Shock Doesn't Make an Appearance Anymore.

I've always had challenges labeling my emotions, especially the subtler, more nuanced feelings. Titles like aggravation, anticipation, envy and amusement are not easily accessible on my emotional bookshelf, so I've been working on that. I try to be mindful in anxious situations, to think about what I'm thinking about prior to allowing myself to escalate into that popular loop of fear, anger and shame. Despite those efforts the cycle is triggered every time a mass shooting occurs. 

Fear predictably floods in first. Thoughts of my family. Could this could happen at the elementary school where my wife teaches? Or at my daughter's college, or the high school where my other daughter coaches? 

I know the answer. The fear has a purity, a validity, now a familiarity. It's not the childish terror of an imaginary bogie man who enters when the lights go out. It's the fear of a real one who bursts in and destroys the world a little before noon on a Tuesday. 

As I lie in bed, I think about people like Ted Cruz and Greg Abbott. I wonder how they can live with themselves and what are they thinking about right now. Do they actually believe what they say or is it an act?  I conclude that Ted does believe it because he's a narcissistic douchebag with no conscience. Now it's anger's turn, time for dark sentiments to bury the fear. 

Finally, all that's left is the shame. We're all pretty good at that one, right? It's something we bestow on ourselves and each other with such regularity. In this case, we will share it, again. 

That time the Governor met me.

I've got to tell you about my infatuation.

Are my waking thoughts monopolized by a particular movie star, majestic farm animal or yoga temperature?

Negative to all three. I'm obsessed with words.

I love words. I love twisting and crunching and abbreviating them; I love making new words up. I love working with words and plays on words,  I love spotting the perfect word as it cautiously peeks from behind a mental tree trunk after an hour's worth of staring a blank screen.

And that's why, while I find moments of speechlessness to be disquieting, blurting out nonsensical, insensitive or complete gibberish strikes an even greater blow to my Old-Navy-t-shirt-fabric-thin psyche.

Like most of us, I have good days and bad, periods where I wake up, gently yet intensely spooning with my wordsmith muse, and other days where I can't seem to get out of the way of my own uvula.

On Monday,  I may think of something inspirational and nudge my co-worker while saying, "Wow, I just had and epiphany which could very well prove serendipitous."

Tuesday, the same thought could trigger, "Dude, I just...um...whoa."

Natural biorhythms aren't alone in determining my verbal literacy when responding to a situation. I maintain a firm belief that emotions, especially anger and intimidation, drive the elocution train and frequently, after it speeds by, I'm lucky to grab a couple words off the caboose.

My daughters have often rendered me incapacitated. I've experienced levels of anger and frustration with each of them which can only be measured using a huge space telescope. Conversely, my wife's pulse slows to that of a yogi contortionist about to stuff her entire body into a refrigerator crisper.

When addressing a highly offensive minor, my spouse's words materialize slowly, in perfectly enunciated syllables: "You need to turn off your phone. Now listen. You are being extremely rude. If you don't stop, you will be taking the bus to the mall rather than driving. Is that clear?"

Here's how I would have worded this teaching moment: "If you don't...stop...that...thing you're doing...I'm gonna...do something...or take something...or something."

Anger reduces my vocabulary to that of a really smart camel.

Intimidation is even worse, because, unlike the speechlessness caused by anger, I can readily summon the words—just the wrong ones.

Not long ago, I visited my doctor for a physical. I've always felt intimidated by doctors. Whether it's due to their vast knowledge of the human body, their hallowed position as healers, or their heroics in E.R. and St. Elsewhere, I'm not sure, but on this occasion, I came prepared.

"Do you ever use duct tape in a medical setting?" I asked, planning on at least a courtesy chuckle.

No response, other than, "Nope."

Feeling the need to rally, I opted to dazzle my doctor with my  knowledge of medieval surgical techniques. Centuries ago, physicians believed that heated glass cups, when placed onto the skin, could create vacuums to isolate infections, which would then be lanced and bled to suck out the body's toxins.

