closed.

The same applies for when saying something about yourself; ultimately, the story is about YOU going through change.

My mistake in answering the question, “How is your summer class going?” was in trying to describe the class. There was no ME in the story. That’s because I didn’t think talking about myself was interesting; the class must be what everyone wanted to know about. So, Instead, I covered the course materials, explained details about theories and modern approaches of psycholinguistics—and exactly NONE of my story had myself as a character going through change.

Can you imagine why faces glazed over with waning interest?

It’s during these times that I wish it was socially acceptable to call a “Time Out” during conversation. If a conversation is going too far off the rails, calling a “time out” to clarify the intention of a question would solve a lot of problems.

Time Out: “Oh, Robert, hey. Umm, I was asking about how you like the class, not what it’s about. That’s interesting, too, whatever psycholinguistics is, but I’m really just asking how you’re feeling about taking a class. Does that make more sense?  Ok, start over.”

Or,

Time Out: “When I ask about your day, you don’t have to list everything that happened in a 24-hour period of time. You can just tell me the things that meant something to you, personally. Ok, go on.

And,

Time Out: “Let’s assume when I ask what we should eat that I simply mean what the both of us would eat together, and not something weird that you consume in private and in the shadows of your home. Ok? Let’s try again.

Can you imagine? It would solve so much.

***

CASE SOLVED

I’ve heard that a good mystery story incorporates two things:

  1. It teaches about a new subject
  2. Great characters navigate that subject to solve something.

I think this is a great stencil for talking about oneself.

So, if I’ve learned anything from this week, here’s my revised response to the question, “How’s your summer class going?”

“It was one of the hardest classes I’ve ever taken. The thing about summer classes is that they are accelerated, so you get 6 weeks to fit it all in instead of the usual 15. I didn’t think I was going to be able to keep up. Four to eight hours of lectures about psychology, reading studies, two quizzes a week, plus assignments and group discussions on top of that. It was basically a part-time job.

What saved me, I think, was liking the material. I love learning about the mind. Did you know that the reason people struggle to talk about themselves is that human beings are wired for conversation? It’s true. Talking introduces more topics, so there isn’t a chance you’ll run out of something to say. If you’re monologuing, like I am, you run out of things to say. Do you know what the secret to better speaking is? Planning. Just taking your time and planning what you’re going to say.

That was a huge stress relief with the class, honestly. I thought I had to get everything right away, but after I learned that, I slowed down and it was a lot more fun. And by the end of the class, I was enjoying it. I got a 96%. The class average was a 78%. Not sure how I pulled that off, but it was awesome.”

**

Not a great answer, but much better than listing off things about the class, don’t you think? I like the person telling me that story a bit more, and I’d listen a little longer…supposing I get one or two TIME OUTS to change the subject with soon after.

I just finished the class and even I’m ready to move on from psycholinguistics for a while. Yeesh.

Time Out: Ok, you’ve read this far. What I really want to know with all of this is how you tell stories about yourself. Do you talk about things or about how you feel as a character about those things?

***

  1. “Colors” by Anaïs Cardot
  2. “BLOOM” by IAMDYNAMITE
  3. “Other Lover” by Mikaela Davis

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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Weekly Post-Ed #58

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

A DAY FOR MOST FATHERS

I’m not a father, but I try to imagine what Father’s Day feels like each year. Most notably, for my own dad who has seen the same holiday roll around for 36 years. While television commercials and website cookie ads shove every morsel of “it’s time to celebrate dad the RIGHT WAY” in the guilted faces of family members in search of gifts for dads, in the weeks preceding Father’s Day I happen to know that there will not be any celebrating on June 18. It was that way last year and the year prior, and I’ve often wondered why. Some dads like family togetherness and a hearty, grill-cooked meal. Others want a nifty gizmo to add to the household. And the rest just want peace and quiet.

But my dad, seemingly at this stage of fatherhood, wants nothing. At all.

Just normalcy.

Is it because there is so little to look forward to after 36 years of pretending to enjoy this nationally imposed holiday? Or did my sister and I ruin the novelty with gifts that were haphazardly scrounged for at the last minute? Or maybe the gifts were just too trivial to matter, like an electric tie rotator that has since been delivered to the dump, unused.

On a Sunday in June each year, I watch my dad endure the signed cards, feign joy as he eats the one meal of the year he didn’t have to prepare or cook himself, and then thankfully sigh as the day winds down with the usual routine of whatever On-Demand television has on offer. Then, he heads to bed, dreaming about the normal flow of his life that will resume the following morning that was so rudely interrupted.

On Monday, it’s as though Father’s Day never existed. Flash! A Men in Black Neuralyzer wipe of the previous day’s charades.

