If your parents reach a certain age—and it’s a different age for everyone—the question “How are you?” adopts changed meaning. You’re no longer asking about their day, necessarily, but more like, “How’s that hip you had replaced two years ago? Did you sleep okay last night? Are you still on those god awful blood pressure meds? What about that reimbursement check from insurance, did it arrive yet?” Stuff like that. Medical stuff. Whether they’re in good health. If they’re being smart in today’s “gimme gimme gimme” world.

Over time, a question once reserved for small talk and pleasantries grows to become loaded.

Then you remember what it was like as a kid, if you watched your parents watch their parents age. How your grandparents seemed more frail each time you saw them, more delicate, susceptible. To everything out there, really, from slipping on ice to opening virus-laced emails.

Then you realize that through the eyes of lineage, oh right, you’re next.

Translation: I think you’re wrong.

In the era of masking vacation days under the guise of being sick, I’ve noticed a workplace trend that’s gaining popularity. To wit, here’s a sample “I’m sick” email, circa 2015:

Hi all, 

Not feeling well today, will be staying home. See you tomorrow. 

Thanks, 
Jane 

These days, people seem to feel compelled to hastily over explain, perhaps in hopes that their story will seem believable. It should be noted this tends to be the case whether or not one is actually sick.

Hi all, 

OH MY GOD YOU GUYS, I woke up with this RAGING headache. Like seriously, I feel like I’ve been run over by a Mack truck. I couldn’t sleep all night, I’m just exhausted. Like, I can’t even. Also, my son/daughter woke up with a fever! Oh my god! Man, when it rains, it pours. I need to stay home, but I’ll be checking in as often as humanly possible. SO sorry for the inconvenience! Oh my god! See you tomorrow (fingers crossed oh my god)! 

Thanks,
Jane 

The calendar flipped just a week ago, but the air is already different. It’s subtle. The angle of the sun in the morning. The hazy veil layered over trees, leaves asleep in the heat. Birds flitting but not flying, also at rest. Seismic shifts that mean very little in isolation, but like Legos, building one by one to create something much bigger than itself.

The gentle hibernation.

Another weekend, another shooting in America. And the closer it hits home, the deeper it hurts. I’ve talked about Gilroy before. I spent a gauzy couple of years there as an awkward early 20-something taking on my first “real” job.

On a blisteringly hot afternoon in July 2005, I worked a booth at the Gilroy Garlic Festival. I handed garlic fries in greasy paper-lined baskets to smiling, sweaty people. The festival itself spans a weekend, but for the community invested, it’s a year-round effort. The planning, the recruiting, the fundraising, the care. The love.

Everything that goes into making the festival the kind of thing a 6-year-old boy would want to attend. Or a 13-year-old girl. Or a 20-something man. To try garlic ice cream for the first time ever. To watch famous chefs sear and simmer and sauté their recipes in pots and pans over high-flying flames. To have silly summer fun on a Sunday afternoon before day camp, school or work the next day.

Not to die at the hands of a man with a gun.

Every now and then, you realize that a certain combination of flavors mixes and matches and mingles and ricochets off the human palate to create a taste profile of perfection. To wit: the humble s’more.

Though typically associated with summer, I’d argue that the s’more is a year-round dessert—one equally at home by a campfire in July and the fireplace in December.

I present four reasons the s’more is a supremely crafted treat.

1. Gooey loves crunchy. The yins and yangs of the culinary world are well known. Salty loves sweet. Roasted loves spicy. And gooey, my friends, loves crunchy.

2. Nostalgia is strong. I hate camping. But I love the idea of it. And millions of people actually love it. Campfires remind them of being a kid, of surveying the vast black sky aglitter with stars while an orange fire hisses and cracks, warming marshmallows to a toasty brown.

3. Options abound. Purists will stick to the three key elements, but opportunities to get wild are endless. I’ve seen recipes for s’more variations that include ingredients such as: candied bacon, roasted raspberries, peanut butter, banana, chili powder, pretzels and Oreos (did someone say S’mOreos?). Not to mention, the s’more is not limited to its origin form. One can whip up s’more cookies, brownies, cake pops, milkshakes, cheesecake and pie.

