You arrive home after a long day. Let’s say you were at work. Maybe you had just finished working your second job. Or, maybe you just got back from having incredible sex with your model girlfriend at her incredible apartment. Either way, you’re just getting home.
You buzz yourself into your apartment (or, for you suburbanites, you approach your front door) and there it is.
It’s got that clear Amazon.com packaging and (this is a bonus for those living in apartments) you assume it can’t be yours.
I haven’t bought anything online in a while, you think. Curious anyway, you stoop down to check. Hey, stranger things have happened.
And sure enough, against all odds and realities, it’s marked for you. It’s of indeterminate size and weight and it because it’s from a site that sells almost literally everything, you have no fucking idea what magical treats are contained within.
Everything from this point out with this feeling is dependent on what is actually in the package. However, the really great feeling is finding it. You had no idea it was coming and even though it might be some logistical thing you need for (insert boring activity) it could also be an iPad or a horse or a five pound bag of Sour Patch kids (this one actually happened to me).
Polar opposite of this feeling?:The moment after opening the package when you realize it’s something like the flash light you ordered three months ago.
This Saturday the ladies from IndieMinded.com were gracious enough to have me on their radio program. It was live at the time, but as it’s no longer Saturday afternoon, it’ll be pretty difficult to hear that interview.
Of course, on the off chance you have iTunes and have zero dollars to spare, you might be able to finagle a way to listen to the recorded interview. Topics include why I don’t like the Red Sox, the process behind congratulations? getting published and whether or not there’s a sequel on the horizon.
Of course, winning a carnival game on any spin, after any amount of money that you’ve spent, with or without a girl there to impress*, is a great feeling.
However, winning that first time, that’s a great feeling.
When I was younger, I played all types of wheel games. I once won the soundtrack for Big Momma’s House, which actually wasn’t that bad**. Looking back at that story, I can’t decide what’s funnier… that there was a carnival game where you could win CDs, that one of the “prizes” was that CD, or that I chose it.
Anyway, I’d play all the games. The CD game, the jersey game, the ENORMOUS stuffed animal game… but most of all, the candy game. Now that I’ve “matured” and don’t like to waste my money in such a varied fashion, I concentrate it all to the candy game.
You know, because you can’t buy candy anywhere else.
Polar Opposite of thisFeeling?:Realizing that you have to carry that enormous bear with you the rest of this 95 degree day.
*Are any women actually impressed by this? Why do we think they will be? I’m not just talking about winning a bear for a girl, I’m talking about when you win anything on any of those wheel games. Subconsciously, we think people (and, naturally, by inclusion the woman we’re with) are impressed by this. As if it’s anything other than a wheel with a seemingly endless number of triangled-off sections.
**This was back when So So Def was big and Jermaine Dupri was still cool. Da Brat wasn’t in jail (and was all over this album) and Lil Bow Wow as still (very) lil. This, this, this (my favorite) and this song were all on this soundtrack. Not bad, right? I know. Makes me wonder how many other ehh-movies had good sountracks.
Had I constructed this list when I was 11, I don’t think there’s much debate this would be a top five feeling (and, frankly, it would almost assuredly garner the top spot).
However, I’m 26 now and for two reasons it gets dropped. First, I’m an “adult” so a group of strangers playing a game and then subsequently winning more then they lose in a tournament after an ultimately useless, but at the time ultra-important 6-month string of games doesn’t mean as much to me as it used to. Second, when I was a kid I had a ridiculous run of luck with my teams winning so, frankly, I’ve already gotten the highs.
Now, don’t get me wrong, if the Spurs or the Yankees or the Bucs win a championship, it’ll be a great feeling. It’s certainly better than not winning but it just doesn’t mean as much as it used to. I remember when the Spurs won championships in high school and it literally made me feel good. Like, I was in a better mood. When they’d lose, I’d take it personally.
Nowadays, the same feelings have survived the test of time, they’re just subdued.
