When putting on a pair of pants, I always stick my left leg in first. Always.
Now, I had never thought about this until the other day when someone told me that people put their pants on the same way every time they dress -- either left leg first, or right leg first.
He said, “Next time you get dressed, try putting your opposite leg in first. It’s nearly impossible.”
I started to unbuckle my belt.
“No,” he said, a worried look spreading across his face. “Try it tomorrow morning.”
Oh, right.
That night I could barely sleep. Not one to shy away from a challenge, I kept visualizing what would happen the next morning when I attempted to put my pants on right leg first.
I know what you’re thinking -- why wait until morning?
Well, it wasn’t easy, but I wanted to test his theory under optimum conditions. This meant conducting the test first thing in the morning -- which, I have come to realize, is the time of day when I typically put on my pants.
Though sleep-deprived, the next morning I remembered my task. Standing in our walk-in closet, pants in my hand, I told myself: Right leg first, right leg first.
But the signal from my brain took a wrong turn, and next thing I knew I had my left foot in the air, poised for insertion.
“Wow!” I exclaimed.
“What is it?” inquired my wife from the bathroom.
“I tried to put my right leg in my pants first, but I almost ended up putting in my left leg first.”
“Really? I’ll call and alert the news media.”
Her sarcasm failed to register. I was concentrating on my pants with the single-mindedness of a Zen master.
See the pants…Feel the pants…Be the pants.
I lifted my right foot, held my pants open. Slowly, I forced my foot into the opening, then down into the right pant leg.
Believe me, it wasn’t easy. In fact, it actually felt like what I imagine an out-of-body experience to feel like. Still, a moment later my right foot popped out of the right pant leg and hit the floor. Success!
Brimming with confidence, I proceeded to insert my left leg into my pants and immediately toppled over, hitting the ground with a solid THUMP!
“What was that?” called my wife.
“I’m okay. I just fell down putting on my pants.”
“If you need help, all you have to do is ask.”
This time the sarcasm registered, but I chose to ignore it. I was trying to figure out what made this task so difficult.
Was it a right brain, left brain sort of thing? Are right-handed people predisposed to dressing left-leg first, and southpaws predisposed to doing the opposite?
Now, I’m not a psychiatrist, and I don’t play one on television, but I think it might have more to do with habit than anything else.
After all, human beings are creatures of habit. For instance, I tend to leave the toilet seat up after visiting the commode. Do I do it to intentionally anger my wife? No, at least not most of the time. It’s just habit.
In fact, I believe many of our habits serve a beneficial purpose. They provide us comfort, and even a little bit of sanity, during difficult or troubled times.
Certainly, this was the case following the events of 9-11.
Of course, I don’t mean to imply that all habits are positive or beneficial. Take gambling, for instance. Or smoking. Or leaving the toilet seat up.
Now, many of you may think that the way in which you put on your pants -- right leg or left leg first -- has little effect in the grand scheme of things.
Before you close your mind to the alternative, I want to make you this simple challenge: Tomorrow, when you put your pants on, try sticking the opposite leg in first.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Monday, April 28, 2003
Tuesday, April 22, 2003
I'll take my kryptonite with everything on it
In 1983 I graduated from college and stopped eating animal meat.
As far as I can remember, these two momentous events were unrelated. Then again, that was two wars and three careers ago, so I may not recall every detail with absolute clarity.
What I do remember is reading a journal article illuminating the health issues associated with animal meat. Somewhere in the article, a scientist stated that by age thirty most Americans will have a significant amount of undigested meat byproducts holed up in their digestive systems.
How much? Something like ten or twenty pounds comes to mind -- but don’t quote me on that.
At the time, I seem to recall thinking: “That can’t be good.”
Followed closely by: “Maybe I should try going without animal meat for a while…”
When you are twenty-two and single, decisions like that require very little thought.
Of course, the fact that I had just accepted a job working as a newspaper reporter for the princely sum of $9,500.00 per year (no, there isn’t a 1 missing between the $ and the 9) may have had something to do with the decision.
The days of tuna fish, macaroni and popsicles were close at hand. I wouldn’t be stopping to smell the roses, I would actually be dining on them.
But the strange thing is, once I gave up animal meat I found it quite difficult to go back. Not because I began to feel healthier -- I never noticed much of a difference. Not because I found it cruel to kill animals for their meat -- I still ate plenty of living creatures, though none were named Elsie or Porky.
No, the thing that kept me from ordering a Big Mac was the challenge -- the longer I went without animal meat, the more I wanted to continue to go without it. Like a baseball player in the middle of a hitting streak -- just keep doing what you’re doing and, no matter what anyone else says, don’t change your socks.
Consequently, one month became one year, and one year became ten years.
Of course, I encountered numerous roadblocks along the way. Not being one to make a fuss, I found myself eating salads at weddings and side dishes at holiday gatherings. I became an hors d’oeuvre connoisseur, and I discovered I had extra room for dessert.
Friends would occasionally try to temp me with a slice of prime rib or a juicy piece of brisket, but they couldn’t shake my resolve. I was Superman, and they never discovered my personal kryptonite (more on that in a bit).
