The Future is Green

I was on the subway today: the F train. Three seats to my left was a middle-aged man with dark hair and a black coat. I chose my particular seat because I sensed nothing out of the ordinary. I sat down and started reading my book. After two or three minutes, my peripheral vision caught some jerking motions and I began to understand that he was dry-heaving. I continued reading my book. He began to vomit. I continued to read my book. He spat. He wiped his mouth. I thought about how sick I have been for the past two weeks and contemplated whether I am recovering from bronchitis or pneumonia or the bird flu. He took a deep exhale. I decided that since I was already sick it was unlikely that I would get sick from whatever this dude had. He threw up a little bit more. All the while, we were passing through subway stations, the train doors were opening, he had the chance to exit the train and hug a trash can, but he chose to use the train as his toilet bowl. And I chose not to get up and change seats. Everyone else on the train made the same choice. He finally got off at Jay Street and a business man entered the subway car with his briefcase. The business man chose the vacated vomiter’s seat and after a few minutes realized that his foot was in the middle of a strange secretion. He extended his leg and dragged his foot across the aisle, so as to rid the bottom of his shoe of the greenish substance. He didn't change seats. And I was reminded of an email I recently received about the future being green.

I was too implusive and told my mom that I had created a folder in my email account where I was storing all of the forwarded emails that she sends me. My plan was that I would expose her in this blog after one month’s time. Over the course of one week, I received four forwards from her and (un)fortunately they stopped coming once she knew of my sabotage arrangement. Here are the subjects of the messages that made their way to my inbox:

1. Blonde Cowboy
2. The Future is Green
3. Nostalgic Emails
4. Mother-of-the-bride dress

I will not go into detail about the subject of each one, as I did not read three of them. But I will highlight #2. Actually, I will paste the entire body of the email here:

“If you're looking for a new career and looking to enhance your current company, try to capitalize on the green movement. Business leaders speaking to MIT's Sloan School of Management said companies should make customers feel guilty for not buying products that are environmentally friendly.

Gretch, you should hook up with these tree huggers and try to find employment among them.”

This message is not technically a forward, since my mom is the original composer, but I find her emails like this most intriguing. Here are some fun facts:

• My mom emailed “The Future is Green” to her five children.
• Only one of her children is the owner of a company. A travel company. A company that mostly deals with people who fly (on a heavily fueled jumbo jet) to Italy.
• I’ve mentioned to her that I am on the brink of a career transition.
• My mom’s job is all about promoting energy conservation and eco-friendly alternatives yet she does not recycle paper (let alone glass, plastic, aluminum).
• She directly addresses only Gretchen. She’s vegan, she would definitely get along with these tree-hugging “business leaders” who give lectures at Sloan. Right.

After complaining to her about the excessive forwarded emails that I receive from her, she told me that “Gail reads them all and always sends an email back saying they were very funny. She actually writes L-O-L.” I explain to my mom that usually when I am checking email, I am crossing my fingers that I have no messages, that email is work, email is draining. I also tell her that Chris agrees with me and has created a filter in his account so that all emails from “pgottwald” go to his “Priscilla Spam Folder.” He likes to clarify that he does not delete them, they all just skip his inbox and congregate in a folder together. She responds characteristically to the challenge with a threat: “Then I will never send him an email again.” Right.

I visited my parents last weekend and assisted in introducing one Dell Notebook Computer to one Fred (& Priscilla) Gottwald. It was an eye-opening experience for me. My dad discovered the CTRL ALT Delete function and was awestruck: “That’s FABulous.” I showed my mom how to transfer photos from her camera to the laptop which she performed very well. It was the turning on the computer that was the impossible moment: “I don’t do laptops” is actually what she said. And this brings me to my next issue.

My parents have started to say “I don’t do…”

My dad: “I don’t do reunions.”

My mom: “I don’t do laptops.”

Who says that?

At Jimmy’s Steakhouse on Friday night, I actually asked (knowing full well the pretentiousness of the question and smirking as I posed it) my dad, “I know you don’t do reunions, but can you intellectually explain what you think and how you feel about attending one?”

My own personal assignment is to think about what “I don’t do.” Clearly, I “do” vomiting subway riders and wonder where I draw the line.