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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Family & Friends
- Subject: Comedy / Humor
- Published: 12/22/2011
Jazzed Up and Waiting for Stress
Born 1951, M, from Sparta, il, United StatesJazszed Up and Waiting for Stress
Most city people I know think living in a small town is boring. “What’s there to do? Watch the grass grow?” I have lived in communities with large populations and in small towns. I am here to tell you that living in a small town has definite advantages.
For someone like myself, who is uncomfortable around a mass of humanity, life in the big city is difficult and stressful. Three of my siblings and my son live in big cities. I enjoy the visits with my big city family, but driving in their cities is quite nerve-racking. I am always jazzed up waiting for the inevitable accident to happen.
O! they all say the same thing about living in their fast paced world, “There is always something to do. And lots of variety too.”
I cannot dispute that. One of the big cities I once lived in was El Paso, Texas. There certainly was a variety------of food. Frank, a guy I once worked with while stationed at Ft. Bliss, told me that one could eat three meals a day at three different places each day of the year and never eat at the same place twice. That’s a lot of meals. Do the math. 365 days times 3 meals each day. That’s almost 1100 meals in 1100 different restaurants. El Paso is a big city. But that big? There’s no way that could be true.
Frank was a bit of a braggart. He always knew more than anyone. I liked the guy, but sometimes he just made downright ridiculous statements. And he just made one, as far as I was concerned. When I challenged him, he bet me he was right.
Now, I am not a betting man. I value my hard earned money too much to lose it on any kind of uncertainty. But 1100 restaurants? How could I pass that one up? He was so sure of himself. I did not plan to take his money when he lost the bet. I know he worked hard for his money too; but I sure planned to let him know he lost and I won. Maybe he would think a little more before making such ridiculous assertions.
I failed. But not because I couldn’t meet the challenge. I was in the military at the time. About a week into the bet, I realized I was in trouble.
I want to be honest here. Eating three meals a day, seven days a week, three hundred sixty five days in a row was an impossibility. My family and work schedule simply would not allow it. Besides, that much eating out was hard on my budget.
I developed a plan.
I would leave early in the morning to scope out three new restaurants each day. These would be places where I could say I had breakfast, lunch, and supper. It wasn’t practical to spend thirty minutes of my lunch period just driving to a lunch restaurant. Nor could I afford to use valuable family time after work to find a new restaurant. As the weeks turned into months, I found I was leaving earlier and earlier each morning.
When Frank would ask me how I was doing, I would tell him where I went and the name of the restaurant. We would both write it down in our daily log. Yes, we actually kept a log. I swear that several times I would catch just the slightest smirk on Frank’s round face. I just thought it was my imagination.
By the end of the eleventh month, I could find no more restaurants to visit. I used every phone book and every lead I had access to. There were no more restaurants in El Paso. I am an honest guy. The thought of only writing down the names and addresses never even crossed my mind. That would be cheating. There was no doubt in my mind that I was going to win the bet. Considering all the self imposed stress I put me and my family through, I was confident Frank would admit he lost the bet.
I was smiling from ear to ear when I told my buddy I had run out of restaurants. My smile was short lived. Frank was holding out on me. He reached in his desk and pulled out the names of thirty one places to eat: grocery stores, liquor stores, professional buildings with vending machines, convenience stores, etc. You get the picture here, I’d been had. He knew somehow I would come up short. He said places. I thought restaurants.
Obviously, that smirk I had been seeing was not imagined. So, it was a true statement. At least as he “stated” it. Boy, Frank must have really enjoyed watching me squirm.
In retrospect, I didn’t think that one through. I allowed my male ego to get in the way. All I saw was an easy mark. The money it cost me to make physical contact with all those places apparently didn’t matter. Male ego sure can add unnecessary stress!
By the way, Frank enjoyed his steak dinner at one of El Paso’s finest, on me.
Stress is a funny thing. What one person considers stressful, someone else does not.