During this time period, I also got well-acquainted with the various substitutes for animal meat, including soy burgers and turkey dogs. I found both items to be indistinguishable from shredded cardboard.
Eventually, the streak reached eleven-and-a-half years. By this time I was married, with an eighteen-month-old son and another on the way. Because my wife had never been a big fan of animal meat, she decided to eliminate it from her diet as well.
In fact, I think her wedding vows included a promise to “love you, honor you and serve you only fish and fowl,” or something like that.
Together, we consumed more chicken than Colonel Sanders and more seafood than Mrs. Paul. Yet, we also agreed that our children should be given red meat at some point in their young lives. Ultimately, something would have to give.
Then one afternoon the three of us were shopping at the mall when we decided to stop at a coney island restaurant for dinner.
Shortly after sitting down, a waitress walked past our table carrying a heaping plate of kryptonite -- two coneys with everything. For the unenlightened, this would be two hot dogs covered with chili, onions and mustard.
Eleven-and-a-half years I had avoided them like Anna Nicole Smith avoids salad, like the Detroit Tigers avoid victory, like Bill avoids Hillary. I could hold out no longer.
Five minutes later, as I devoured the first of three coneys, tears rolled down my wife’s supple cheeks. The streak was kaput.
Since that historic day, we have added animal meat to our diets, though we eat it infrequently, at best. We’re still primarily a fish and fowl family, with the occasional BLT or hamburger thrown in for good measure.
All of which simply proves that every dog has his day, and every Superman has his kryptonite.
I’ll take mine with everything, please.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
As far as I can remember, these two momentous events were unrelated. Then again, that was two wars and three careers ago, so I may not recall every detail with absolute clarity.
What I do remember is reading a journal article illuminating the health issues associated with animal meat. Somewhere in the article, a scientist stated that by age thirty most Americans will have a significant amount of undigested meat byproducts holed up in their digestive systems.
How much? Something like ten or twenty pounds comes to mind -- but don’t quote me on that.
At the time, I seem to recall thinking: “That can’t be good.”
Followed closely by: “Maybe I should try going without animal meat for a while…”
When you are twenty-two and single, decisions like that require very little thought.
Of course, the fact that I had just accepted a job working as a newspaper reporter for the princely sum of $9,500.00 per year (no, there isn’t a 1 missing between the $ and the 9) may have had something to do with the decision.
The days of tuna fish, macaroni and popsicles were close at hand. I wouldn’t be stopping to smell the roses, I would actually be dining on them.
But the strange thing is, once I gave up animal meat I found it quite difficult to go back. Not because I began to feel healthier -- I never noticed much of a difference. Not because I found it cruel to kill animals for their meat -- I still ate plenty of living creatures, though none were named Elsie or Porky.
No, the thing that kept me from ordering a Big Mac was the challenge -- the longer I went without animal meat, the more I wanted to continue to go without it. Like a baseball player in the middle of a hitting streak -- just keep doing what you’re doing and, no matter what anyone else says, don’t change your socks.
Consequently, one month became one year, and one year became ten years.
Of course, I encountered numerous roadblocks along the way. Not being one to make a fuss, I found myself eating salads at weddings and side dishes at holiday gatherings. I became an hors d’oeuvre connoisseur, and I discovered I had extra room for dessert.
Friends would occasionally try to temp me with a slice of prime rib or a juicy piece of brisket, but they couldn’t shake my resolve. I was Superman, and they never discovered my personal kryptonite (more on that in a bit).
During this time period, I also got well-acquainted with the various substitutes for animal meat, including soy burgers and turkey dogs. I found both items to be indistinguishable from shredded cardboard.
Eventually, the streak reached eleven-and-a-half years. By this time I was married, with an eighteen-month-old son and another on the way. Because my wife had never been a big fan of animal meat, she decided to eliminate it from her diet as well.
In fact, I think her wedding vows included a promise to “love you, honor you and serve you only fish and fowl,” or something like that.
Together, we consumed more chicken than Colonel Sanders and more seafood than Mrs. Paul. Yet, we also agreed that our children should be given red meat at some point in their young lives. Ultimately, something would have to give.
Then one afternoon the three of us were shopping at the mall when we decided to stop at a coney island restaurant for dinner.
Shortly after sitting down, a waitress walked past our table carrying a heaping plate of kryptonite -- two coneys with everything. For the unenlightened, this would be two hot dogs covered with chili, onions and mustard.
Eleven-and-a-half years I had avoided them like Anna Nicole Smith avoids salad, like the Detroit Tigers avoid victory, like Bill avoids Hillary. I could hold out no longer.
Five minutes later, as I devoured the first of three coneys, tears rolled down my wife’s supple cheeks. The streak was kaput.
Since that historic day, we have added animal meat to our diets, though we eat it infrequently, at best. We’re still primarily a fish and fowl family, with the occasional BLT or hamburger thrown in for good measure.
All of which simply proves that every dog has his day, and every Superman has his kryptonite.
I’ll take mine with everything, please.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
