Reward

Managing stress is like trying not eat the bag of cookies some careless jack-ass has left on the table in front of you, with the admonition, "There'd better be some cookies left when I get back." The first question that pops into your head would be, "How many is some?"

I suppose we all handle the pressures that can mount in a day a little differently. I like to yell at cars. I don't call it road rage, I call it 'bleeding the valve' It's not even the drivers I'm yelling at. I'm sure they're people just like me, trying to get to work or do the groceries, multitasking as they wait for the light to change. I know a girl who bursts into tears whether she's feeling stressed or deliriously happy. Another friend of mine routinely blames 'stupid people' for causing so much havoc in his life. No names, no faces, just that unrecognizable idiot who mangles every situation and does the wrong thing at the wrong time.

In a long and drunken conversation the other night, the topic of human evolution came up and I wondered out loud which Darwinian mutation might appear on the horizon and then dismissed the two heads theory that popped into my single one. Upon further reflection (Yeah, I'm a nerd, so what?) I have decided to put my money on what I like to call the 'bliss node'.

Imagine it. You're stuck in traffic, your wife has just left you and taken the dog (the only one you really cared about, anyway), some dick backed into the you in the parking lot and the cheque you deposited yesterday, from work, bounced because the company has gone into receivership and you'll miss the mortgage payment. Can you see it? You're in the fast lane, at a standstill, and the car in front of you erupts with a loud burst of hissing steam and the driver pops the hood. The cars are lined up end to end and no one will let you back up to swing into the next lane. You've had two too many coffees and are about to soil the cloth seats of the car and the woman in the mini-van behind you starts to lay on the horn to serenade you with her automotive rendition of Queens 'We will Rock You'.

Suddenly, you feel the cooling caress of dopamine sliding down your spinal column and the sweet feeling of blissful relaxation picks up your sorry ass and you are transported to a grassy field that lies somewhere outside of time and space. You shift in your seat and realize that its a hammock strung between two trees swaying gently in the breeze coming in off the lake. You hear a sound and its the door to a palatial mansion sending out a quietly sedate squeak as a beautiful woman comes out struggling under the weight of the biggest, frostiest mug of beer you have ever seen. As you tentatively sip at the foam another noise makes you turn and you see Jimmy Page, circa '72, tuning a double-necked Gibson guitar just as John Paul Jones leans over the keyboard and starts to play. Someone taps you on the shoulder and says into your ear, "Just sit back and relax, at least until the hot tub's ready."

I'm sure that out there, right now, these mutants are already among us. They handle every stressful situation with aplomb and navigate the treacherous landscape like a Sherpa with a two week supply of food and water. They smile as the bottom drops out on them and if you put your ear up to theirs you will probably be able to make out the strains of 'What Is and What Should Never Be' drifting along the surf of ocean waves. Don't hate them. They represent the future and if they live long enough to procreate they might just evolve into something more than screaming maniacs, a little too close to pulling the trigger or driving up the back end of the Neon stalled in front of them. Doesn't help me, though. A cold beer might. Maybe.