Exasperating – the verb

July 7, 2022 by Scott "Q" Marcus Leave a Comment

I find myself exasperating a lot.

I’m assuming, as you read that, that you believe what I am saying is, “I find myself to be annoying, grumpy, and irritating.”

That is NOT at all what I mean. I am NOT saying that I find myself to be exasperating. Well, truth be told, sometimes I do, but that takes us off track, and in that case, I – and probably you – would indeed find myself to be exasperating. Anyway, my intention is to use the verb form of “exasperate.” To be honest, I’m not sure there is a verb form of exasperate; I couldn’t find one, so I might have made it up.

Nonetheless, as stated, I am exasperating (verb) a lot recently.

Now that I’ve made that clear as mud, an appropriate follow-up question is, “What is said action that one associates with the feeling of exasperation?”

At least in my case, it’s a curmudgeonly, exhausted, exhale which loudly escapes my lips when I am confronted with something of annoyance. Along with the sound comes a general attitude of irritation, rolling of my eyes – and oft times, a choice swear word or three.

I now provide an example of what in Scott’s world causes exasperating (verb tense).

Shoelaces.

Yep, shoelaces. They seem innocuous, I get it, but what yanks my chain is that “when I was a kid…” (every curmudgeon begins with that expression), shoelaces were cut to the length to fit the shoes with which they were partnered. If the shoes had four eyelets, the length of the shoelace would be shorter than, for example, hiking boots, with eight eyelets and a hooky-do thing to wrap your laces around. Dress shoes? Short laces. Knee boots? Long laces. Simple, right?

As they say, “Hold my beer.”

The Shoe Gods have decreed that all laces should be the same length. The repercussion of such a conclusion is that after tying my tennis shoes, what remains is a garden-hose length of excess laces, causing a tripping hazard. I have tried to stuff it into my shoe but that’s uncomfortable, so I double or triple-tie the laces, leaving large bows, attempting to utilize as much of the excess as possible.

Is that exasperating (adjective tense)?

Well, sure, to a point. But what causes me to exasperate (verb) is that, due to the extreme excess “laceage,” while walking I repeatedly step on the loops and they untie, requiring me to stop, exasperate, bend down, and re-fasten the laces. But wait! There’s more! Taking off shoes also initiates exasperating because inevitably, when I yank on the lace, it creates a knot, due to all the loops and unnecessary string wrapped around everything. This entails pulling the shoe from my foot while still tied, obtaining a fork (to insert into the knot to separate it), and unraveling the mini-Gordian knot that is now my shoe; all the while, exhaling forcefully, rolling my eyes, and cursing about the poor customer service of the manufacturer.

Shoelaces are not the only source of exasperating. Passwords are another.

Case-in-point, I started this column on my iPad but Microsoft required me to sign in first. This dictates getting my password manager, finding the correct code, selecting all images that look like a bus, entering in the squiggly (mostly-unreadable) letters on the verification page, and waiting for an email verifying I’m me. Of course, typing with stubby, old-person fingers on the flat screen of a device is at best, imprecise; so, because of a one-letter typo in my password, I am informed, “Too many attempts. Try again later.”

C’mon, you’re with me, right? That’s exasperating. I wanted to write, not pass an FBI security check. Sigh and roll your eyes with me. Profanity is elective.

To the point that started this screed, I’m exasperating a lot. I exhale more than a pipe organ with broken bellows. I don’t like that in me. Dare I say it, I find it exasperating (adjective, not verb).

I realize that “exasperators” are first-world issues. I get it. I’m grunting, griping, and grumbling my way through too much of my precious day over annoyances that on the grand scale of cosmic karma don’t even put forth a ripple.

Therefore, henceforth, I commit to focusing on not exasperating so often. It’s an all-too-often sign of frustration or anger, emotions in direct contradiction to gratitude and acceptance, which is where I wish to spend more of my time. My new focus will be, that even when something doesn’t occur the way I want or expect (which happens often but is inevitably minor), I shall choose to be grateful that I am alive to experience this annoyance. No, really, I’m serious. I’m working on that.

The exhale I just did was NOT exasperating, but satisfactionating.

(We’ll define that at another time.)

Celebrating Values

June 30, 2021 by Scott "Q" Marcus Leave a Comment

Sometimes, I have a clear and direct idea of where I’m going before I start these columns.

I can see the way visibly laid out in front of me. Alas, those days are rare. Mostly, I stare at a blank screen until my muse makes herself known. Sadly, she might not stay. Other times, the column takes on a mind of its own. I start out going one way but end up somewhere else. Today is one of those days. We will commence in one direction, but — fair warning — will take a sharp turn. Fret not, however, I will bring you home.

That said when did answering the phone become an invitation for someone to sell you a car warranty, lie about an arrest warrant out for you, or threaten you because your computer was “messing up the internet”? We don’t pick up anymore unless it’s a number we sure-fire recognize.

Not paying attention, I made the mistake of sliding “accept the call.”

“How are you?” asked a heavily-accented man.

Yanked back into awareness, irritated by what I judged was going to be a scam, I indignantly replied. “I died last night.”

