In a symbolic tribute to the recent events of my life, Deane returned to full-time duties on the Loser Cruiser this week and the substitute driver was banished to a lifetime of crappy routes. (Though my friends [and even I] will claim that the substitute’s banishment to a lifetime of more sensitive, considerate, compassionate, and respectful routes capable of sending emails without typos would be a more fitting tribute to my life.) Of course, Deane defines “full-time” as 6 hours a day, Monday through Thursday, leaving Friday to another driver I have unaffectionately nicknamed Fidgety Friday.
Fidgety Friday is so named for his inability to sit still for more than 5 seconds. If he’s not adjusting the height of his seat, he’s adjusting his position on the seat; if he’s not adjusting the in-bus mirrors, he’s looking in them; if he’s not switching lanes to let someone much slower pass us, he’s stopping completely to give someone else our right of way; if he’s not scratching his nose, he’s adjusting his glasses; if he’s not rolling up his sleeves, he’s taking a drink of water; etc. And as anyone who has ever ridden a bus of this size on an interstate before will tell you, its sensitive steering means that the last thing you want is a bus driver who can’t sit still. Consequently, my mornings on the last day of each week typically begin with motion sickness.
Unfortunately, I must admit that I am discussing this topic because I am not the most appropriate person to be leading this discussion. Like murderers who have held their secret crimes inside for too long, my ex-girlfriends will eagerly tell you that a perfectly comfortable cuddling position with me never lasts more than ten minutes because either my arm starts to twitch, I get a leg cramp, my nose itches, or the heat of the pillow convincingly suggests that it needs to be flipped. Those instances when she and I fall asleep cuddling and wake up more than an hour later in the same position are so few and far between, I consider them historic and consequently, I can actually recite the times and places in which they occurred.
When I was growing up, Mama Benchly actually dubbed me “Inch Worm” after the Anne Murray song of the same name. “Inch worm, inch worm, measuring the marigolds. Seems to me you’d stop and see how beautiful they are.” I craved the affection that came with being held and rocked to sleep, but my energy was such that I could not sit still. (When I was born, I had so much energy, the doctors even suggested putting sneakers on my feet and letting me run home.) Hearing my mother sing this song to me in her soft and familiarly comforting voice always calmed my nerves and put me to sleep. Despite this twist lacking in irony, I consistently tested the patience of both myself and my mother.
As Niece #2 has recently proved, this trait is definitely a genetic one. I constantly see her struggle when her desire for cuddling conflicts with her inability to keep still. Considering she is only 3 years old, I don’t yet have enough heart in me to confess to her that, evidently, we are both doomed to a cruel fate of an unending appetite for and incurable resistance to cuddling. Why are we so restless? When all we want is to feel that emotional connection and purpose and security and comfort one feels while physically so close to someone else, after we’ve reached this goal, why are we seemingly so eager to push it away? Is it a purely physical response or is it much more? Are we sabotaging our happy lives on purpose? And if so, why? Because, it seems to me that we should stop and see how beautiful they are.
Benchly'sword 