"I suppose you'll need to cup me now," I proclaimed. Well put, Hemingway.

Another case of gross intimidation drew similar results. Back in college, I'm not really sure why, but our state's Governor visited my fraternity. Maybe he was lobbying the young Republican vote or he wanted to finally learn to use a beer bong, but he came up from Olympia and hung out with us for a couple hours one Monday night.

I'm not sure how this happened, but a crowd of people which had stood between him and me spontaneously cleared away, and there we were, the Governor and I, looking into each other's eyes. I knew I had to say something, but what? Should I go with straight small talk or be a bit more clever? I opted for the latter.

"Hello, Mr. Spellman. Nice to meet you. I'm just curious, do you prefer crunchy peanut butter or creamy?" Oh, my god. Did I really just say that? I just gave the governor a line I wouldn't even use on a freshman sorority pledge. 

My disembodied soul looked down upon my sad, quivering body mass.

"You know, I'm a crunchy guy," he replied. "I still enjoy a good peanut butter and jelly sandwich, especially with raspberry Smuckers. How about you?"

"Crunchy all the way!" Oh, shit. It just continues. I just said, "Crunchy all the way" to the Governor."

Seconds later, other fraternity brothers had converged upon our conversation, and the subject of peanut butter quickly dissolved into other mundane topics as everyone competed for some face time with the Governor. I backed slowly out of the group, vowing that if I were ever again thrust into a similar position, jogging away would prove far less embarrassing in the long run.

I obviously haven't kept that promise. The words keep flowing.

It's so nice when two people hit it off

King County Metro Route 54, 7:54 AM

The tires on my Ford Ranger unnaturally chafed against the curb as I straightened the steering wheel. I had found a spot on the street, and the Metro bus, the second leg of my commute downtown, approached rapidly from behind. I tumbled out of the door, snagging my bag on the gear shift and slammed the door partially closed. Oh, well, I thought, it's still locked.

The articulated coach sped by me as I lengthened my stride to a full sprint, awkwardly clutching the bag's nylon fabric, rather than its strap or handle. The bus slowed to a stop to pick up passengers half a block ahead, and just as I reached it, began to slowly pull away. I slapped at its dusty blue and yellow exterior and mumbled an oath at the faceless driver and his mother.

The vehicle again slowed and stopped at a red light approximately one hundred feet up the street—one last chance. I jogged up to the door and stood in the middle of Alaska Street, staring up at the operator, his gaze locked on a distant horizon. I knocked but he didn't respond. I knocked harder and he finally turned his mulleted head in my direction.

My arms spread in a conciliatory manner, as if to say, "Hey, man, no hard feelings about leaving me in your exhaust. Now open the door, please." My facial expression betrayed pleasantness combined with anaerobic strain from the recent eighty-yard dead sprint. No words were exchanged; it was as if I were doing a private show for the man, where I played the part of a begging mime. He looked down at me, shook his head and swiveled his cranium back to its forward facing profile.

After abruptly realizing a lost cause, my emotions rapidly morphed from desperation to frustration to seething, swirling anger. I now wanted to yank his disproportionally long hair from the back of his head and duct tape it to his forehead to even things out. Since this wasn't an option, I quickly resorted to my profanity portfolio, ready to lob at least a couple of F-bombs into his area before he could drive away. Testosterone has a way of knocking on your door without first phoning.

Rage choked me as my brain fumbled for something, anything to yell inside the bus. I looked briefly to the left and noticed a small boy glaring out the window at me, curiously assessing this crazed, would-be passenger standing in the street, gesturing and panting. Our eyes met, and I could feel my ire transition from white hot to red to a dull orange.

I looked and felt like a fool.

The light turned green and King County Metro Route 54 lumbered away as I retreated to the safer confines of the sidewalk. A minute later, my head rose to greet the sound of another 54 approaching from the distance.