Courtesy of Columbia Pictures

Just once, or maybe a bit more than that, I’d like Father’s Day to mean a bit more for my dad.

So, I bought him a pen.

***

THE FATHER’S DAY GIFT EQUATION

Ok, before you think this gift was a panic purchase (also true), it wasn’t. This wasn’t just any pen. It was the same pen model that I had been using for the past six months: the Pilot G2 Limited Matte Black Edition, the one with a squishy “Doctor Grip” of silicon near the tip of the metal barrel. 

Courtesy of Amazon

Not only is it a good pen, but I happen to know that my dad LOVES pens. He takes them as “souvenirs” everywhere he goes (which is the nice way of saying he takes cheaply branded office supplies from banks and stores that aren’t tethered to kiosks or watched with surveillance cameras). His desk drawer is filled to the brim with every make and model pen from the past 20 years. 

Looking at the rows and rows of pens in the office supply aisle of the grocery store the day before Father’s Day, I imagined a new premium pen was what my Dad needed.

The thoughtful gift giving equation in my head went thus:

Something Dad Likes + Gifting Something Similar BUT Unexpected = Happy Dad Moment on Father’s Day.

Therefore:

Dad Loves Pens + The Pilot G2 Limited Edition is a Great Pen = Successful Father’s Day Gift

Based on the numbers, the pen was bound to be a smash hit. And I did it last minute and for just under 10 Dollars. I was quite proud of myself.

Until I was usurped by my mother.

***

THE GIFT OF GIVING BAD GIFTS

I find in the moments when someone is opening your very bad and unimpressive gift, there is a premonition that things are about to go poorly. 

My mother was in the process of handing my dad his gift in the living room, before anyone came for dinner. She did this purposely since it was a special gift, one that would mean a lot to him. She had told me about it for weeks, by then, how nervous she was to buy expensive things for my dad. But she couldn’t resist; she had found the perfect thing to give him. 

Courtesy of Amazon

My dad had recently fallen back in love with old John Deere model tractors. My mother researched his lists of models already in his possession, an elaborate collection of tractor toys ranging back 80 years. She had gone through great pains to purchase this very rare tractor: the John Deere 1/16th 620 with 555 Plow Precision Tractor Toy. 

In the living room, he opened the box.

Watching my dad open up something that is actually surprising and valuable to him is a like watching a farmer find a meteorite on his property that has just fallen from the sky. He took a long look at whatever it was in front of him, put his hands on his hips, stared at the object, and kept muttering, “Well, look at that.”

He had the same reaction when I gifted him an iPhone SE a few Christmases ago: He looked over the phone with stark confusion—not because he didn’t recognize the gift as an iPhone, but because he was confounded that something so expensive and needed should come into his possession outside of his own funds. He held his new iPhone like it was a strange alien relic that ought not belong to humankind.

Meanwhile, I stood off to the side and watched as my dad scratched his head over the surprise gift my mother had handed him. He appeared to be combing through dormant emotions such as joy and flattery that had been little accessed over the years.

It was then that I remembered the equation: “Oh, the pen!”

I retrieved it from its resting place and reentered the living room.

A few things to note: I didn’t wrap it. I’m terrible at wrapping and had run out of gift bags to conceal my lacking skillset. So, like a toddler proud of his scribbled crayon drawing, I handed my dad the pen still in its packaging and said, “Happy Father’s Day!”

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. And finally four…

“What’s this?” he asked, thinking his son had just given him a pen as a Father’s Day gift.

“Your gift,” I said, acknowledging that I had, indeed, just given him a pen as a Father’s Day gift.

“Oh. Cool,” he said.

“It’s the one I’ve been using. I thought you would like it,” I said.

My dad continued looking over the John Deere Tractor on the couch, digging his fingers into the box to extract it from its squeaky Styrofoam casing. “I’ll have to test it out later.”

As in: It will look great on the pile of pens. In the desk drawer. Like all the others.

I grabbed the new pen and put it on the countertop, where I expected it to remain as a relic of Father’s Days past.

“I’ll get to it,” my dad said behind me as he wrestled with packaging, the Styrofoam squeaking to birth the cherished John Deere tractor into the world.

I went upstairs, hoping for a text from my girlfriend. Nothing.

***

SCHEDULE TANTRUMS

I’d argue what I’m about to write isn’t related to this past Father’s Day because it would be too embarrassing if it were true. But, since it is also a little true, I suppose it is necessary to explain.

To make a long story short, I was disappointed that I didn’t deliver on a better gift for my dad. It was the lack of thought and effort I put into getting something for him, I think, and not how impressive my gift was compared to my mother’s. Still, it irked me. 