I remember a conversation I had once with my sister’s husband, Jack. I told him “I enjoy visiting you in Chicago, but I could never live here. Too much traffic, not enough parking, too many people too close together, too much rush. It seems to be more expensive. Yes, there indeed is more to do and more opportunities. But it’s way too stressful for this country boy.”
Jack and I were on our way to a Cubs game. I was happy about that because I was looking forward to watching my Cardinals beat up on his beloved Cubbies. From my point of view, all the Cub fans had to worry about was how they were going to lose the game they were currently playing. I’m sure, though, you will never hear a Cub fan admit that.
Anyway, Jack had heard enough of my whining I guess, because he said, “You know sometimes I feel a little guilty about your sister and me not coming down to visit with you and CJ. I totally know what you mean about the stress thing.”
Just then a car pulled out in front of us. So Jack pushed down hard on the brakes. He leaned on his horn at the same time. I inhaled deeply. I could feel my seat belt press hard into my shoulder as my body tried to go forward. I dug my fingers into the arm rest on the door. I am sure I must have had a wild eyed look about me. But not Jack.
Without missing a beat, Jack continued with his comment. “I suffer from stress anxiety every time I come to see you.”
Huh! What could be more stressful than what just happened?
“What do you mean? Stress anxiety?” I said, while trying not to show Jack how physically shaken I was. I was not about to give him any opportunity to get in the first ribbing of this baseball outing. My intent was to be the only one dishing it out all day.
“You always seem to enjoy the peace and quiet whenever you come,” I told him.
Jack shook his head. “You don’t understand. It’s the peace and quiet that is the problem. It’s the not knowing that causes me stress. At least here, I am always on the look out. It is a constant. It is going to happen. I’m prepared. Where you come from, it’s the not when, but if. How do you prepare for that? For me, the not knowing is very traumatic.”
You know, that actually kind of makes sense.
One thing I’ve learned about stress over my nearly five decade of adulthood is that everybody has it. Some like giving it. Some don’t understand why others have it. Some create it for themselves, willingly or unwillingly. Some handle it well. Some don’t. Stress is indeed in the eye of the beholder.
Jazzed Up and Waiting for Stress(Ed DeRousse)
Jazszed Up and Waiting for Stress
Most city people I know think living in a small town is boring. “What’s there to do? Watch the grass grow?” I have lived in communities with large populations and in small towns. I am here to tell you that living in a small town has definite advantages.
For someone like myself, who is uncomfortable around a mass of humanity, life in the big city is difficult and stressful. Three of my siblings and my son live in big cities. I enjoy the visits with my big city family, but driving in their cities is quite nerve-racking. I am always jazzed up waiting for the inevitable accident to happen.
O! they all say the same thing about living in their fast paced world, “There is always something to do. And lots of variety too.”
I cannot dispute that. One of the big cities I once lived in was El Paso, Texas. There certainly was a variety------of food. Frank, a guy I once worked with while stationed at Ft. Bliss, told me that one could eat three meals a day at three different places each day of the year and never eat at the same place twice. That’s a lot of meals. Do the math. 365 days times 3 meals each day. That’s almost 1100 meals in 1100 different restaurants. El Paso is a big city. But that big? There’s no way that could be true.
Frank was a bit of a braggart. He always knew more than anyone. I liked the guy, but sometimes he just made downright ridiculous statements. And he just made one, as far as I was concerned. When I challenged him, he bet me he was right.
Now, I am not a betting man. I value my hard earned money too much to lose it on any kind of uncertainty. But 1100 restaurants? How could I pass that one up? He was so sure of himself. I did not plan to take his money when he lost the bet. I know he worked hard for his money too; but I sure planned to let him know he lost and I won. Maybe he would think a little more before making such ridiculous assertions.
I failed. But not because I couldn’t meet the challenge. I was in the military at the time. About a week into the bet, I realized I was in trouble.
I want to be honest here. Eating three meals a day, seven days a week, three hundred sixty five days in a row was an impossibility. My family and work schedule simply would not allow it. Besides, that much eating out was hard on my budget.
