Max It!

What is it with that maximizing gene in us? It’s the one that drives us to extremes. It’s a tough one to beat and everyone seems to have it. You know what I mean: It’s what makes us super busy, super popular, super efficient, super lazy, super fat, super clean, super good. In short, it turns us all into freaks of one kind or another. And even though sometimes it doesn’t seem all that obvious, it usually comes to hit us in the face once we take a closer look at someone and think, “Ah, yes, that’s what’s going on…!”

The first time, I pinpointed the culprit, was with Michelle, a fellow mother in DC who was trying so hard to make a break-through in this town of hard asses. Every ounce of her small frame quivered with excitement when she talked, say, about the next house they were going to buy, each of them three feet closer to Georgetown and – in her mind – at least ever that much closer to the movers and shakers. She’d throw enormous birthday parties (and most likely still does) for her three and one year old, where she invited all those she believed were a step ahead of her. And since she was operating with a large margin off error (that’s how we got invited!), she had to rent a two storey Victorian just to host the party. By now she is probably renting the Lincoln Center. Clowns and fairies where hired, there was extensive catering besides the various cakes and cookies displayed on every corner of the downstairs parlor, not to mention the over-sized gender coined pink and green bags with the requisite party favors, and billowing balloons every inch of the wrap around porch. No fewer than sixty little dauphins and dauphines where ambling around dressed to the tee, looking slightly disoriented, I should add. Even they knew something was off.

But poor Michelle is just one example. You can actually see it all the time. The gym is a good place to start. I can’t say I like going there but I go anyway because it seems to be the only way to keep my ass within boundaries. When I first started going I got terribly bored on my Stairmaster trying to read the subtitles on Seinfeld ten feet away. I also got sick to my stomach and had to get off. The next time I brought a magazine but the print was too small and again I got bored and sick. So then, I checked among my many back issues for a mag with a bigger font – and found one: Der Spiegel. So, back I was, this time determined to make the bun cruncher the ultimate intellectual experience. For about one month I was happy with myself and the time I wasted on the various instruments of torture but then, oh well, then I made the mistake to look up and check out the others. Word to the wise: you should never look up and check out the others if you want to keep your peace of mind. Because what I saw was the iPod. Duh! you say? Well, excuse me. It hadn’t occurred to me that bringing my recently acquired iPod to this sweat palace could be of any benefit to either me or my iPod. But for some reason it suddenly seemed very appealing, the thing to do, especially if I could manage to load my favorite podcasts on there.

So now, the workout starts at home when I rush to grab my stuff, update my podcasts on my Mac to load only the most recent ones onto my iPod, then with my increasingly sweaty hands fiddle around with the itsy-bitsy wires to fit them where they belong for easy retrieval shortly before securing one of the coveted four Elypticas. A hint of perspiration manifests itself on my forehead as I run around looking for a hair band and my car keys, but I am determined to have the ultimate workout experience and so I keep going. Now is the time and I am going to get it all. It’s quite powerful until it hits and the realization sets in that that fool with the earphones panting away close to cardiac arrest, blood shot eyes darting back and forth between the TV screen, magazine, and all the other monkeys in the room, is actually I.