I can't stress enough how much I stress to be stressless. Years ago, someone that is close to me (not as to our physical location, of course) used to drive a red GeoMetro, pimped out, if you will, with the "have-to-have" hula girl bobble-body on the dash. But as a kid, I didn't pay much attention to the half-naked dancer swaying to and fro (I adore the innocence of childhood); my mind, instead, would be anxiously engaged in a "get to know" session with the vehicle. I, for some odd reason, needed to know where everything was and why it was there. Perhaps this is where my OCD-like habits began to take full swing in my life.
I would first start with the radio: turning it on to see what type of music would be playing in order to understand better its everyday listener sitting next to me. I would then move to the jockey-box: usually without asking. I would open it to see what 7-11 slurpy receipts or chewed-on pencils or casette tapes I would find. But one time, in the Metro, I found something different. I pulled out, what to me seemed like a small, squishy, Buddha statue; I was so confused. I turned the short, fat, asian "doll" over to find the words, "Sumo Stress Ball." The relative of mine, seeing the sheer look of wonder on my face as if I had just been beaten at chess by a three-year-old, uttered to me, "It's a stress ball. When you're stressed you squeeze that 'lil guy and you feel better."
My young soul had yet to encounter anything stressful; the closest thing to stress that I could think of at the time was when I was put in as a pinch-hitter in the District Tournament of Little League All-Stars in order to lay down a bunt toward the third base line: the famous "squeeze play" to bring the tying run in from third. Needless to say: bunt down, runner in, W in the books to advance to the championship game. That was about as stressful as life was for me at the time.
Now that I have grown and become more "experienced" in the the world, I have been able to experience, also, this so-called 'stress' in repetitive over-doses. I have also been able to see and better understand how people reduce or 'deal' with their problems and their anxiety. Some people: squeeze a small ball or person or thing made of Nerf material. Some people: take long drives out into some remote part of the wilderness and stare at the moon as if it owed them some sort of answer to their problems. Some people: use sleep to flat-line the stress before it completely takes over. Some people: smoke cigarettes, drink alcohol, or seek sexual pleasures. Some people: reminisce through old polaroid pictures of 'the good times' to try and find ANY reason to smile again. Some people: talk to specialists or friends or family members to seek their advice on how to go about their difficulties. Some people: do lots of different things.
But I write.
I am, by no means, a decent enough writer to even call myself a writer; but, miraculously, forming letters and symbols and words on a piece of paper or on a pixelated screen seem to calm my troubled mind. It's as if the pen-in-hand, or the keyboard keys don't know any better than to act as stress-release portals into the literary world. I am telling you this so that you understand one of the main reasons why I am choosing to begin a "blog": I, like everyone else, live a rather stressful life, but, however, I understand that we must do all we can to rid ourselves of this soul-degrading virus called stress and learn to live a life of happiness and of hope and of joy. I write to rid. I write to remember. And I write to live.
I hope that anyone who takes the time to inquire of my thoughts here will enjoy what they read and will form their own opinions and hopefully write them down somewhere.
Here's to my stress-free recipe.
Cheers.
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