Category Archives: gratitude

Same Moon, Different Me

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Photo by Joanna Ohmori

I continue the slow, tedious journey toward recovery, one painful step at a time. And I mean that literally; the chemo left me with nerve damage in my legs which causes pain in my joints and muscles. That may improve in time; it may not. As expected, the treatment sapped me of much of my strength and energy. What I didn’t realize is how long it would take to recover, or even start recovering. Only now am I beginning to regain some of my yoga self, my balance, my poise. Just yesterday, I managed to transition from one legged dog to low lunge without thumping my foot down. It was a major victory and cause for much celebration.

My senses are still unreliable. My favorite white wine still tastes like rotting cabbages but there is hope. Last night, a drop of shower water landed on my lip and when I licked it off, it filled my mouth with rapture. An ordinary salad sent me into paroxysms of delight last week. Yesterday’s curry was the stuff of legends.

All of my hair has returned except for the part of my left armpit where I was nuked. The stuff on my head is about an inch and a half long, curly, a blend of colors. A friend looked at it and said, “You look…expensive.” I am considering keeping it this short. I like the way people look at me now.

As the Year from Hell slunk out the door, we resisted the urge to kick it’s narrow butt down the hall and slam the door with a resounding bang. Instead, we cultivate peace, calm and gratitude. The very wise Deepak Chopra said an essential element for lasting happiness is a reflective, quiet, alert mind. Peace in the mind opens the heart to intuition; your life is in a state of flow because your mind is quiet. This is the essence of mindfulness, a sort of Vinyasa for the soul.

In that state of mind, we went to Hawaii. We looked at some properties. We were deeply disappointed. The first house we saw was dark and damp. There was a riding mower rusting in the garden alongside a chipped bathtub. The neighborhood smelled of defeat. The second house had tacky paneling, filthy shag carpet and stunk of cigarettes. Then a flash of intuition led us to meet Beer Belly Man, who introduced us to Realtor Ron, who led us to this.

Me at new house

Our new home. Our little piece of paradise.

People keep saying we deserve this after all we went through last year. I know they mean well, but I don’t think merit has anything to do with it. What about all the other people who had cancer last year and didn’t get a house in Hawaii? What about the people who didn’t survive? Did they deserve that? For that matter, did I deserve to get cancer in the first place? Did the other people in my life, and in the world, who are coping with disease and tragedy and grief and all that is evil, heartbreaking, unfair and unnecessary deserve that?

These are not questions that have answers and I will waste no more time looking for them. Life is not logical; life is not fair. Life just is. And I am grateful to have it.

In a few months, I will bid farewell to the invasive sounds of my neighborhood, the screaming kids and motorcycles and trucks and helicopters and always, the incessant, relentless, ear-shattering, soul-crushing power tools. In place of all of that, I will listen to the sounds of exotic insects, palm fronds brushing together, lemon trees blossoming in the garden and above all, coqui frogs.  Few things have ever sounded so sweet to my ears. And I’ve heard a lot of stuff.

I have read that many people find coqui frogs invasive and annoying. I have also read that one of the many reasons for NOT moving to Hawaii is that I will always be an outsider, invasive, annoying. Shoot. I’ve been existing pretty happily as an invasive, annoying outsider for more than 30 years. The big difference is I will be an outsider who isn’t illiterate. And I will be a literate outsider who is living out her days doing yoga here:

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I could live another three decades. Or my cancer could return and I’ll be gone within years or even months. Or I could get hit by a bus tomorrow, or choke to death on a chunk of pineapple today. So deserved or not, this is the place for me to find peace, peace in my heart, my mind, my spirit, peace to accept my forever changed body and soul, peace to move on and make the best of whatever adventures may lie ahead.

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Moving Forward

I happened across the blog An Encore Voyage by a clever lady named Lynn, who seems to be sharing some spiritual space with me. She said:

Yoga sneaks up on you, and quietly changes the person you are, from the inside out.

She’s right. Yoga enhances your strength, balance, flexibility (in every sense), self-acceptance and mindfulness. It also brings clarity and a sense of calm.

Throughout the endless series of nightmares last year presented, I only lost it once and that was only because they’d kept me in the hospital way too long and my surgeon was a sugar-coated bitch.

broken unicorn

When I got my diagnosis, I knew in my heart that it is what it is, no more and no less. In the early stages, I felt my own courage, bravery even, but eventually the treatment process became a matter of moving forward blindly, of not dwelling on anything, of waking up and going to sleep and breathing, always breathing, taking the time to stop and rest and then rest some more. More than anything else, what got me through it all was a sense of distance, as if all of this was really happening but not really happening to me. Yoga gave me that sense of perspective, the ability to accept being slightly off-center all the time.

