They say that you never really know a man until you put him under great stress. If that's the case, then I should get in touch with my inner irrationality.
It's true. I'm unreasonable at heart. I don't make sense under extreme pressure.
Sometimes it makes me dream up magical scenarios in which some largely improbable miracle suddenly absolves me from my current crisis. Training to be a Recon Marine has revealed this to me.
I'd be there in the pool, treading water with a brick, kicking with only one leg because the other one is cramped up, working hard to minimize the water-to-air ratio in my lungs. I'll start saying to myself, "Any second now. I know it. 30 minutes is almost over." Then I'll look up at the clock. It hasn't even been five.
Or I'll be battling the freezing Pacific Ocean, with uniform on, deuce gear, rifle on my back, everything. It's terrible. But there I am, staring at the horizon between waves, waiting to see my instructor drive up in his boat and announce, "Guess what! You've done such a great job, you don't have to finish! Go ahead and get out of the water!" I can actually see his smile and hear his voice as he tenderly pulls me aboard.
I've also developed little tricks to conjure sympathy from my instructors. I'll grimace in severe pain as they pass by, I'll start frothing at the mouth, I'll make loud grunting and gasping noises. But the sounds have to be low and gruff, not too squeaky and bitch-like. Otherwise they might not believe you. I'm telling you, the throatier, the better.
Stress, dude. It brings out the best in us.
It's true. I'm unreasonable at heart. I don't make sense under extreme pressure.
Sometimes it makes me dream up magical scenarios in which some largely improbable miracle suddenly absolves me from my current crisis. Training to be a Recon Marine has revealed this to me.
I'd be there in the pool, treading water with a brick, kicking with only one leg because the other one is cramped up, working hard to minimize the water-to-air ratio in my lungs. I'll start saying to myself, "Any second now. I know it. 30 minutes is almost over." Then I'll look up at the clock. It hasn't even been five.
Or I'll be battling the freezing Pacific Ocean, with uniform on, deuce gear, rifle on my back, everything. It's terrible. But there I am, staring at the horizon between waves, waiting to see my instructor drive up in his boat and announce, "Guess what! You've done such a great job, you don't have to finish! Go ahead and get out of the water!" I can actually see his smile and hear his voice as he tenderly pulls me aboard.
I've also developed little tricks to conjure sympathy from my instructors. I'll grimace in severe pain as they pass by, I'll start frothing at the mouth, I'll make loud grunting and gasping noises. But the sounds have to be low and gruff, not too squeaky and bitch-like. Otherwise they might not believe you. I'm telling you, the throatier, the better.
Stress, dude. It brings out the best in us.
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