Peripheral vision

Driving during this kind of weather is always
frustrating. By now I'm used to the white ice, the grey ice, and the black
ice, to the salt that coats the cuffs of my trousers and the crumbling,
cigarette ash-colored crust that lingers along the sides of my car and the
road and winds up leaving sandy puddles everywhere in my apartment.

What I'll never get used to is the way people cross the road during the
winter. I might be barreling along the road at thirty-five or forty, and
they might have just stepped from the curb, but they aren't stopping. They
aren't even looking around to see what this thing is that's hurtling toward
them. They're counting on me to brake, on this ice-covered road, because
it's cold and they're outside, and they'll be damned if they can bother to
look at anything that might keep them from getting someplace warm.

And I can't blame them, because at least three times a week, I make
my way from Beacon Street to Tremont, crossing the Public Gardens, the
Common, and several busy streets, and hoping like heck that the cars I'm
ignoring won't hit me. I didn't realize how serious the problem was until
the day, almost three weeks ago, that the temperature rose to almost forty
degrees. I was crossing the bridge where the ducks and pigeons gather,
clustering around the one place where the pond hasn't completely frozen over,
when it occurred to me that something was different. It wasn't until I had
almost reached the end of my journey that I realized what it was: I could
see what was happening on the left and right sides of my body!

I wasn't wearing the thick, quilted jacket that makes my arms stick out
like the nubs of a fire hydrant. My neck wasn't wrapped up in a scarf,
making it impossible for me to swivel my neck; I didn't have to worry about
my earmuffs popping off. I wasn't looking at the pavement in front of me,
making sure each step wouldn't put me on a patch of ice or clump of dirty
snow. My arms felt lighter; my mind, clearer. I found myself thinking
about music, and my friends, and what the upcoming Daredevil movie
would be like, rather than how long it would take me to get inside, and why
the hell hadn't I gone to school in Florida, and how long I could let my
car engine idle in order to get this global warming thing going again.

As you might expect, I haven't been a particularly pleasant person since
the temperature dropped from Merely Unreasonable to Downright Ludicrous. I
haven't been all that much fun to be around, either, since I began my second
semester of graduate school. My current schedule requires me to read two
books, write two response papers, and comment on three short stories a week,
in addition to any presentations, essays, and writing assignments I may have
due. I'm also teaching for three hours and tutoring for twelve. I don't
mind doing any of this -- in fact, it's exactly the kind of challenge
I've felt was missing from my life since I graduated from college. But it
leaves me very little time to write, or think about writing (which is
somewhat ironic, since I am enrolled in a creative writing program). It also
leaves me hardly any time at all for most of the people in my life.

I learned on Thursday that one of my friends has just had a baby. I've
talked with the father, and passed on my congratulations to both of them,
but I don't know when I'll be able to see the baby, even though they live
only an hour away. Another close friend of mine moved back to town three
weeks ago; I still haven't been able to see her. I've missed birthdays,
going-away parties, and concerts, and I suspect I may soon miss the wedding
of two of my best friends. I open my mail only once a week, and I let my
e-mail accumulate in my in-box, answering only those messages that either
1). seem a matter of life and death, 2). ask questions which I can answer
quickly and easily and do not request a commitment of time on my part, or
3). contain JPEG images of Kate Beckinsale.

It isn't just my social life that's missing, either. Last night, as I
was walking past the checkout counter at Stop & Shop, I spotted a magazine
tribute to the astronauts who died aboard the space shuttle Columbia. It
occurred to me that I hadn't given the disaster a thought since it happened.
I've thought, read, or talked very little about the upcoming war in Iraq,
about the crisis in North Korea, or about the frightening state of our
government. I haven't even made any Joe Millionaire jokes in weeks.
Sure, I read the newspaper every morning, and yes, I listen to the radio
newscasts whenever I can -- but lately, it's been in a "Please don't let
there be anything in here that's going to make me late to work" kind of
manner. I haven't thought -- really thought -- about the world, my life,
or much of anything except for pancakes, super-heroes, and the cast of
"Charmed" (my mind's default settings) for a long, long time. And that's
not a good thing.

Although, come to think of it, a batch of pancakes tomorrow morning
might be just what the doctor ordered.

To be fair, I haven't exactly been chained to my desk for the last month.
Two weeks ago, I threw myself a party to celebrate Rob Awareness Week. Last
weekend, I attended a terrific reading by Richard Price, had a fantastic
Valentine's Day, and dueled one of my friends with plastic lightsabers at
Toys 'R' Us. Yet I can't do any of these things without a tiny part of me,
possibly my appendix, feeling as though I ought to be home writing a
response paper, outlining an essay, or working on my novel. After all, I
get to wake up every morning and live my dream -- something very few other
people are able to do. I ought to quit complaining, put my problems on the
back burner, and get to work, right?

Recently, I've noticed that it's easier for me to cope with the snow
-- and there's been a lot of snow to cope with these days -- on days when
I've been to the gym. There's something about stretching out and using my
body for something other than shoveling or typing that makes me just a
little bit more awake, more alive, better able to face the day. It isn't
quite the same as having my peripheral vision back, but it'll do, in a pinch.

I've been wondering if there isn't some way to stretch myself mentally,
as well -- to exercise my mind, from time to time, so that I'll be able to
plow through my daily grind as easily as I can get through the two feet of
White Death outside my window. Maybe an hour or so a day of thinking, or
writing -- a very wise person even suggested that journal entries like
these might help me put things in perspective, clear my mind, and do the
things I want to do. Pulling an hour a day out of my schedule won't be
easy, but I think it's worth looking around from time to time, if it keeps
you from getting run over.