I want to put it all behind me, but I don’t want to forget. I want to learn what I can from the experience. One thing I learned is that it is good to be grateful when good things happen, and it is all right to be sad when bad things happen. The nice thing, though, is that we can also be grateful when bad things don’t happen. Assuming there is some sort of balance in the movement of energy through the universe, and I do believe there is, that works out to more gratitude than sadness and that works for me.

For now, I seem to have won the battle. I am on the slow path to recovery, the little engine that could, moving into a new stage in my life that promises fun, adventure and a great deal of happiness. I think I’ve earned it.

Sun Salutation at Chuck's

Thanks

True calendar

I finished Adriene’s 30 day True series this morning. It was good, just the right speed for where I am in the recovery process, and the final sun salutation brought with it a sense of closure. As I breathed deeply into my rapidly recovering lungs, I glanced out the window at the men pouring concrete into the foundation of the new house going up next door and I gave thanks that I wasn’t them. My little space heater barely makes a dent in the frigid air so my breath fogged the window as my toes turned blue, but I gave thanks all the same. One does not wear socks when one does downward dog. Yoga must be approached with respect and I give it with gratitude and humility.

Last week I lost my Pasmo train pass, the day after I’d charged it with 5000yen. An hour later I got a call from a station employee saying they’d found it and I could come pick it up. Ah, Japan. I gave thanks.

On Monday I had a wicked scare at the hospital but the doctors went into overdrive and fixed the problem. Their bedside manners might leave something to be desired, but they know their stuff when it comes to medicine. I gave thanks, more than once.

Tokyu shoppers

Yesterday at the supermarket, an old lady was having a hard time with her shopping cart so I helped her with it. Not only did she not give thanks, she didn’t even look at me, just walked away with a “harumph”. Meh. Her problem, not mine, but I watched my brownie points swarm with confusion, not knowing quite what to do with themselves.

Tomorrow I board a plane for a long overdue vacation in Hawaii where I will be able to salute the sun properly, and she will cook some of the stiffness out of my joints and muscles. Then I will stuff myself with mangoes and listen to the sound of the surf and congratulate myself for surviving last year, all the while giving thanks.

I will continue to give thanks, for the sun in the sky and the air in my lungs and the blood in my veins and being able to walk and talk and see and sleep and eat and think and feel and love. Thanks.

Yutenji Buddha

The Blue Lollipop

blue lolly

I have spent the past few years trying, with some success, to cultivate a sense of gratitude. I don’t mean Pollyanna gratitude: “Thank you so much for the one legged blind teddy bear that smells like old dog! It’s the best Christmas present ever!” No, what I mean is more a sense of finding what is unique or at least special about my life, my family and friends, the things I live my life among, and loving them for what they are, giving them the value they deserve. It’s also putting envy into perspective. I will always be envious of some things: people who are tall, people who can do math, people who can eat eggplant, people who can sing or juggle or Magic Eye. I know I will never have or be those things but I can envy those people without actually wanting to be them. I can see something beautiful in a store and enjoy its beauty, bask in it even, without wanting to own it, pleased that it exists but not needing it in my life, allowing my magic credit card to rest.

So now I am trying to find gratitude in the fact that I had my final radiation treatment today. There will be no more solitary morning walks to the hospital, no more taking off my shirt and lying on the table while people whose names I don’t know draw on me with magic markers. No more waiting in the pink paper line, no more pulling out my magic credit card and paying the bill, day after day after twenty-five days.  I can sleep in. I can take my time with morning yoga, finally start to work back toward where I was when this all began. I can finally start scrubbing the map of Arizona off my chest.

honey

(As a side note, one radiation treatment costs just about the same as a 1200 gram bottle of organic Acacia honey. Given a choice, I’d rather have the honey. Extra irony: my credit card is magical because it can somehow withdraw an unlimited amount of money from my bank account. The organic honey store only accepts cash.)

When I was dressed and opened the curtain, the radiation room was deserted. There was nobody to say good-bye to except the horrible machine but we had never really made friends. It felt strangely unfinished, like I should get a lollipop or a balloon, something to mark yet another passage through the surreal world that my life has entered.