Waited long enough to hear his reply before hanging up; I heard him say, flummoxed. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

I find the delivered-without-thought question, “How are you?” to be disingenuous. Don’t get me wrong; when asked by someone who knows and cares about your actual well-being, it’s a sincere, kind query. Yet typically, we say it because, well, I’m not sure. I guess we don’t want to appear rude. However, asking a personal question when, in reality, you don’t want to take the time to hear the honest answer is indeed rude. Just sayin’…

Oft times, I’ll respond with an expression I learned from talk show host Thom Hartmann, “I’m great – but I’ll get better.” Some laugh, finding the retort clever, shattering the mold of what they expected to hear. Others have said, “Oh no! I hope you get better soon,” obviously not listening to the reply, but wanting to move on to their real agenda and avoid the unpleasantness of listening to someone’s ailments.

Yep, you guessed it; I’m a little cranky today. Shields up.

[Read more…]

Embarrassed

March 31, 2021 by Scott "Q" Marcus Leave a Comment

Next week, I’m receiving my second injection.

Soon after, I’ll be “safe” (in whatever level that word implies). Being a responsible, patriotic citizen, I will continue to mask up and engage in protected behaviors until given the green light. At that point, be forewarned, I plan to hug strangers – simply to get back to the quota of hugs that have been so depleted during the pandemic. That said, I’m planning a road trip for fall. The excitement of visiting friends, seeing new locations, as well as actually going into restaurants has me eagerly anticipating the end of summer.

I used to travel a great deal; not always ending up in the manner I assumed.

On an important business trip to meet two potential clients in San Francisco, I wanted to look my spiffiest, so I purchased a suit and black leather, dress, wing-tip shoes. I distinctly remember they were stiff as new shoes can be — and had slippery soles — causing me to consistently walk with a light, self-conscious gait as if always avoiding stepping on something fragile. Mostly, however, the odd way in which I moved was due to the discomfort of the shoes while attempting to maintain my balance, and project an aura of confidence in my meetings; all the while continuously on the verge of having my feet slip out from under me.

Meeting number one was in a building at a higher elevation of one of San Francisco’s steeper streets, the type where they don’t parallel park due to the angle. Afterward, I exited the structure to go downhill. It had been previously drizzling; the sidewalk had a slick wetness. This, as one might expect, made walking in my leather-soled, brand-new, slippy-slidey shoes even more precarious.

I stepped out of the building, planting both feet on the pavement, and – voip! – my well-clad behind hits the sidewalk, gravity kicks in, and I embark rolling side over side down the hillside like a bowling ball zeroing in on pins.

Aside from being embarrassing, it was frightening; I couldn’t stop, eventually running out of inertia halfway down the block, where a couple of women, seemingly on their lunch breaks, witnessed what happened and darted down the hill to offer assistance. (Of course, they were smart enough to take off their shoes and run in stockings.)

“Are you OK?” they asked.

“Yes,” I said, humiliated beyond words. “I’m fine, just embarrassed,” I attempted to look dignified while wiping off bits of debris from my clothing and sitting in a suit on a wet sidewalk.

“We’ve all been there,” was the response.

I’m not sure I believed that; nonetheless, I thanked them generously and wished them well. They continued on their way down the hill.

After further dusting myself off, I stood up from sitting on the wet pavement, collected my wits, shook myself off, stepped forward, and – Gablam! – did it again! [Read more…]

Attitude Contagion

March 24, 2021 by Scott "Q" Marcus

One of our more mundane — but necessary — tasks is going to the grocery store.

Probably similarly to you, it’s not like we wait with eager anticipation to go to the supermarket. Actually, to the contrary, we don’t look forward to it at all; I mean there’s nothing bad about it. I don’t have horrifying childhood recollections of being trapped in a grocery store overnight, with a recording of “Clean up on aisle 12” playing repeatedly while I am desperately trying to escape through motion-sensitive doors that slam shut repeatedly as I attempt to exit. It’s not like that. It’s just – akin to vacuuming or dusting – a chore. It does beat starving, however, so we do it.

Since COVID kicked in, my wife and I have been good citizens.

We wear masks, socially distance, and to that end, we’ve minimized our shopping excursions. Therefore, instead of every week – as we did before the pandemic – plumping our pantry with pasta, potatoes, and peanuts, and our refrigerator with radishes, ricotta, and raisins, we now grocery shop only twice a month. Furthermore, in the interest of minimizing spread, rather than hitting the aisles in the evening, we go first thing in the morning. As they say, even God isn’t awake yet, but there are fewer customers at that time so it minimizes risk; and it is good to have it completed early in the day.

The hitch in our get-along is that neither my wife nor I are in any way, shape, or form what would be called “morning people.” We’re fortunate that due to the nature of our livelihoods, we don’t even use an alarm to wake up (unless you refer to the “I’m hungry” howl of our cat as an alarm), so rising early and prepping to go grocery hunting doesn’t do a whole lot to put on our happy faces. Yesterday, it was also cold and windy, making the task less pleasant. And, upon arriving at the store, my glasses fogged up due to double-masking.

Bottom line? I wore my cranky pants to the store.

