My Type of Time

In high school, I played soccer, and I had this Australian soccer coach. He was gruff, pear-shaped, and not a particularly effective coach -- largely due to his embitterment at having been a former Australian minor league player and all the inferiority complex that implies. When I say I played soccer, I should qualify: I attempted to play soccer. I gave it my best shot. I showed up to practice every day, ran on the field, and intellectually knew the sport; but I wasn't particularly good at it. As a former Captain on the Junior Varsity team (due to my natural inclination to impose order on chaos, and what is more chaotic than 11 sixteen-year-olds chasing 11 other sixteen-year-olds and one uncooperative ball?), I was determined to get better. So one day, at the end of practice, I asked Coach Grubba, "Coach, how do I improve?"

He turned to me, swelled up his Australian beer gut, and blessed me with a remarkably smug and disdainful smirk, "You're a very Type A person, aren't you, Josh?"

Not knowing what the hell he was going on about or what crazy Australian classification system he was using, I followed up in the Socratic way with what I felt was a very apropos and striking question, "What?"

"Everything has to go a certain way. If you just know steps 2 and 3, you can get to step 4," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and continuing to look down at me like a particularly amusing but ineffectual yappy dog jumping at knees. "There's Type A -- you -- and Type B -- me. Type B is relaxed. Type B goes with the flow and things happen as they happen. Type A plans and plots and imagines that they can hold the universe and all its doings like a cowboy wrangling a particularly nasty steer. When something doesn't go 'according to plan,' all hell breaks loose." I may be paraphrasing here. He was a former Australian minor league player with no doubt a few soccer balls to the head.

"I don't understand how this applies," I said, somewhat perturbed now and beginning to expect the helpful advice was not forthcoming.

Grubba placed his meaty hand on my shoulder and said in his best impression of fatherly charm, "Josh, you're never going to be our star defensive back. You try hard, and I like you, but there's no step 2 or step 3 for you to get to step 4 here. Just enjoy what you're doing and don't worry about it. You'll see play time."

I did not go out for soccer again the next year.

Insert The Lazy Song Lyrics Here

For fun today, I tried to think of the last time I had a quiet weekend at home to relax and unwind from the week. I thought about it. I thought about it some more. I paused to check my e-mail. Then I thought about it some more, and you know what? It's been a DAMN long time. Consequently, I have to say that the previous weekend was a rather enjoyable big ball of nada. A lovely little vacation from the otherwise oh-so-amazing busy-fest I've been treated to since... February? February. And now it's June. Huh.

My Friends: Awful Awesome Assholes

If there is a theme that ties together the last week or so, it would be that I have found some great people here in D.C., and that all of them are just as horrible as I am. Since last Wednesday night, I have been home two nights. Thursday and right now. And even tonight I ran back over to Steph's to get her dad's old cat stuff to keep Harper fat, happy, and brushed. Granted, now I'm doing laundry and dishes, and I still need to shovel catshit before I fall asleep in my continuing quest to outsleep the PLAGUE I have contracted, so I'm not really all that relaxed this evening -- aside from the bottle of wine I decided was lonely. Poor lonely cab-sav. I will comfort you.