So I walked back home, just another day, and got to work on the script for a program I will direct next week. In the program, three teams compete to make the springiest food they can come up with. One makes a gelatin-and-starch-based, multi-textured pudding (ugh), another makes a sticky rice ball seasoned with tomato and basil and topped with fish (blech) and the third, the crown jewel, is a blue, bacon-flavored lollipop made of mochi and swathed in mustard-flavored cotton candy. I kid you not.

monkey

Monkey Boy was minding his own business, having a nice nap in front of the kerosene heater, when I barfed on him. And then I realized I had something more to be grateful for. Nobody will ever force me to eat a blue bacon-flavored mochi lollipop swathed in mustard-flavored cotton candy. And as wild as my imagination may be at times, it will never go that far. For that, I am also grateful.

Fairy Dust

I think one of the reasons that I never got very tall, aside from genetics, since my father is 1/16th hobbit, is that somewhere deep inside me there is a small child who refuses to grow up. Perhaps a tiny fleck of Tinkerbell’s fairy dust danced its way into the biological stew when I came into existence. Whatever the reason, my abiding love of dolls and fairy tales also wraps its loving arms around Merry-go-rounds.

Me Merry-go-round

We used to go to a lot of country fairs and carnivals when I was a kid and there was always a Merry-go-round. I was born a horse fanatic, so even fake horses turn me on, but sometime when I was still pretty small, my dad pointed out the intricate hand carving and painting as well as the real glass eyes on the magnificent steeds gracing an antique Merry-go-round we happened upon. I  became addicted on the spot.

vintage merry go round

When I’m astride a Merry-go-round horse and the mechanical band strikes up its off-key tune and the horse finally starts moving, up and down, slowly at first then a little faster, I can close my eyes and just for a moment imagine that I’m on a real horse, riding through a meadow, feeling his powerful haunches pushing me forward into the future as the wind gently blows my hair into the past. There’s something beyond fantasy and fairy tales in the elegance of a horse’s slim but powerful legs. A shod hoof even lazily aimed can crush vulnerable human bone while at the same time, the horse’s muzzle is softer than a satin pillow stuffed with the finest eider down. Contradiction, thy name is equus.

The big difference is that real horses move forward and backward and side to side while Merry-go-round horses just go up and down, round and round. As Joni Mitchell sang so beautifully, “the seasons go round and round and the painted ponies go up and down.” So here I am sitting in my little Japanese house, not a horse or Merry-go-round in sight, and yet I feel like I’m on some sort of perpetual carousel ride. Four entire seasons I’ve felt the painted pony go up and down and yet it doesn’t go anywhere at all except around and around. The six months of chemo hell are finally done; the horse goes up. Dr. Gloom-and-Doom says I will continue to feel awful for at least three, maybe six months; the horse goes down. He says my tumor markers continue to fall; the horse goes up. He says I have a very rare type of cancer; horsey goes down. But the likely outcome is the same as for more common cancers and my hormone status is good; horsey opens a bottle of wine. But my staging is advanced; horsey sprains an ankle. But my 10 year survival rate is around 80%; horsey opens a rare bottle of cognac. But, and here’s the kicker, my particular type of cancer doesn’t form tumors. It spreads much like fairy dust and is nearly impossible to detect, so there is a slim chance I will be on and off chemo for the rest of my life; horsey has an aneurysm and someone fetches the shotgun.

I don’t know why this happened to me. Cancer is not some sort of divine retribution for some hideous thing I may have done in this or another lifetime. I am not being punished, and therefore I have never asked, “Why me?” Cancer has no intention, no goal, no target, no soul. It just is. In the end, I may be paying for that fairy dust that went into making me what I am and I am still grateful for that. The challenge now, though, is to figure out how to get up every day and wonder, not the starry-eyed wonder of a child looking at the painted ponies, but the perplexed wonder of trying to read something in a language you don’t understand. You can stare at it all day and it will never make any sense. I am hoping that, in time, I will be able to shrug my shoulders and walk away.

sparkler

 

Yak!

I’m a member of a women’s group that is so Top Secret that I can’t tell you the name. Go ahead, torture me. Tickle me until I pee. Force me to eat eggplant and beets. Lock me in a closet with an insurance salesman. I won’t tell and you can’t make me. So there.

Even before I got sick, the group was a source of support and inspiration and has been a major part of the solid steel structure that has kept me from sliding over the edge for a long time. We come from different backgrounds and live in all sorts of circumstances. But even though they are so many thousands of miles away, I always know they are there and they genuinely care.

I post to the group pretty often, keeping everyone updated on my doings and in return have received more love than I ever expected was possible. Plus we have this whole unicorn thing going; I don’t remember how it got started but I love it. This morning, a small package arrived from one of those women. Inside was this little fellow. According to the label, he was made with love by women in Kyrgyzstan.

Kyrgyesan

 

And now I want to tell a little story.

For most of my many years in Japan, I’ve been freelance, doing a variety of jobs that sometimes surprises even me. (Write a letter to the Dalai Lama? Sure! Why not? The princess of Thailand? Hand me the pen!) I am staff re-writer for NHK International, a non-profit affiliate of NHK, Japan’s public broadcaster. It has various departments that do things like produce foreign language versions of original NHK programs, sell NHK footage for overseas productions, and use public funding from organizations such as the Japan Foundation and JICA to provide NHK programs and equipment to broadcasters in developing countries. People from that section, The Travelers, go all over Asia, Africa, Central Europe and South America having meetings and helping with the complicated paperwork involved in those projects. What it means for me is writing a lot of letters to broadcasters and ambassadors and government folks asking for their assistance. I don’t get to go anywhere.

In these days of internet and email, I’m outsourced now, only going to the office when there’s a special project, but for a long time, I had my own desk and one of the fellows in The Travelers’ section sat across from me. Arrayed across the top of his desk was a tidy row of folders marked Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, and my favorite, Kyrgyzstan. I guess living in Japan wasn’t exotic enough for me, because when I wasn’t busy, I would stare at those folders and they would conjure up delightful images of wrinkly women dressed in colorful traditional costumes, eating yogurt and yak butter and living to be a thousand years old. I saw them hopping on ponies and scrambling around on mountain scree, or seated at hand looms meticulously weaving beautiful fabrics with intricate patterns.

I believe this is what they call empathy. I doubt I would like yak butter and I don’t want to live to be a thousand, but I love taking a moment to imagine how my life might have been so very different. Most of the time, despite a piqued curiosity, I feel a wave of gratitude as powerful as a tsunami wash over me.

I have never been to Kyrgyzstan and will most likely never go. I will most likely never meet most of the woman in my Top Secret group, but although we are all so very much alone, we are all together. So perhaps I will hop on my little pink unicorn and go see what’s up in Kyrgyzstan, have a nice cuppa yak butter tea, stare at a clear, blue sky and see all the infinity that has already been and is yet to come, wrap my arms around what’s left of this beautiful earth and be at peace.

Life is good.

elephant scarf

Pinwheel

sunrise

The pure, white light of the Tokyo summer sun is an evil spawned in Hell. She somehow cooks both down from above and up from below, creating a population of rotisserie people dripping their way along the concrete highways and byways of the city. She could suck the smile off Mickey Mouse’s face, and he’s the happiest mouse in the world. Even with a sun hat and parasol, she still wiggles her inquisitive fingers under my arms, between my toes, down the back of my sweaty shirt.

I could leave the house if I wanted to, but chemo magnifies the effects of the heat by about 1000% and the pain of trying to breathe the miasma is too much. And so I choose to stay home, but after just a few days, I’m starting to have weirdly Baby Jane feelings. It’s like there’s an invisible barrier in the front door, a Star Trek style force field that’s keeping me at bay. But this is a prison of my own choosing. I can leave if I want to. And nobody will serve me dead parakeet for dinner.

The days are long and hot, so I try to find ways to brighten them. For one, I have these fancy tea balls that blossom in the pot, the kind of thing that you save for when the imperial couple comes to visit. But I’ve asked them at least a dozen times and they always find a way to weasel out of it.

See? Here they are. “No, no. A thousand times no. Now stop asking!”

emperor waving

I can take a hint. I decided to go ahead and drink the fancy tea myself.

fancy flower tea

It tastes…slightly musty. I think. I can’t really trust my senses. Chemo does that, too.

I decided to look for beauty elsewhere.

One of the worst side effects of chemo is a terrible sensitivity to sound. I had bought a glass wind chime thinking the gentle tinkling would soothe, but it was instead a relentless clattering annoyance so I took it down. And then one of the cats smashed it. Good riddance.

Instead, there’s this, a freebie made by a local carpenter. They were handing them out at a neighborhood festival recently.

beer can wind chime

This was once a lowly beer can, but it was transformed to raise the simple pinwheel into an art form. (WordPress wants me to pay to include video so I’ll put that on Facebook.) It hangs from a branch in the peach tree outside the kitchen window, whispering sweet messages as it spins in the breeze, my own version of a prayer wheel. “Focus on your gains, not your losses.” “See the beauty in the everyday.” “Have the ice cream if you want it. You deserve it.” “You couldn’t handle yoga today. That’s OK. Tomorrow is another day.” “Don’t strangle the cats.”

It’s so easy to put more significance on the negative than the positive, to let the pains outweigh the joys. But I’m starting to believe this is a choice we make. We are programmed to believe that we need the bigger house, the faster car, the slimmer waist, the designer shoes/bag/watch/nose hair trimmer/whatever. But that is in essence letting someone else make our decisions for us, refusing to take responsibility for our own choices, and never, ever being satisfied with what we have.

So here’s the positive. My house is big enough and I like it. I don’t have or want a car; I don’t want a stranger’s name printed on my stuff. The ice cream was delicious. I did yoga after all and it was heavenly. The cats behave like cats; I expect no more or less from them.

For the most part, my body is still functioning properly.

I’m still alive.

That’s a lot. And that’s enough.

A Whammy of a Vagary

Many times over the past months, as I’ve been poked and prodded and obviously in pain, I’ve been asked, “Gaman dekimasuka? (Can you stand it?)” The word gaman could roughly be translated as ‘endure’, but it’s more than that. I think ‘suck it up’ is closer.

I’ve heard stories of things happening in the States that would not, could not, ever happen here.

Me bandana

Case 1: Standing in the supermarket checkout line, the man behind you notices your bandana and starts to chatter. “Oh, do you have cancer? Are you doing chemo? My wife went through that last year. What kind of cancer do you have? Hers was ovarian. We were back and forth to the doctor’s office so many times natter, natter, natter, blabitty blah blah…”

OH, SHUT UP, YOU MORON!

Nora and Haruki

Case 2: My friend Nora and family, Japanese husband and two kids, are visiting her hometown of Seattle. She is standing in line at a Starbucks, holding her daughter’s hand. Her baby boy is strapped to her chest. It is the late 1990’s. Adopting Chinese babies is all the rage within the yuppie community, which thrives in Seattle. Nosy Stranger leans forward and says, “What a cute baby! Did you adopt him from China?” Nora smiles and responds, “What, this little tyke? Heck no. I picked him up at Walmart. It’s so much easier than going through an agency. Imagine all the paperwork you can avoid! And everything’s made in China anyway. Just cut out the middleman. I’m thinking of returning him, though. He’s cute and all, but he makes an awful lot of noise and he smells funny. Good thing he’s still under warranty, right?” Nosy Stranger makes carp face, opening and closing her mouth as she tries to respond.

OK, my bad. Nora didn’t say any of that. It was her making carp face. How do you respond to something like that? “This is my own…I mean, he isn’t adopt…”

OH, SHUT UP, YOU MORON!

But as I said, these things would not, could not, happen here. As part of the gaman culture, Japanese people are brilliant at not noticing things they are not supposed to notice. To Westerners, this often makes them seem like hollow, insensitive robots. In fact, they hate high prices and traffic and screaming babies and their bosses and their neighbors just as much as anyone else, but they suck it up for the sake of harmony. This is neither a weakness nor a nobility. It is just how it works. And because of it, personal interactions with strangers are rare.

As a foreigner, I am used to sticking out, being stared at, the unwilling focus of silent attention. I was a little worried about going out in public, being the bald lady in the bandana. But people have done a phenomenal job of ignoring me. A couple of times, women have looked directly into my eyes and smiled a sincere warmth and encouragement that needed no explanation. The other day, the pharmacist complimented my scarf and earrings combination, ever so quietly, as she handed me my pills. But that’s been the extent of anyone acknowledging my condition. I am grateful for that.

A healthy dose of gratitude makes the vagaries of life so much easier to swallow, and cancer is a whammy of a vagary.

Rescue

My friend Randy hopped on his bicycle the other day to go do some shopping. He hadn’t gone far when he heard a “Meow!” and a splash. Looking toward some abandoned boats tied up at a dock, he saw a tiny kitten swimming toward shore. The kitten noticed Randy and swam toward where he was standing, which was at the top of a stone sea wall. When the kitten reached the wall, it started climbing up the barnacles growing there, but the barnacles only went up about two feet and when the kitten reached their end, he fell back into the water. But he was a persistent little tyke. He climbed the barnacles again and when he reached their end, he clung to them with both paws and his teeth.