It irked me all the more when I hadn’t heard from my girlfriend for most of the day.

That’s when the irking mutated into a schedule tantrum.

I think we’ve all had schedule tantrums to an extent, but I’ll define it here clearly:

A Schedule Tantrum is when we expect others to behave as we see fit and on our own biased schedules.

When someone doesn’t text in the timeframe we feel they should; when someone doesn’t show up “on time”, or if someone doesn’t act predictably as they should have…we go berserk. We then throw tantrums, behave like children, and all without asking a single question to find out what’s going on with this other person. We’re just mad at them for not anticipating our secret and silent needs, which we perceive to be objective and true.

I checked my phone again. No reply. The tantrum was building.

***

MILKSHAKE

My girlfriend had been camping with her roommate and was to stop on her way home to see me. She was up north, in a place without cell reception, which was irksome enough, but then there still wasn’t any plan.

And I had made one, in secret, in my head: The plan was for her to tell me her plan. And I had yet to hear of a plan, which wasn’t the plan. My plan.

(You can see how this is idiotic in hindsight)

By the time she and her roommate were on their way to meet me, I was long past annoyed. Didn’t they know they were running behind? Didn’t they know that they should have visited sooner at night? I knew which decent hour they should have visited and it was getting late. Didn’t they know this?

Of course, you can predict how things went when we met that night: a classic cold front of short visits and unsaid things, mostly on my end.

When I arrived home from meeting my girlfriend, I sat down with my parents and told them about all the grievances I had.

I said things like, “How could she not check in sooner?” and “It’s not like I can just sit around all day.”

“Why, did you have anything else you wanted to do today?” my dad asked.

I grunted. That was beside the point. He was right. But this was also beside the point.

The point was that even though my girlfriend ended up visiting town like she said she would, things weren’t copasetic after she left. She knew I was unhappy about how the day went—she had seen the adult throwing a schedule tantrum.

Ding. Dong.

Suddenly, the doorbell.

I opened the front door of the house and there was my girlfriend. She was supposed to have been on her way home. That was 40 minutes ago. Here she was, standing on the doorsteps with a chocolate milkshake from Culver’s in her hands.

“Hi,” she said. “This is for you.”

I took the milkshake. “Thanks.”

“I just wanted to make sure everything was ok.”

We kissed. I said yes, even though it would take a few days to recognize that I was acting like a child in this moment.

She left, finally heading home with her roommate. I entered the living room with the chocoloate milkshake just delivered to me.

“Where did you get that?” my dad asked.

“My girlfriend. She just handed it to me.”

“After all that today, she just hands you a milkshake?”

“Yeah,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say.

“Well, doesn’t this make for a grand Father’s Day!” my dad said with a wide grin.

This was just as shocking as the milkshake. “Why?”

He shrugged. He took a pen from his pocket, a Pilot G2 Black Matte Special Edition pen, and clicked it a few times. “You just never know what surprises you’ll get.”

All three of us shared the milkshake, my parents flattered that someone would go to such lengths to see if her tantrum-throwing boyfriend was ok. I remember my dad laughing a lot while spooning melted gobs into his mouth.

Since Father’s Day, I’ve thought about why my dad found such delight from a late night milkshake delivery, and the best I can make of it is this:

Fathers are most fond of those things that they have helped create, purposefully or not, in this world.

In this instance, he saw his son, aged 34 and still blind to his toddler tantrum tendencies, receive a gesture of kindness from someone who appears to very much care about him. I think the sly smile was because he recognized, more than I ever could at the time, that the milkshake was the unexpected gift that mattered most that day.

A gift that wasn’t even meant for him.

“You two can fight all you want,” my dad said between spoonfuls of milkshake. “So long as she brings more milkshakes.”

He clicked his new pen. “I should write that one down.”

***

  1. “Paresthesia” by Wild Ones
  2. “Losing My Mind” by Montaigne
  3. “Thunder In The City” by Future Generations

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #57

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

A WEEK OF COMMANDMENTS

The title above is misleading because I haven’t any commandments to share with you. Instead, the past week has consisted of a series of events that made me think, “Oh, I should come up with a rule for that.” 

Like all the rules I’ve ever come up with to govern decision-making in my life, they are all bound to be ignored and abandoned within a calendar week. In the meantime, I thought I’d share what little lessons I’ve developed this past week before they are forgotten.

With these commandments, I implore you to read this happy little Weekly Post-Ed #57.

Enjoy!

***

SERIOUSLY, WHEN DO YOU POST WEEKLY POST-EDS?