If you’re a (real) fan of a team and they win after a grueling 6-8 month stretch of games… yeah, that’s cool. And it should feel really good. Just not as good as it did when you were 11.
I think a lot of people (or, at least, just me) think this refers to when a doofy white guy is trying to slap five with a cool black guy and then some sort of Chappelle show moment occurs. Well, it’s bigger than that.
Not all white guys are doofy, not al black guys are smooth. Of course, most are, but you get my point.
No, this extends to any time you’re in a position where a handshake is too formal and you need to make physical contact with someone to greet them (Note: it doesn’t appear that this applies to anything other than male interaction. I’ve yet to see women high five each other outside of the the realm of athletics).
Sometimes, one guy comes in with the high five, the other comes in with the fist bump. Other times, one person doesn’t know when to let go of the handshake. Other times, the person wants to do a whole other dance to accompany the high five. Even worse is when you both go for a high five, but you either miss or one of the hands is too sweaty or clammy.
Feeling #130 is when everything comes together. Both parties are thinking high five from the jump. The hands are dry and ready, they make a solid slapping sound when meeting, there’s the shift towards a grip and then a smooth and easy let-go.
That’s the perfect high five.
Polar Opposite of this feeling?:See 3 paragraphs above for several options.
A little while ago, I found myself at a bar in Hoboken (where I live) with two of my friends. This isn’t unusual.
We were drinking fairly heavily, it was a weekday and one of those two friends, en route to the bathroom, was chatting with someone (a girl, in this instance) he seemed to recognize from somewhere. This, also, isn’t unusual.
As I sat at our table with my other friend, we laughed how our buddy always seemed to know someone (male, or female) everywhere and was remarkable at striking up conversation with people in public. Time carrying on as it normally does, I realized that for some reason, this girl my friend was talking to actually looked familiar to me as well.
I should note, this girl was pretty, but in a very unremarkable sort of way. The sort of way that caught your attention, but not that made you lose track of the conversation you were in, if you catch my drift.
I asked the friend sitting with me if he recognized her, if there was anything about her that caught his eye. He said no, but I knew I knew her. With nothing other than my conviction, I told my friend (and the other one once he returned to the table) that I planned on getting her attention once she passed us on her way out.
Sure enough, that moment came shortly.
“Hey!” I shouted in her direction.
She stopped, but mainly because there were a total of (maybe) six other people in the bar.
“Hey,” I repeated. “Did you go to Villanova?”
Confused, she admitted that she had.
“Do you have a somewhat attractive, blonde-haired friend that lives in Jersey City?”
The confusion still sat heavily on her face, but it had begun to lift. She admitted in the affirmative, once more.
“Do you remember who I am?” I asked, with what I’m sure was a shit-eating grin plastered on my face. Before she could answer, I continued, “You walked out on me and my friend at a bar, at Pourhouse, about a month ago. Remember? You two said you were going to the bathroom, but you never came back. I was one of those guys.”
She laughed, unsure of what to do next. Or, better yet, unsure of what I was going to do next. But, I knew for certain she recognized me now.
“It’s OK,” I laughed, truly at ease. “I’d have left me too. I’m not going to bust your chops about it, I just knew I recognized you and wanted to make sure this was how.”
Again, more giggling and confused conversation. She stumbled around for a few minutes, saying how it was really all her friend’s plan and how sensitive she is and how she wouldn’t have left us like that if it wasn’t for her friend and how she was actually having a great time that night.
“No, you weren’t,” I said. “But that’s OK.”
She continued to try to convince me that any and of all that bullshit she had spewed was true. For the record, I honestly couldn’t have cared if it was (or wasn’t) true. I just wanted her to know that I recognized her. And have her deal with that awkwardness.
Not that it’s eye for an eye, but I doubt I’d ever walk out on two (admittedly, semi-hot) girls at a bar, so this was the best I’d get.
Normally, I’d just say something in this space like… go ahead, read the review. But, while I also would like you to do that (and read the novella), I would also highly recommend going to the page’s website: