The Postponement of Ice Cream

Every morning before work there is a five-minute interval that cannot be filled with anything.  I have finished my meal, and I’m dressed in my uniform.  There isn’t enough time to start reading the next chapter of my book.  I could start up a conversation that would have to be cut short.  I don’t dread going to work.  There’s no courage to muster, no disinclination to smother. 

I don’t imagine how the day will unravel.  I try not to aimlessly scroll through my phone while I wait because there is rarely anything to be gained by this habit.  I’d much rather think about nothing.  I stare blankly, catatonically through everyone in front of me until the strain in my hamstring recedes.  My fatigue dissipates as the morning caffeine takes effect.  Those 300 seconds become pliable like stretchy Playdoh and I forget my contractual obligation to labor manually.  Through effort or lack thereof, I am searching for bliss, a flow state, a spike in serotonin between bouts of boredom.  Most people say, “I can’t wait for this day to be over.”

I never say this because I am a very literal person.  I know that each day consists of 86,400 seconds, and I’m conscious during two-thirds of them, the majority of which overlaps with sun’s office hours.  Time will not move any faster than it did yesterday, but my awareness of time fluctuates.  I can understand impatience.  As a species, particularly the American breed, we like promptness, scheduled arrivals, organized calendars.  Generally, we want to be ready for things to happen and to be dressed accordingly. 

We don’t like buffering Wi-Fi, waiting for food at restaurants, silent gaps in conversations, counting down the winter days until the relative warmth of a northern spring.  More than anything we cannot stand a sexual tease with no promise of release.  Postponing gratification is a skill not easily learned.  I don’t know anyone who can do it well. 

I’ve never met a smoker who wasn’t eager for a break.  Likewise, readers carry books around as though they’re cigarette cartons.  Weekenders go to the bar or the movies.  Subway commuters listen to music on headphones.  Lovers go to bed but not to sleep.  The same neurological effect is desired:  an escape from the present moment and world.  Via drug or non-drugs, whether we realize it or not, we want to be stimulated. 

We want pain-erasing back-rubs, personality-enhancing buzzes, mountain-summitting adrenaline surges.  This state of mind is desired, more or less, all of the time except right before bed and during the early morning when the light hurts your eyes, your stomach feels acidic, and anyone’s voice is automatically too loud, grating, and annoying.  Even when I’m elated and aware of my elation, I am wondering when I’ll feel this way again because the comedown makes me jittery and sad and eventually my glass-half-full perspective reverses. 

I’ve seen kids who can’t sit still.  Some of them cry when they don’t get ice cream.  They shriek until their parents need to restrain them and still they flail and kick hoping that mom or dad will relent simply to avoid the hassle.  Eliminating antsy-ness is a gradual process that never ends.  I am twenty-six and still when somebody mentions ice cream I cannot imagine my immediate future without spoonfuls of cold, velvety indulgence.  I don’t squirm or throw temper-tantrums.  I am at the age where there is no authority who dictates the frequency of my ice cream consumption.  I am the one who denies myself this luxury.  There is a self-parenting struggle, however quiet and reserved, but I don’t think the kicking-and-screaming kid ever disappears completely. 

There are so many things to become addicted to:  sugar, nicotine, booze, video games, attention, sleep, caffeine, overworking, working out, accumulating money, constantly filling your eardrums with the same catchy song over and over again because the melody captures the energy-level you are hoping to mimic.  No matter how you spin the word, addiction usually has a negative connotation, even if you are addicted to healthful habits like eating kale and running until euphoria or improving the structural integrity and overall Fengshui of your home.  In our culture there is an inherent need to strive toward those where-do-you-see-yourself-in-five-years goals, so sitting still is interpreted as a lack of progress.  Those who have suppressed the itch to fidget and mastered the ability to focus are revered.  Their how-to books are showcased on daytime talk shows and applauded by a jovial, well-dressed audience that is 95% female.     

I have read these types of books in college when my schedule was near-bursting full.  My fiction teacher assigned The Miracle of Mindfulness by Thich Nhat Hanh as an introduction to meditation.  I was taking five English courses, working three weekend shifts at a restaurant, and interning at a film festival twice weekly.  I was so busy that I had trouble falling asleep because part of me believed I should be doing my homework instead.  I constantly thought about upcoming assignments and deadlines until my mind sizzled closely to burnt. 

The Miracle of Mindfulness taught me how to sit still and count my breaths.  In class we would do body scans.  We considered what our heads felt like, then our necks, shoulders, back, butt, legs, tracing our nerve endings all the way down to our fingers and toes.  We nibbled plump, withered dates and analyzed the texture as we mashed the squishy pulp between misaligned molars.  We closed our eyes and felt our feet contact the floor with each step as we walked in circles.  We sat outside on the lawn and remarked what the people were wearing, the color of cars driving by, the wind rippling the short blades of grass. 

We learned how to manage the barrage of thoughts coursing through our minds, and we let them all wash over us like shower-water beads dripping from scalps and splattering onto the floor.  We sat in silence and considered our agitation and the need to scratch our butts and our nostrils.