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At last I understand the expression “tooth and nail”.

Randy called his wife, saying “Come quick and bring a rope!” But lovely Junko is a rather level-headed lady who quickly decided to borrow a net from a neighbor instead. And Randy used it to fish the little man out of the water.

boy in a net

Randy and Junko already have three rescue cats as well as a couple of strays that occasionally wander into their garden looking for treats. So they put this on Facebook.

be my mommy

We debated for a while. I thought the two-people-two-cats rule still applied but Rochi wanted him. In time he admitted he wanted the kitten for me. The thing is that neither Twitchy nor Monkey Boy particularly like me. They don’t not like me, they just don’t care about me much. I can pick them up for brief cuddles and Monkey likes to wrestle, but neither one will sit on my lap. I chose Twitchy from among hundreds of cats at the shelter, but she didn’t choose me. You can’t choose your cats any more than you can choose your parents. The funny thing is that I wasn’t all that unhappy about this situation. Losing Plato five years ago was one of the most painful things I’ve ever had to survive. He was my little boy. In a way, I was grateful that Twitchy and Monkey Boy are just cats, more interested in each other than in me.

Then it hit me that little man is a genuine rescue cat. We call Twitchy a rescue cat because a volunteer group found her living alone in an abandoned house inside the no-go area in Fukushima, but she didn’t see herself as being rescued. For the longest time she looked at us as if to say, “What do you want from me? Why am I here? I was doing just fine on my own drinking dirty rain water and eating worms and frogs and baby birds.” Eventually, she came to see the virtues of a full food bowl that didn’t involve gills or feathers. She never even tries to escape anymore; instead she watches the world go about its business from the safe vantage of a window sill.

So we call Twitchy a rescue cat, but in a way she isn’t. Little man is, a genuine full-blooded rescue cat who wanted to be rescued. We’ve only had him for a day but he’s already one of the sweetest little fuzz muffins I’ve ever met. I’m having to type at an awkward angle because he doesn’t want to be more than six inches away from me. Maybe having a scrape with death gave him an appreciation of life. At any rate, he looks at me with love and gratitude and it’s been a long time since anyone looked at me like that, in that pure, clean way that only an animal can. I feel the love starting to flow and I weep with gratitude. Perhaps he will rescue me back.

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Yoga Cat

Passing the Time Popcorn Style

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I had to go renew my driver’s license yesterday. This takes place in a dreary Quonset hut tucked behind the local police station. You pay your money, take your eye test, have a photo taken and then sit through a lecture and video. I was sitting there waiting for the lecture to start when a man came into the room. “Sterner-san, I turned on the English sub-titles so you should sit up front where you can see them.”

(Grrr. I can see them from here; I just passed my eye test, you know. And you could have called less attention to me by dumping a bucket of confetti over my head.)

But I’m a good little citizen, so I gathered my stuff and moved forward. Then the lecture began with, “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen and thank you for waiting. I put in the English video because we have a foreigner here today, but don’t worry. The words are the same as the Japanese narration, so just ignore them.”

(OK, make that two buckets of confetti with a rousing backup chorus of off-key kazoos. The kind part of me figured the man had one of the most mind-numbingly boring jobs in the universe and had to get his kicks somewhere. The not-so-kind part of me wanted to do unspeakable things to his danglers.)

Then he started to drone along about traffic statistics and such. The rest of the captive audience pretended to listen. I folded my hands in my lap, closed my eyes and visualized him as a popcorn machine happily pinging away in the lobby of an old fashioned movie house. The people’s voices coming from beyond the partition were other patrons waiting for the movie to start, but when it did we were all disappointed. It provided vital information like that we must always wear seat belts and drive slowly around children, especially when it’s raining, and mustn’t forget to stop at stop signs.

OK, I’ll try to remember all that.

There was one cool part, though, a demonstration of what happens when a car slams into a wall. At 50kph, the front end of the car crumples and the crash dummies inside it get whiplash. At 130kph, the front end crumples, the car raises its rear into the air and the whole vehicle does an elegant back flip, landing on its roof. There was no word on the fate of the crash dummies, but I fear the worst.

So, I now have a shiny new driver’s license which I will probably never use. I know that I should never drive the car I don’t own into a wall at 130kph. I will ALWAYS make sure my crash dummies wear their seat belts.

I was also reminded that a solid dose of boredom helps me appreciate the sunnier aspects of my life, of which there are many, and I continue to be grateful for that.

Oh, and a little popcorn goes a long way.

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