Stop making sense

A couple of random observations on this Monday.

I've been reading this series on grief in Slate. It's sort of nice/interesting to be able to read about that process from a more detached distance; and by detached, I mean able to recognize the feelings without having to feel them all over again. And by distance, I mean that it's less of an open wound that never scabs over and more of a pale full-body scar that you wear, reminding you of what happened. Or something like that.

I tweeted about two people who have been hit by the Metro; one was by choice, the other I'm not entirely sure but the circumstances suggest as much. Two things: 1) I've always been conflicted about suicide - I'm libertarian in my belief that people with free will ought to be able to make this choice if they want, though I understand that most folks who choose it are not in the best frame of mind to exercise that free will = a sad situation all around and 2) if someone chooses this option, I think it's unforgivably selfish to involve other people in the act - as callous as it sounds, don't make someone else do your dirty work - the Metro operators have to live with being indirectly involved in ending someone else's life. Not fair.

Finally and definitely unrelated to above, I took the Washington Flyer bus from the airport last night when I got back in town. (Aside: I must note the fact that it takes less time for me to fly to Canada than it does to drive the 18 miles from Chantilly, VA to Arlington, VA at 830am on a weekday - this is not hyperbole, it is truth). The bus driver happened to be one of those women who has made a choice I personally would/could not make, despite my heretofore undisclosed libertarian leanings. This picture offers a pretty accurate depiction of said choice.

The following thoughts crossed my mind in about this order: What's that clicking noise? What does she have on her hands? Oh, wow, those are her nails. Dang, they're long. Like Guiness Book long. I guess that clicking noise is from her nails touching together. While she takes tickets. She is going to take my ticket. How will she grab it? Clicking. I feel nails. On.My.Arm. ! Don't panic - think about the Habs, think about Celine Dion, no, stop, no Celine. Ok, she's driving now. Clicking. How can she turn the wheel without breaking a nail? For that matter, how can she: push a button? text with any speed? write with a pen/pencil? type? pick her nose? um, pleasure herself? not scare small children when she waves? On the other hand, she can: mix her drinks without a stir stick; easily hail five taxis instead of one; scratch that itch in the middle of her back that's always been out of reach; fix her weave and mine at the same time; be her own set of clicky castanets; be a hit at the club when someone's pinky nail breaks and there are no backup cocaine delivery systems in place; point out the obvious in a roundabout, curved way so as not to make someone feel picked upon; and serve salad at dinner parties - no muss, no fuss. Thank god this ride is over.

And with that, I leave you with this: La fois suivante, nous arriverons dans la piscine plus tôt!