Poem: What to do when bored or blue
Get a grip and follow these simple instructions to come back to life.
Dad taught me this trick*
about the time I turned eight
and I’ve employed it ever since.
Used it yesterday of late, while bored in
line at Costco, picking up some pills to control my
cholesterol and keep me from keeling over and stroking
out after coughing up the money. So, here’s what you do.
Take your right hand and grip it around your left
thumb. If you’re left handed, use your left
hand to grip your right thumb. Go on,
do it. Right now. This won’t
take long. Okay, when
you get a good grip
on your thumb,
start squeezing it
tight, hard as you can.
Are you doing it? Squeeze your
thumb hard as you can. C’mon, harder.
Keep squeezing it for at least thirty seconds;
count to thirty, don’t count fast. Are you squeezing
it hard as you can? Like a boa? Don’t think of anything,
just focus on your thumb and grip. Keep going, don’t stop.
Almost there. Squeeze! When you get to thirty,
release your grip just a bit and pull
your thumb out, but keep your
hand in a fist. Turn your
fist over, palm up,
then slowly,
ever so slowly,
open your fingers,
as if your hand is reaching up
from a grave, under a tombstone touting
your name. Feel your joints and knuckles unbend.
Imagine waking up, rising from the dead.
You’re alive! Again! Alive!
Or, maybe a zombie!
But not bored!
Not blue!
Live on.
Here’s to you.
Repeat as needed.
* Dad knew ways to keep his boys quiet in church. He passed the thumb trick on to us. We had to go to church every damn Sunday and my brothers and I hated it. Chafed under the top buttoned collar. Hated sitting on a pew so hard you couldn’t get an axe into it, listening to an old fart in a robe drone on and spew forth. Jesus, would he just shut the hell up and let us go? One sunny Sunday morning snow was falling. We ached for snowballs, snow forts, snow angels, screaming down the snowy street on a sled tied behind a Ford. But no, the lord came first. Zombie-like, we got dressed for church; clip-on ties attached, crewcuts butch-waxed, shoes spit on and wiped off. Dad pulled on his galoshes and went out to start the car. A minute later, the door flew open and in he came in a rush and said we weren’t going to church. Holy mother did our jaws drop and heads explode. Dad said someone stole our car. In disbelief we stared, loudmouths struck dumb, our prayers had been answered. I remember well how the old man’s frown turned and his spirit rose when he saw the thank you lord looks on our faces, and it was just the best damn Sunday snow day ever. Even though I hit my brother in the face with an iceball, a knuckler, a cold thumb in the eye that made him cry. Amen!
The Lord works in mysterious ways! Praise for more Vandal!