I developed a plan.
I would leave early in the morning to scope out three new restaurants each day. These would be places where I could say I had breakfast, lunch, and supper. It wasn’t practical to spend thirty minutes of my lunch period just driving to a lunch restaurant. Nor could I afford to use valuable family time after work to find a new restaurant. As the weeks turned into months, I found I was leaving earlier and earlier each morning.
When Frank would ask me how I was doing, I would tell him where I went and the name of the restaurant. We would both write it down in our daily log. Yes, we actually kept a log. I swear that several times I would catch just the slightest smirk on Frank’s round face. I just thought it was my imagination.
By the end of the eleventh month, I could find no more restaurants to visit. I used every phone book and every lead I had access to. There were no more restaurants in El Paso. I am an honest guy. The thought of only writing down the names and addresses never even crossed my mind. That would be cheating. There was no doubt in my mind that I was going to win the bet. Considering all the self imposed stress I put me and my family through, I was confident Frank would admit he lost the bet.
I was smiling from ear to ear when I told my buddy I had run out of restaurants. My smile was short lived. Frank was holding out on me. He reached in his desk and pulled out the names of thirty one places to eat: grocery stores, liquor stores, professional buildings with vending machines, convenience stores, etc. You get the picture here, I’d been had. He knew somehow I would come up short. He said places. I thought restaurants.
Obviously, that smirk I had been seeing was not imagined. So, it was a true statement. At least as he “stated” it. Boy, Frank must have really enjoyed watching me squirm.
In retrospect, I didn’t think that one through. I allowed my male ego to get in the way. All I saw was an easy mark. The money it cost me to make physical contact with all those places apparently didn’t matter. Male ego sure can add unnecessary stress!
By the way, Frank enjoyed his steak dinner at one of El Paso’s finest, on me.
Stress is a funny thing. What one person considers stressful, someone else does not.
I remember a conversation I had once with my sister’s husband, Jack. I told him “I enjoy visiting you in Chicago, but I could never live here. Too much traffic, not enough parking, too many people too close together, too much rush. It seems to be more expensive. Yes, there indeed is more to do and more opportunities. But it’s way too stressful for this country boy.”
Jack and I were on our way to a Cubs game. I was happy about that because I was looking forward to watching my Cardinals beat up on his beloved Cubbies. From my point of view, all the Cub fans had to worry about was how they were going to lose the game they were currently playing. I’m sure, though, you will never hear a Cub fan admit that.
Anyway, Jack had heard enough of my whining I guess, because he said, “You know sometimes I feel a little guilty about your sister and me not coming down to visit with you and CJ. I totally know what you mean about the stress thing.”
Just then a car pulled out in front of us. So Jack pushed down hard on the brakes. He leaned on his horn at the same time. I inhaled deeply. I could feel my seat belt press hard into my shoulder as my body tried to go forward. I dug my fingers into the arm rest on the door. I am sure I must have had a wild eyed look about me. But not Jack.
Without missing a beat, Jack continued with his comment. “I suffer from stress anxiety every time I come to see you.”
Huh! What could be more stressful than what just happened?
“What do you mean? Stress anxiety?” I said, while trying not to show Jack how physically shaken I was. I was not about to give him any opportunity to get in the first ribbing of this baseball outing. My intent was to be the only one dishing it out all day.
“You always seem to enjoy the peace and quiet whenever you come,” I told him.
Jack shook his head. “You don’t understand. It’s the peace and quiet that is the problem. It’s the not knowing that causes me stress. At least here, I am always on the look out. It is a constant. It is going to happen. I’m prepared. Where you come from, it’s the not when, but if. How do you prepare for that? For me, the not knowing is very traumatic.”
You know, that actually kind of makes sense.
One thing I’ve learned about stress over my nearly five decade of adulthood is that everybody has it. Some like giving it. Some don’t understand why others have it. Some create it for themselves, willingly or unwillingly. Some handle it well. Some don’t. Stress is indeed in the eye of the beholder.
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