Month: August 2016

This one fluctuates, of course, based on the type of note you’re discovering.

There’s the kind that makes you really sad—perhaps a letter or note of some kind from a deceased family member. There’s the kind that reminds you of something—a list you wrote of things you needed from the store (that you never bought). There’s the kind (and this is my personal favorite) that makes you nostalgic—a bet from years ago about Darko Milicic having a good season (which I lost) or a love letter from a girl in 4th grade (damn you for moving, Victoria!).

Whatever it is, it’s rare. It’s not like you’re consistently digging through your old crap and coming across these things. At times in your life when change is occurring, you tend to find ’em. Maybe you’re moving desks at work (or simply packing up your shit because you got canned). Maybe you’re moving out of your apartment or helping a family member move out of theirs.

Either way, it’s more the emotion and nostalgia that makes this feeling so great than it is the discovery of the note itself. I honestly do fear that as we get further and further away from the written word, this sort of thing will cease to be recognizable to younger generations. Nothing will ever be lost or hard to find if it’s on your computer, so nostalgia as we know it won’t be the same.

Enough of the hard-line serious stuff… sometimes it’s just funny to see your old handwriting and what you thought was important years ago.

Like, say, betting actual money that Darko Milicic would have a good season. Ever.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Discovering some sort of audio recording of someone that’s passed away or that you no longer are in contact with. Maybe an old voicemail of a forgotten girlfriend. In general, for me at least, the audio always hits harder, sadder.

 

How fucking awful is the brown paper towel you always seem to get in public schools? It’s like it’s purposely designed to irritate your skin. Same goes for that half-ply horseshit-quality toilet paper they peddle in most public institutions.

I’m not suggesting you need to be wiping your ass or face with sixteen-ply, thousand-count Egyptian cotton. But, can we please, please do away with these brown paper towels? For fuck’s sake already, they’re awful.

Anyway, even if you are lucky enough to work somewhere with good paper towels and toilet paper, there’s a really high likelihood that those products pale in comparison with the ones you keep rostered at home.

I don’t really have much else to say than the obvious: you don’t need to be living high on the hog to tell the difference in quality. And it’s a big difference.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Sitting on the toilet at home, thinking you put that extra roll in the bathroom and realizing at the worst possible moment that you didn’t.

 

 

I’m a Jewish man. I cannot deny this.

However, my father grew up Catholic and as such, I was lucky enough to get to experience both Hannukah and Christmas as a kid. In fact, because my birthday is in December, that whole month was just a gift-getting orgy for me. I’d imagine as a 10-year old I didn’t quite categorize it that way (and in fact, hated that I didn’t get gifts at any other point in the calendar year), but that’s basically what it was.

Anyway, that’s all a long way to say: I experienced Christmas mornings for most of my childhood, despite being a heathen Jewish.

And for those of you who for one reason or another weren’t as lucky as me, let me tell you… it’s everything you’ve heard, read and seen. First off, there’s the food. When you’re Italian, it’s almost literally never ending for the two days. Second, there’s family and lots of it (something that at the time didn’t quite wear on me in the way it does now, but that’s another story for another time). Third, and most importantly, there’s PRESENTS.

That’s really what it’s all about. You were sent to bed the night before, you acted accordingly the whole month leading up to and you woke up feverish all with this single moment in mind. Whether or not you were past the age of believing in Santa is immaterial: this was the time of year where you got to get cool shit! And all at once, no less.

Now again, I’ll stress that as a Jewish kid I wasn’t getting Christmas gifts from my Jewish parents but instead from my extended family. As such, there were no PlayStations or Antoine Walker authentic jerseys (for real: I would’ve killed for one of those and my mom and dad refused to buy it for me) waiting under the tree.

But honestly, that didn’t matter. You were getting gifts. Which, aside from getting candy, was probably the single highlight of your life as a child.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: I sort of spoiled it already, but seeing that box that you just know is shaped like that thing you wanted (what else other than an Antoine Walker jersey would come in a box like that??), only to find out… it’s clothes. Dunt, dunt, dunnnn.

I don’t mean this in a Timothy of the Cay-type way, where you’re literally a person that was blinded and now has the gift of sight.

No, this is far more inane and ridiculous. And less serious.