Anyway, I — and my dour disposition — enter the store. I’m greeted through my fog-covered spectacles by what is a fuzzy shape whom I assume to be an employee stocking shelves. He smiles (at least as much as I can see a smile behind his mask and through the condensation on my lenses), “Good morning. Let me know if you need anything.”

I grunt in recognition of his friendliness, and grumble, “No, we’re fine. Thank you,” and proceed through the “Wall of Values,” loading parmesan cheese and tuna into our cart.

In the produce section, I’m searching through the tomatoes, when a worker in that department says, “Wait, I’ve got a whole box of new tomatoes that just arrived. Let me get those for you. They’re fresher.”

“Thank you,” I reply as he shuffles the boxes, putting the newest arrival on the top.

“You’re welcome. If you’re going to have vegetables, they might as well be fresh, right?”

“Can’t argue with you there,” says I. “Damn, he’s pulling me out of my bad mood,” I think. I want to be crabby in the morning and the employees at the store don’t understand that.

With each wave of a worker or shelf-stocker — who are more abundant than other employees at this time of the morning — my mood lifts, culminating when an employee passes me in the cheese section and asks, “Can I get you anything?”

I can’t help myself and playfully reply, “Peace in my lifetime.” It’s a standard response I use when I want to get a chuckle, which it does. Quickly, he retorts, “Aisle five, next to eternal life.”

It was my turn to laugh. Despite my best attempts at remaining a sour puss, I couldn’t do it.

I realized what I already know: Attitude is contagious.

I’ve conducted workshops, seminars, and keynote speeches country-wide on this topic. This column that you’re reading oft-times deals with that very subject. It’s nothing new to me. Yet, there it was, in the flesh, actually happening.

By the time I exited the store (yes, the motion-sensitive doors worked), I was feeling much better; I might go so far as to say I was in a good mood.

What happened? Just some friendly exchanges with a few fellow humans who happened to be willing to play.

Many times, I’m the teacher. This time, between the fat-free plain Greek yogurt and the cottage cheese, I found out I was the student.

(Despite it all, I’m still not looking forward to our next grocery-store trip, but I’ll have a better attitude when I go.)

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a professional speaker, motivator, and coach as well as the founder of the Facebook group: Intentions • Affirmations • Manifestations. He leads zoom inspirational, practical workshops on the first and third Tuesday of each month. Find out more via his mailing list at www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com/signup. He will be leading a national series of workshops called “Hacking Your Habits” starting April 6. Find out more at www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com/HYH

Hanging Around Getting Fit

September 23, 2020 by Scott "Q" Marcus

There is confusion as to why the current pandemic’s virus is named “COVID-19.”

The CDC, on its website, explains, “In COVID-19, ‘CO’ stands for ‘corona,’ ‘VI’ for ‘virus,’ and ‘D’ for the disease.” “Nineteen” refers to the year the virus was discovered.

Not wishing to disagree with such an esteemed, well-respected, scientific organization but, in the same manner that the “Freshman 15” refers to the 15 pounds many first-time college students gain in their first year, the 19 in COVID-19 is, in reality, a reference to how much weight most of us gain while stuck in our abodes, gulping junk food, watching Netflix, and hoping to survive until 2021. After all, let’s be honest, if the apocalypse is nigh, does it really matter how many Twinkies I consume?

So, while commemorating “south of the border night” on my couch (a celebration in which I engage several nights a week), consisting of an extra-large helping of nachos and a Margarita (or two), I had to unbuckle my belt and was therefore painfully confronted with the fact that I was becoming a tad “thick around the middle.”

“Nah, not me,” thought I. After all, everyone knows that calories consumed to medicate feelings of sadness or anxiety don’t add pounds. Clearly, my belt shrunk. Hefting myself from the sofa like a nine-month pregnant woman struggling to rise, I waddled to the scale, only to be alarmed at the number flashing before me.

“NO! Can’t be,” said I, putting down the bean dip and wiping the melted cheese from my face, “Time for a new scale.”

“Honey,” I called out, seeking confirmation that I remained as svelte as a 27-year-old fitness trainer, “Am I putting on weight?”

<crickets>

“Honey? Did you hear me?” I bellowed again from the bathroom scale while contorting myself into various poses on the platform to lower the number. (None worked.)

From the kitchen, the garbage disposal activates, blasting forth an earsplitting racket; my wife shouting over the din, “Sorry dear, I can’t hear you. Talk to me later.”

Point taken.

Faced with an indisputable truth, I – being the motivator that I am – decided to immediately commence a plan to flatten my stomach. Eating fewer chips would be a good start, but I wasn’t quite “there” yet. Instead, opting to strengthen my arms and make flat my belly by pulling out timeworn exercise equipment stored in the back of the closet since the Carter administration. I lugged the “ab flattener” sit-up machine into the guest room, blew off the dust (coughed repeatedly), and located it in the center of the floor. Next, pushing aside old moth-ridden blankets, and beyond the tchotchkes in boxes, I yanked loose my ancient pull-up bar, secured it to the door jamb, and gave it a yank or two to ensure it could support my now-heftier bulk.

“Okay,” said I to myself, picturing six-pack abs within the week. “What is my strategy?”