Ordinary Origins

My favorite type of hero stories are the tales of origin. I like watching an individual rise to greatness. It's fascinating to learn what made that person become who they are.

The best origin stories tell us about someone who is broken. They give us a tortured person set apart from society by their struggles. They show us an individual hurting. Incapable of dealing with their reality, these people throw on a costume, create incredible gadgets, or develop powers to defend against the world. They walk, head held high, into battle with demons while we revere them for their strength and courage.

The irony is rich when we see our heroes in their human lives, stripped of their shields, and unable to cope with the things we face each day. These stories plant a seed of doubt. I begin to wonder: if heroes have such weaknesses, maybe we are stronger than we seem.

The Mantrum

As someone who has always been fascinated by psychology and has spent a large portion of her life watching athletic competitors, I feel it is my sociological duty to share my observations with the world. I will begin by highlighting your awareness of one startling human behavior that occasionally wreaks havoc on the cycling community because I strongly suspect that it occurs in many other realms as well.

While not explicitly identified as an area of clinical concern, many communities are acutely aware of this behavior. It has been referred to as a hissy fit, an outburst, being an asshole, having a temper tantrum, whining, and (my personal favorite) getting your panties in a bunch. These are all fairly descriptive titles, but I believe it is best identified as a mantrum.

As it is a developmentally stunted expression of personal emotions, the mantrum can take many different forms. The overarching personality traits of the person experiencing it (henceforth known as the thrower) ultimately dictate final exhibition of a mantrum. Despite wide variability, all mantrums do have a number of commonalities. The typical mantrum can be characterized by a combination of:

Two or more of the following

• Extreme emotionality
• Irrational arguing
• Hypersensitivity resulting in anger

and
Three or more of the following

• Stomping
• Red face
• Throwing objects (i.e. bike, chair, helmet, etc)
• Screaming/Yelling
• Name Calling
• Excessive use of profanity
• Aggressive or physically violent outbursts

Though anecdotally this behavior appears to occur most frequently in adult, adrenaline gorged, males, it is not particular to men. It is important to note the greater variability in mantrum throwing across genders. Those observing similar behaviors in feminine throwers should first rule out a missy fit before applying a mantrum classification.

Your Turn

Here it is. This is the first Monday [since I set my goal of blogging every Monday], that I don't have anything to say to my readers. I have a few drafts on standby, prepared for such a moment, but none of them seem quite right. They are either unfinished, or just off the mark for right now. Instead, I'm simply going to blog about blogging. That seems alright.

My readership has been steadily increasing since September 2011. There's a great number of you reading this now that I don't even know! In fact, I've received messages from a few people who have stumbled upon my musings via this crazy series of tubes everyone keeps talking about. Though it's hard for me to hear a compliment, I think this is awesome, and I welcome it all.

I'm flattered by all the attention, and I want to do right by you guys. So, I wanted to take this opportunity to ask what you'd like to read about. Is there something I've written that you'd like more of? Do you have any questions for me? Are you curious about my opinions/knowledge? Is there anything you've been hoping to hear me say? Have I left something out?

I know some of you are shy about the comment section (remember it can be anonymous), and it's okay to drop your suggestion in any way you feel comfortable. My inbox is open and ready for your feedback. I also have a facebook page that you can join.

Otherwise. Keep doing what you're doing. Come back often, and share my stories with your friends when you enjoy them.

Too Close For Comfort

Found here

I'm starting to pay attention to my own behaviors and means of interacting with others in order to gain insight into how they might affect each other. I'm starting to see how certain words, a specific tone, and innocent gestures can be perceived by others. This is great! Much like the first step to solving your problem is acknowleging you have one, the first part of any change process is noticing it in your own life.
So, I'm noticing myself in interactions. I'm paying attention to my own beliefs and learning about my values and how they can be expressed in an impactful way. As I do this, I'm also observing others. I'm seeing when they have their own self-awareness, but more frequently I'm seeing when they do not.

With all this awareness, I'm learning that I just want more. I want to be completely self-aware. I don't think who I am and who I seem to be are always the same person, and I want to know both of them. I want to completely explore my internal perceptions and beliefs as well as my external presentation.

However, based on my observations of others, I'm not convinced this is possible. Everyone seems to have a certain degree of self presentation that they are unaware of. Just like with sight, I think we  have a self- blind spot. There will always be things about ourselves that, because of our vantage point, we cannot see. No matter how hard we look, and I guess it's time for me to come to grips with hat.

Lost, But Not Forgotten.

Somewhere, in one of the numerous places I store my belongings, is a picture of my dad. I have several pictures of him; most of happy times. I can feel my face mimic his as I look into his own smiling eyes frozen in time; enjoying that moment forever. This other picture is different. It was not a happy time, and though he may be trying, he does not appear to be smiling.

My father is the only person in this lost photograph. He's propped up on a hospital bed with tubes connected to his body. He's awake and alert, but it's clear he's in pain. This picture was taken after one of only a few times I've known my dad to fall off his bike. He slipped down the banking of the velodrome, and hurt himself so badly that an ambulance was called. That's a big deal for my dad. He doesn't do ambulances. He's a "walk it off" "you'll be fine" type of guy.

Though I was around, I have no memory of this tragic collapse. I couldn't have been older than five at the time. At such a young age, most of the experiences I had have begun to fade to fleeting sentiments. However, I have a very significant recollection of seeing him in his hospital room. I don't know if I had been prepped for the sight of him or how much I even understood of his injuries. Regardless, I couldn't handle it. I burst into tears as soon as I walked into the room.

There was no space in my tiny little head for an injured conceptualization of my daddy. As far as I was concerned, this man was as strong as they come. He could do anything, and typically did...with flare. He didn't fall, and he definitely didn't get hurt.

With no frame of reference for how this circumstance had come to be, I had absolutely no clue what it meant about the future. I know that my parents were perplexed by my reaction. They consoled me appropriately, but, at that point in time, I had no faith in their assurances. Though they never promised this, I trusted that they would both be okay forever, and I had been wrong. I just couldn't get over that.

A year or two later I stumbled upon the polaroid of my punctured father. Not knowing why, I stole it from the drawer of family photos and tucked it into a jewelry box in my room. I kept that picture in my nightstand, and never told anybody it was there. As I grew up and struggled with understanding my continuously challenged conceptions, I looked at this picture regularly. It never gave me any answers and it always recreated that same distraught sentiment I had as child, but somehow the memory seemed important to me. I clung to that photo because of the lesson I knew I would get from it one day.

Even now, though I have left it behind somewhere I am uncertain of, I think of it frequently. Sometimes when I'm upset and unsure why, I imagine myself, alone in my adolescent bedroom, opening that stowed away box and trying to sort out the message from the memory.