As our friend to the left here is experiencing, there’s fewer feelings worse than getting soap in your eyes. You’d think by now, as fledgling adults that have been showering for nearly 20 years, we’d all have figured out a way to avoid this problem entirely. But yet somehow it still pops up every so often.

When it does, by the way, I sometimes like to see how long I can go without vision. Sort of a like a trial run. I fumble my way around looking for the shampoo and soap, try to remember what color my towel was… I generally give up moments into this idiocy but it only makes the regaining of the vision post-eye-cleansing that much sweeter.

Similar situations include finally being able to taste again after you’ve singed the roof of your mouth from something too hot (or too many Sour Patch Kids) and being able to walk after losing complete feeling in your foot.

The Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Is saying “going legit blind” too real? Maybe.

Anyone who knows me even remotely well (this literally includes everyone from potential best-man candidates to guys I worked with installing air conditioning units for a summer nearly 10 years ago), knows how much I love soup.

I’ll eat it for any meal (yes, that includes that rapscallion Break Fast) at any time of year. I don’t believe there’s such a thing as “soup season”–if you’re not sweating into your pot a little bit, I don’t think you’re doing your job, frankly.

So, with that in mind, it should come as no surprise that I almost always ask my waiter/waitress what the soup special is when I’m eating out. Unless you’re at a diner in New Jersey (where the specials are ALWAYS the same… yes, I’ll have the Chicken with insert small pasta shape here), you never quite know what you’re going to get.

Typically, it’s some cream of who-gives-a-fuck type thing like celery or mushroom. But, every so often you hit the jackpot.

“Clam chowder,” the server answers me.

Bracing myself for disappointment, despite living less than a mile from New York City, I ask the unthinkable. “New England or Manhattan?” I know what she’s going to say and I know I’m not going to be happy about it.

“Manhattan,” she replies, calmly unaware she’s made my whole day and possibly my week.

I try to keep it cool, knowing I’m one of no more than seven people on Earth that’s thrilled by this news.

“Uh… I”ll have a… bowl, please.”

And the day is mine.

The Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Besides the obvious (finding out it’s New England), there’s so many ways to go here, but chief of which is the soup of the day being French Onion. Why does anyone like this soup? And why is that your du jour? Come on.

This is a story in reverse about a top 250 feeling. In essence, this is the polar opposite:

It’s about an hour into an article I was writing for another site. I’d finished up what I’d set out to accomplish, had read over my first draft and was preparing to hit the save button.

For reasons unknown and unreported, my entire Microsoft Word application crashed. First, of course, I got the spinning wheel to replace my mouse on the screen. Then I got the “Application Not Responding”, quite possibly the most unnecessary update in history. Really? I thought the fact that I couldn’t click on anything and that every process on my computer had grinded to a halt was a sign of progress. Hmm, maybe that’s just me, I’m not what you’d call a “tech” guy. Lastly, I got the Microsoft Crash reporting-thingy that popped up on my screen—and that fucking crashed.

Naturally, when I opened up Word again there was no mention of that page and a half. Nearly 1,000 words, gone in a blink. No autorecovery or autosave or last file you worked on. Nothing. Zip. Nada.

After nearly throwing this very computer I’m typing on through the window, I realized my work wasn’t coming back. I was furious, but I’m happy to report I’ve since begun to pick up the pieces of my life and move forward.

This Feeling: Is exactly what it says in the title. The only way to truly understand how AMAZING it is, is to have the opposite happen to you. When it works, my God, what a snatch-back feeling that is.

This one differs from the nap in that it’s not nearly as luxurious. Not everyone gets to take naps. Say, for instance, you have a normal job. Or, you have kids. Or, you’re a regular adult in basically any way… naps are out of the question. I, fortunately, haven’t been pigeoned into any of those holes yet so I can still take naps. Gonna take one later today, matter of fact.

Regardless, this feeling is different (and ranked worse) because everyone does it. It’s not a luxury so much as it’s an accepted fact. Unless you’re a graduating architecture student, sleeping is part of the routine. However, that doesn’t mean it’s devoid of pleasure.

It’s especially great, and this is where this feeling specifically comes into play, when you’ve had a really long, hard day. Nothing has gone catastrophically wrong, but you’ve just had it with the day. It’s over, there’s nothing left for you to do and frankly, by going to bed, you’ll ensure nothing else bad can happen. There’s the promise of the next day, which can’t possibly be as bad, right? There’s the restorative properties of sleep, what you’re banking on to help that pimple go down or muscle ache go away.

