Are you annoying enough?
Why this is a serious question
Yesterday, I cycled twenty-two miles on my cornflower blue 12-speed. Eleven there, work, eleven home. It’s been five months without use. More often I ride the Rad electric wagon—hills!—but I wanted to push myself, unassisted. To my surprise, the ride wasn’t awfully difficult. Though the chain fell off, a minor setback, I made good time. My quads burned pleasantly when I arrived.
The city comes closer when I cycle. I bump along the uneven pavement. I slice through gravel. Cemeteries line the interurban trail. I pass lost friendship bracelets and Sour Patch Kids wrappers. I draft stories about the people who’ve cast faded Tibetan prayer flags like nets across their mossy roofs, to catch the peace of the sky. The family with a navy stroller at the front door cracked ajar, the baby still sleeping. An egg-shaped wicker chair on an 8th-floor balcony—an invitation to a fertility goddess. Someone will be selling a modern box home, I decide, there are new pansies. Squirrels leap in zig-zags—oh, all the living going on around me. All the living things living their lives.
At a stoplight, I greet a bright-eyed, toothless man. We nod. When the light turns green, I force eye contact with drivers. Frowning in their shiny seats, looking at their phones. Hey—I’m here! I smile and wave. Hey—don’t hit me! I pray. I wear my prayer: a neon orange vest that blinks, obnoxiously. I want to be annoying. Let me be seen, let me not get hurt, let me live; I’m here!
Afterward feels so good. I did it! I am alive! Possibility widens. And keeping this feeling to myself is impossible. I find myself spontaneously telling colleagues, friends, family, the exercise class instructor, and the mothers at the Festival of Cultures, about my ride. The miles. The hills. The incident with the chain. The people. How scrappy I am—riding a not-fancy bicycle. The basket was repaired with duct tape. There was sunshine and eye contact with strangers and aliveness. What a day, right?
It dawns on me that annoyance—or the quality of “being annoying”—has a double edge. It’s possible, for instance, that my enthusiasm and eye contact annoy people. People on the street. People in conversation. No one likes a bragger. The dutiful in me cares about etiquette. I appreciate good manners. I believe it’s unkind to interrupt, to be too loud, to be unaware of the mood, to use negative language, to complain. I am working on healthier interpersonal habits. Don’t be a jerk, right?
But—there are benefits to being annoying. An honest gesture of enthusiasm and persistence in living might be annoying. Our world is maddening. Our cityscapes are upsetting. Our stress-filled days, governed by the tyranny of the calendar, the clock, the traffic, the hyper-personalized data, not to mention, the crises—it’s all so much. You have to push back, say hey—I’m here! Hey—don’t hit me! You have to wear your prayers aloud as you navigate the space between a truck and a dippy, leaf-filled drain. Resist the rhythms that threaten to sweep you away. Save yourself. Tell others your story. Be the neon orange vest that blinks, obnoxiously. Be seen. Make eye contact. Live and live to tell the story.
Upcoming courses
Writing about Past Travels (at Hugo House) has kicked off! Beloved dreams, past selves, it’s happening. I teased this in a fun Instagram story, and in case you don’t follow me on Instagram, I’ll share here.
It’s not too late to register for Bake a Zine with Kate Lebo (at Hugo House) Saturday, Jan. 27, 2024 | 10a-1p PT | In-person | Register! ($94.50/$105). Cook-up a story through a recipe? Sounds delicious.
Coming soon | I’m teaching The Writer’s Newsletter (at Hugo House) | Saturday, June 1, 2024 | 10a-1p PT | Online | Registration details to come.
(Some annoying) recommendations
Stephanie Land’s new newsletter is fantastic! Her latest essay on five years of anxiety is illuminating—and infuriating. I can relate to persistent unease. I cannot relate to facing the ugly effects of jealousy, or, a grueling book tour where you relive your trauma for an audience.
Ugh, media layoffs (not good for local journalism, and in the link, Kathleen Schmidt explains why it’s bad for publishing), plus, the life-crushing flooding in San Diego.
The children couldn’t suppress laughter about the airplane that turned around because of a passenger’s explosive gas. Back to the gate! I tried to verify this but couldn’t find credible sources. Let’s agree that farts and gas-related stories about farts are a gas.
I’ve read three new books, but I didn’t love them. I also don’t think they deserve a negative review (manners!). I’ll be annoying and leave you hanging, giving a mystery essay link (recommended by a writer in my class) instead!
Thank you for reading The Gift.
Until next time,
Monika
The Gift
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"...You have to push back, say hey—I’m here! Hey—don’t hit me! You have to wear your prayers aloud as you navigate the space..." Absolutely! We have been relegated to the shadows long enough - come out and shine and blink and grasp life by the hooteys!