The most important message was to lean into the sharp points.  Whenever something awkward or painful or inconvenient happens, you should poke a hole into that feeling, stretch out the opening and crawl inside of it.  If your car breaks down on the side of the highway, most of us would sigh, mutter a few select curse words, and call Triple A and speak to the representative in a slightly disgruntled tone because we try to exert too much control over our environment.  Leaning into the sharp points means lifting up the hood to see what is smoking.  Inform your passengers that their evening may conclude differently than they imagined but, really, no one should ever 100% expect plans to go accordingly.   

Likewise, if you are sitting in a room full of awkward people with food on their teeth and sauce on the corner of their mouths, don’t shy away.  They may be recounting ad nauseum the plot of their sci-fi 007ish murder mystery about a transgendered detective in the not-so-distant future that also involves vampires and zombies, but the slow-walking, revenge-driven dead soldier types rather than the rabid, rapid infected a la 28 Days Later. My initial comic-book thought-bubble would read: (Insert harsh critical and belittling judgment here).  I want and half-expect people to act in a redeeming and rational manner, but this is not realistic.  Roommates will snore and play loud music you can hear bumping through the walls.  Anger arises when you expect this not to happen but it does despite your wishes.

 

We create conflict by interpreting our environment in a disappointing manner, but you can eliminate disappointments by budgeting for shitty human behavior.  We live in a house full of drama queens and worry-warts as well as the Zen and the nihilists.  There is a common area we call the EDR (Employee Dining Room) equipped with chairs, long tables, a couch, and a TV.  For those of who live at the dormitories, this is the only comfortable space where we are protected from the elements and the bugs, but not from each other’s varying decibel levels.  Some of us can live with quiet, but the soundlessness can drive the opposite crowd bonkers.  The space is filled with music, conversation, or background TV noise until cacophony ensues.  A decision must be made.  You can stay here and join the party.  Or put up with the noise while carrying on your own affairs.  Or you can go to your room, hide, jam earplugs into your auditory canals, and grumble about the loud neighbors.

 

Fending off the after-work boredom is a crucial component of seasonal work that can break people.  The work is relentless and monotonous, which pushes us to the brink where we feel we’re getting stupider and our bodies are breaking down.  Despite a full workload, we have ample free time which we use to rejuvenate ourselves via diverse means.  This is where the possibility of trouble arises.  In Acadia I’ve seen the recycling bin full of beer bottles, evidence of a rowdy but harmless night.  In Bryce Canyon I’ve been woken up by a grown man screaming obscenities at the moon after he downed an entire bottle of cheap whiskey.  At least four people I worked with were arrested for drunken disorderly conduct, the most common reason for termination.  Most people bring their drinking problems to these jobs, but the frayed-nerve remoteness is not the ideal environment to curb one’s addictive tendencies. 

This is the kind of place that requires creativity to strengthen one’s resolve and to stay afloat morale-wise.  People in cramped rooms are vulnerable to pessimism, which spreads in a Bubonic manner of rat-infested ships.  Elevated moods can easily be shattered by Debbie-downers and cheap guests with such malleable demeanors that they are genuinely disappointed that you charged their fifteen-year-old child for a soft drink (so much that the $2.50 surcharge ruins a significant portion of their evening).  Defending one’s happiness is a rigorous battle, and I am always on my guard for some complainer wanting to pull me down their black hole. 

I’m the type who prefers to hide in my room and read my book to prevent total cognitive dystrophy.  My white-board organizer also plays a huge role in boosting my psychological state.  I make goals for myself each week to summit certain mountains, pocket a certain amount of cash, or wash my sheets.  If I write down my intentions, I’m more likely to hold myself accountable when I fail, when I slink into laziness, or when I get stuck in the same rut. 

My strategy for remaining unstuck is to design a future wherein I am chasing euphoria.  A common question after work is:  What are you going to do tonight?  After a rugged eight-hour shift, I’m often too tired to conjure ideas, so I consider my options when I have the energy and write down my possibilities so I can better direct my scant energy reserves.  When I work seasonal jobs, my evening routine is vastly different from that of my home-life.  I usually make a point to catch the sun set from different vantage points. 

Our Internet sucks and we don’t have ESPN on our TV, but a multitude of stars is visible just outside the door.  I decorate my room with maps and set out to hike every trail in the park.  When I finish a hike, I trace the trail’s outline with a pen until the entire map is filled in.

I am only here for five months, so I never wish for the day to be over.  If I said that too many times, I will have wasted my summer.  I want to catch myself before I start complaining.  Not everything will work out the way I want it to.  The nagging customers, the itchy bug bites around the ankles, the sunburned and peeling skin, the lack of privacy, snoring roommates——this is all part of the package.  

These inconveniences and stressors make us want to reward ourselves with ice cream. In this manner, we are really no different than dogs who desire treats for their obedience, namely the irksome task of defecating in the appropriate patch of grass.  Some endeavors are only worth the effort if there is some pleasurable delicacy waiting for you at the finish line.  All of us are working jobs we don’t really want (I mean, can anyone really beam with pride when they ask some overweight tourist if they want a side salad or chips?), but we can put up with a certain threshold of back pain and existential anxiety.  This dangling-carrot-on-a-stick motivation only works until you get sick of carrots, however.  The next step is transcending the process rather than relying on sporadic injections of instant gratification to make it through the days.  There is no question of motivation, no zonked-out laborers dreaming of the weekend. There are only toiling hands, churning minds——moving for the sake of movement, sitting for the sake of stillness.