You need this sleep. And you’re going to get it.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Fortunately for me, I have trouble staying asleep, not falling. But, on the rare occasions where I can’t fall asleep at all, that’s the polar opposite. That restless, “how the fuck am I going to make it to 8 am?” feeling you get when you’re blankly staring at the wall in the dark.

Before we even start, let’s be clear… this isn’t a veiled way of saying driving drunk is a top 100 feeling.

What it is, however, is a way of saying that there are certain places where you know, most likely, you shouldn’t be tipsy… and yet you somehow are. And yet, despite all that, it feels great—partially because being buzzed can be fun, but partially because it’s a weird bit of a challenge to attempt to mask it.

Let me explain, with a hypothetical… Let’s say you have a work function taking place somewhere. You don’t want to go, it’s one of those awful team-building things where you and your colleagues, nice folks that they are, have been forced to pretend you’re actually anything more than work associates. There’s some pass around food options, it’s being held at a bar, but generally everyone is keeping it in check. You, of course, have plans. So, not one to break them, you meet your actual friend for a drink or two (or six) before showing up buzzed to this work event. You know, immediately upon arrival, that you’re far more gone than anyone else there. But, you also know that because you’re a master of disguise and subtlety, there is a possibility you can hide it.

That feeling—that one right there—of being joyfully buzzed while no one else is, where you probably shouldn’t be as much as you are…and getting away from it—that’s a great feeling. That’s some superhero type shit, The Incredibly Not Buzzed Man! saves the day. You can hang longer than others, your jokes are suddenly funnier, your wit quicker and your moral compass looser. Of course, this all rests of a small fulcrum… one fuck up and you’re not only discovered, but potentially in trouble and embarrassed.

But until then, ride on moral lawbreaker. You do what you want, when you want.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Forgetting, for even a brief second, where you are and letting the guard down. Obvious, sure, but the consequences are disastrous.

I fucking love sweatshirts.

You can wear them with t-shirts, with dress shirts, with those henley things. They look good tighter and looser, heavier and thinner. They cover up stains, help you sneak shit into movie theaters, cover your head in the rain and are, generally, the most comfortable form of clothing that’s not something made from velour.

So, it comes as no surprise that by the time summer has made it’s mark and we’re ready to move on to the 11 days of Fall we’re allotted in the north east before winter ravages us, I’m READY for it.

Beyond the obvious cutesy shit that’s associated with sweatshirt weather, all of which I like (apple picking, football starting, the NBA not being far behind, being able to be outside for hours without sweating through various articles of clothing), part of my love for sweatshirt weather is that it finally gets me out of shorts and t-shirts and into pants and long sleeves. I not only like the way I look better (but I guarantee it!), but I like the way I feel.

I don’t have to worry about anyone asking me to go to the beach or whether or not I’m tan enough or if I put on just the right amount of deodorant that will protect me but not stain my t-shirt. I don’t have to go swimming or debate whether or not I should be wearing shorts or pants when I go out or if I need a jacket or not. It’s all set in stone.

Fall, you can’t get here fast enough.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Any day in August.

I’ve honestly only done it a handful of times. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the feeling (I do). It’s not that I have not been presented with the opportunity (I have).

If we’re being fully honest–and what else is this space for outside of that sort of trust–my real concern is that there’s going to be some kind of situation that arises…burglary, fire, tsunami, etc…. that causes me to now be caught in the awkward position of either having to quickly get clothes on (and risk my life) or explain to horrified on-lookers on the streets of Hoboken why I am not wearing clothes.

Neuroticism aside, it is a strikingly freeing feeling, isn’t it? With a partner in the bed or solo, there’s something remarkable about it and I’m not quite sure what that is. Personally, I’m partial to underwear and a t-shirt or a sweatpants and a t-shirt during the winter… but on a cool fall day? My lord, it’s relaxing.

I guess the best analogy I can make is to sleeping in a hammock. They’re impossible to get into and out of, they generally leave marks all over whatever parts of your body aren’t clothed and are hard to get more than a passing nap on… yet somehow, if asked, our first instinctual response would be to assert just how goddamned great sleeping in a hammock is. We don’t know why we love it so much, we just do.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Incorrectly judging the temperature in your room, such that you wake up in a pool of feverish sweat or freezing cold three-to-four hours after going to bed.