4. Anyone’s up. The s’more is democratic. Three ingredients, mere minutes of cook time. A box of graham crackers: $2.99. A Hershey’s chocolate bar: $1.79. A bag of giant marshmallows: $3.19. Grand total: $7.97.

I recently started chugging a “green drink” every morning, made with a fine powder crushed from all kinds of good things, I guess. Spirulina, kale, spinach, etc., etc., etc. All that shit. They say you can mix it with juice, but the extra sugar, nah. So I mix it with water, but it must be cold.

The final product isn’t entirely unpalatable. But it’s not pretty. The word “sludge” comes to mind. Dark green, a little gritty. A napkin must be within reach because it sticks to your lips. I drink it from an opaque cup so no one asks, “What the hell are you drinking?,” disgust dripping from their face.

And now I wait. For the glow. How long will it take? For my skin to simply radiate, competing only with golden beams of sunshine? Before I become a rocket-powered force of energy, able to conquer each day and sleep for just under three hours? Finger tap, tap, tap.

It won’t happen. I’ll look the same. I’ll probably feel the same, too. What do people say about multivitamins? Expensive piss. It might be that.

But hey. That’s ok. I’m drinking a green drink every morning. I’m sleeping all night, every night. About a gallon of water a day. Alcohol is no longer a mainstay. And I finally realized that dairy is, in fact, not for me.

We fear what can consume us.

Just overheard in work hallway:

Person 1: Oh hi! I haven’t seen you in so long!
Person 2: Oh, I know. It’s been forever!
Person 1: Like, we email all the time, but like, I feel like I never see you.
Person 2: Oh, I know. We, like, never see each other.
Person 1: <forced chuckle>
Person 2: <forced chuckle>

My question: What did either person gain from that conversation? Were their lives changed in some way? Was this conversation necessary? Will they remember it, or think of it ever again? Did it lead to something substantive? Did those words absolutely need to exit their mouths?

I mean, I get it. In our society and culture, small talk is a way of demonstrating friendliness, and in some cases, professionalism. There are times you just have to do it. What “Oh hi! I haven’t seen you in so long!” actually means is: “It would appear rude to flat out ignore you in the hall. Here—I’ll say something, anything, the first thing that springs to mind so you’re aware that I’m a friendly, respectful person.”

I’m not arguing for a world without small talk. (Well, I am, but I realize I’ve long lost that battle.) I’m simply acknowledging how meaningless small talk really is, cultural cues aside. The world would be a beautifully quieter place without it, without the noise, the audible pollution it produces.

Last thing I’ll say is that no one gives a fuck about my weekend, and in several cases, I don’t give a fuck about theirs. On Fridays, people ask, “Any plans for weekend?” On Mondays, they ask, “How was your weekend?” Again—they’re being polite, friendly, kind. I understand and vaguely appreciate it. But come on. Let’s all be real.

On the heels of a post about an annoying thing in life, I’m going to write a post about not allowing annoying things in life to bother you. The abridged version is this: The world doesn’t owe you shit.

Somewhere along the way, we’re conditioned to believe that things should go our way. They just should. There should be no lines at the gas station. No delayed flights. No assholes cutting you off on the interstate. Life should be an uninterrupted chain of events that doesn’t obstruct our moment-to-moment happiness.

Says who, though? Why are each of us, any of us, entitled to anything at all? When somebody gets in my way, I remind myself that I likely get in people’s ways all the time. And when I think, “There are way too many damn people on this planet,” I remind myself that, well, I’m one of ’em. And to someone else, I’m the one person too many, taking up space where I shouldn’t.

I’ve begun a new mental exercise to practice daily. When something annoying happens, I actively try not to view it as bothersome, but rather, just another event. Neutral. Neither here nor there.

Like right now. I’m at a Starbucks in downtown Chicago. It’s crowded. And loud. I wanted a spoon. There were none. I had to weave through a wall of people to ask the woman at the counter. She was moderately exasperated. She took an exceptionally long time retrieving a spoon.

I didn’t want to have to ask her. And seriously, it took fucking forever. But instead of letting myself feel that irritation, I forced myself to perceive the course of events as just that—the course of events. There were no spoons, so, I had to ask. That’s it. It just so happened that it took a few moments. That’s also simply how things turned out.

What this helps me realize is that regardless of whether I get flustered, the outcome is the same. Why not reserve my mental energy for something more worthy than unnecessary impatience?