Attitude

In aviation terms, attitude is the orientation of the airplane with regard to the horizon. Pitch relates to where the nose is pointed -- up, level or down.

Nose up too far counteracts wing function and the plane stalls precipitating a sudden onset of ground.

Nose down results in the same outcome, but at least you can see where you're going.

So, there I was minding my own business. Got the little iPod hanging 'round my neck. I'm listening to the soundtrack of the movie that is my life as I collect the mail from the post office. Someone has a package, so I have to negotiate those key entry boxes while holding all the rest of the mail.

A frazzy-looking old woman starts talking to me.

For one surreal moment I watch her mouth move while all I hear is Jimmy Buffet. I put Jimmy on pause and say, "Pardon me?"

Turns out, she wants to mock me for singing along to music no one else can hear.

I unpause Jimmy and go on my way.

Now, since I am a former good Catholic girl, by the time I get to the car, I'm thinking, that was rude. I say to myself, "Self, you were rude to that woman."

Self says back, "Who invited her into our movie?"

Since I am just a cat hair away from being a frazzy woman myself, I thought, shouldn't I be polite to the others of my kind?

Self says, "Extras may not talk to the star."

Since I am only a former good Catholic girl, by the time I reach the corner, I agree with Self. Nose Up.

I couldn't wait to try out the iPod's ignore function at my next stop.

So, there I was trying to read the small print on a bottle at the health food store while continuously bopping along to Johnny Cash, when a clerk asks if she can help. Since I had neither seen nor heard her approach, I jump like someone just stepped on my lips.

I pause Johnny. Unplug. Give up. Nose Down.

Standing in line at the checkout, I'm thinking, put the world on ignore and the world calls back every five minutes..

The guy behind me asks, "Does that work?"

I a l m o s t say, "no, people keep trying to talk to me," but as I turn towards him, I see he's looking at the glucosamine I'm about to buy.

"Works on sciatica," I say.

"That's what I think too," says he. "And I rub Castor Oil right here where it hurts."

Self says, "Quick, close your eyes."

Driving home where I am, at last, safely alone in my movie with the soundtrack, I wonder, what it is about the dangling iPod that attracts conversation?

Someone sound the Epiphany Bells. I get it.

I've been all over town, bopping, tapping and singing to music no one else hears. I didn't attract conversation. I caught the attention of the other crazies who were just going out of their way to be nice to one of their own.

I may need to rewrite my movie. Someone clear me for level flight.