For those who keep asking, here is the official schedule for ALL FUTURE Weekly Post-Eds:

  • Ideally, they are published on Wednesdays. 
  • And sometimes Thursdays.
  • Very seldom on Fridays. 
  • By Saturday, I’d start to worry if it gets posted at all, but it’s still possible.
  • Sunday? Who posts on Sundays? No, out of the question…unless I’m running very far behind. Otherwise: No/Maybe.
  • Mondays are technically the next week. I wouldn’t post on a Monday. Unless I do. But yuck, I’d rather not.
  • Tuesdays are considered “early” and as part of the next Weekly Post-Ed. That being said, does the internet post things early? What proactive operation posts things before deadlines? Go ahead: Name me one.
  • Then we’re back to Wednesdays. Ideally, WPs get published on Wednesdays…

Look: as attractive as the “consistent internet writer” identity is to me, sometimes I wonder if the internet-scape is far past the saturation point of information and entertainment—sometimes, I’d rather not babble unless I have something interesting to write about. I appreciate that I have dedicated readers, but in absence of a new Weekly Post-Ed, I would suggest going for a walk outside. Or, really, anything besides perpetually absorbing more things from people looking to be heard on the internet.

TL;DR A new Weekly Post-Ed will be up sometime within a calendar week. So, take a breath, get some air, and hey, read at your leisure when it’s up. I’ll post on Twitter and Instagram (yes, I have those, too) when they’re fully cooked.

Alright, now let’s get to the thick of it.

***

CARRYING TOO MANY THINGS

“If this schedule is true,” I hear you contemplating, complete with wrinkled brow and rubbing of chin, “then where was last week’s Weekly Post-Ed?”

A good question with a defeating answer: I wrote too much and found it unpublishable.

As a visual comparison for what I mean, I invite you to refer to the image below:

While Weekly Post-Eds are kept to about 1000 words, this last week’s WP was eclipsing 3000 and counting. It was a bit much to cram into a single post. 

In an idealized world for how I write for my website, I imagine that I carefully plan each Weekly Post-Ed with whimsical sections that are both personal and funny but are also just long enough to be interesting and worth spending the time to read.

In real life, however, I find that I cram everything I can into a single task without regard for it being too much at one time.

Case in point: Collecting laundry this past week.

I caught myself pausing by my desk because I spotted three dirty coffee mugs that needed to be taken downstairs and placed by the kitchen sink. This isn’t remarkable except that I was carrying a laundry basket full of dirty clothes that weighed as much as a dog kennel occupied by two small, napping Dobermans. Needless to say, it never occurred to me to take TWO SEPARATE TRIPS, so I hoisted the laundry basket full of clothes against the wall where I pinned it in place with my body, I then hooked my fingers through the three coffee mug handles in one hand, and slipped my other arm underneath the laundry basket (also just as topsy-turvy as a kennel with two small, napping Dobermans) to balance down two flights of stairs. 

(I can sense you’re ahead of the story by now, so I’ll cut to the finale.)

In short: the dirty clothes, like two small, napping Dobermans spotting a squirrel, sprung from laundry basket as I lost equilibrium and spilled all over the floor. I stumbled over a tangle of jeans, which led to one of the mugs flinging free from my fingers and went tumbling down the carpet stairs to, finally, crash into the drywall of the landing. Luckily, it was a Yeti mug, which meant the mug itself was fine, but the impenetrable stainless-steel mass cratered the drywall even further. The coffee mug was saved, the drywall was not.

And all of this was easily avoidable.

You would think the lesson I must have gleaned about carrying too much at once occurred to me immediately, but it did not. Alas, my first thought after picking up was this: “I could have balanced one of the coffee mugs on top of the laundry. I’ll remember that for next time. And what better time to find a stairway landing decoration to permanently place in front of the cratered drywall!”

So, why didn’t last week’s WP get finished on time?

Coffee mugs and laundry baskets.

***

NEW RULES FOR MAKING RULES

Rule #1: I shouldn’t be making rules.

Rule #2: Except when I do.

Rule #3: In which case, there should be a grace period to test out these rules.

Rule #4: If the rules can’t be followed, then they should at least be laughed at and enjoyed for attempting to make sense of a world that makes little sense to begin with.

Rule #5: In response of these rules, please refer to Rule #1 for further guidance.

BONUS:

Rule #6: Last week’s Weekly Post-Ed gets the chance to live on as an editorial that’s due for release in the coming week. So, be on the lookout for something new (finally) and also interesting.

Rule #7: Unless it isn’t. In which case, please refer to Rule #5.

***

  1. “Tell Me What You Want” by Caroline Rose
  2. “Sorry Like You Mean It” by HONEYMOAN
  3. “DAYLIGHT DOOM” by MOTO BANDIT

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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