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Okay, maybe that is too harsh. There seem to be people who enjoy each otherís company. However, whenever one of my colleagues feel they need to create koinonia with me, I generally dive behind the nearest bookshelf, garbage can, parked car, etc. It isnít that I actively dislike these people. Rather, they constantly want to talk about things that matter. Politics matter. The state of my immortal soul matters. What Paul Tillich thinks about existential estrangement matters (well, to some people anyway). I find other topics far more interesting. For instance, today at work, we were engaged in a hot debate over a timely issue and I didnít end up wanting to poke my eyes out with the nearest sharp object. For nearly an hour we engaged the perennial question, ìDo ducks have teeth?î Does this matter on a large scale? Unless you are in fact a waterfowl, I would guess not. However, it filled up many a fun moment and the question lingers still. I called my brilliant husband at his lab (because people who work in labs know these kinds of things), but alas he was not there. (He is often not there. Sometimes I think he is actually some sort of spy, and he is off saving the world whilst I sit in class. He really does have skills like a certain TV personality and would make quite a good spy. But I digress.) Sources on the Internet didnít provide the definitive proof we needed. I swore that I once heard that ducks donít have teeth per se, but they sort of have one large tooth like thing near the front of their bills. You know, they need it to spear fish, open beer cans, etc. I was mocked for this. No, ìmockedî implies past tense. I am (even though I am not at work) probably still being mocked for this. And they can scoff all they like, I rather like the nick name ìDuck Tooth,î though I prefer ìDTî for short. Well, Iím off to my first session of the class that shall remain nameless #1 (CTSRN1). I am taking this class because both of my advisors abandoned me this semester (something about them having their own lives, * sigh *) and they were the only people who taught me in the past. Perhaps Iíll ask my classmates about the duck teeth question. Thatís a sure way to break the ice and a good first step in creating koinonia.
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So, my other option then is to run on a treadmill. I find this utterly depressing, no matter what I think about when Iím on the thing. I mean, you think youíve made your way up the evolutionary scale. You think youíve mastered tools, have a pretty good handle on language and have even negotiated the strangeness that is the opposable thumb. But then you realize that modern culture have made these advances mere trappings and vanities, because to ìkeep fitî you must become a hamster in an exercise ball. I feel that when I am on a treadmill, I am not pursuing an end to cancer; I am in fact a small, expendable animal who must keep the belt moving for my life to have meaning. And while Iím on my belt, the scenery never changes. Oh sure, there are televisions. But somehow I am not comforted by Nora Ephron movies. In fact, I think they worsen the situation. Just as Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan realize they are Meant To Be, my inner dialogue screams, ìVanity, Vanity, all is vanity!î Anywho, the point is that running outside is better. However, when faced with the choice between hypothermia and an existential crisis, I am afraid I will have to go with the latter. Because a hamster on a belt is still (most likely) a hamster with a nose that has not frozen off. So Iím off to the gym. *sigh* Because itís for a good cause.
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