Wednesday, June 18, 2008

An Idle Mind

I know virtually nothing about auto mechanics but I know that on a bone-rattling-cold January morning in Michigan, a 1971 Chevette will continually stall out if the idle is set too low. I also know that sitting in a metal box after spending 20 minutes scraping windshield glaciers thumping your head on the steering wheel will not reset the idle.

I’m certain there is a very good explanation for the particulars of mechanical idle calibration but I liken it to fluctuating caffeine levels. With too low levels, my body will not accelerate beyond the stasis of morning bitchiness onto productive behavior. With too high levels, the whirl in my head hits a note well beyond a dog’s audible range. (That begs the question – is there a species that can hear this pitch? Maybe this is why I cannot keep house plants alive?)

I’ve returned to Mexico this summer to recharge my proverbial batteries. In the past year, Caffeine – my oldest and dearest enabling friend – has failed me. Our once powerful embrace has fallen to chemical impotence. No focus. No spontaneous desire to turn cartwheels. No ability to deny circadian rhythms. What’s worse, I didn’t see it coming. It is a betrayal I may never forgive. I shudder to think what might have become of me if it weren’t for the steadfast devotion of Scotch and Tequila. With five full days and nights of pure, self-centered decompression, surely my energy, optimism (admittedly low-grade on a good day but rarely absent), and ambition will return. And yet on day three I can see the plants outside my casita beginning to feel the effects of the unsuppressed whirl.

For the first two days, I hunkered deeply into my little compound hidden beneath mango trees laden with infant fruit still green with inexperience. In two weeks, the mangoes will learn the sun’s secret and blush red with their knowledge. In the meanwhile, faced with limitless prospects of self-indulgence, I dove like a Jenny Craig defector, into the sweet treats of my week-long sabbatical. I watched three movies, a full season of a Canadian mini-series, read 100+ pages of my novel about ante-bellum life in Virginia, listened to hours of music pouring forth from my ipod, devoured celebrity gossip like a Japanese school girl, and marveled at my inability to retain Spanish verbs for more than a moment. It is to be expected, I guess. How could they find their place among my thoughts within the whirling? They fled within minutes – “ir” led the way but “venir” and “estar” were right behind him.

So – it’s day four and now I know this is not about my batteries at all. I need to lower my idle to a hum just north of stalling out completely. This requires tough love. I ban the award-winning authors to my suitcase. I cancel tonight’s date with several prominent indy actors and resolve to leave the tales of deliciously flawed celebrities to other pool-side loungers. I tell them all, one by one, that when the whirl dies down to a hum - no, a purr - we’ll talk.

Delightful distractions cast aside, I set the course for a new day with a simple plan. I will make amends with caffeine over a conciliatory latte at Vonn CafĂ© letting the street noise penetrate unimpeded by hi-fidelity ear phones. I will not neglect caffeine by reading or studying through our reunion – no wonder it left me! I’ll take in the afternoon sun at the pool armed only with introspection and powers of observation. There’s no doubt nightfall will be the real challenge. To pass the evening hours without the lulling effects of passive entertainment could prove too much for me. But, with Tequila by my side, I am determined to make through. Hell, if a 20-year-old Chevette could idle in -10 degree windchill, I can idle alone in Mexico with a margarita.

No comments: