If you slow down long enough to consider why you do what you do, you’ll probably be amazed and disturbed at the same time. I’m reading a book that’s jerking me around like that, The Power of Habit. It’s delivering the one-two punch of amazement and disturbance. I was listening to an interview, recently, on one of those network morning talk segments that stirred my curiosity so much, I went straight to Amazon and ordered. I have a love/hate relationship with my new book.

What I’m learning is this; habit is established based on the craving for the end result more than the end result itself. This is fascinating and confusing at the same time. I’m fascinated because studies show the reason people habitually exercise is they crave the endorphins and other neurochemicals they get from the work out and the sense of accomplishment that comes when they’re cooling down. I’m confused because after I exercise, all I want to do is lie down and drink a big glass of sweet tea, which most likely cancels out all the calories I just burned. Forget the endorphin rush.

Exercise for me is driven more out of a burning sense of guilt than desire. I go in seasons of really committed or really full of excuses, one extreme or the other. A friend posted on Facebook the other day she started out her birthday with an eight mile run. My son Travis just shaved 13 minutes off his best half marathon time. Those two things alone raised my guilt level higher than the excuses.

I hadn’t laced up my walking shoes in a few weeks, ok, a few months, so I got them out. No sense of craving hit, but it was a beautiful day and I was looking forward to simply being outside. Where I live there’s barely 25 yards of flat ground which, in my sense of reasoning, is a logical excuse for not walking. However, for every uphill there is a downhill where I can regroup and stop gasping.

I was in a downhill-stop-panting phase when I noticed something unusual. I stopped. Growing out of the crack between the asphalt road and the concrete curb were two wild daisies. The strangest thing was there were no other daisies anywhere around. They were oddly out of place.

I took a picture, smiled and kept walking. I wondered how those flowers ever got there and how they managed to grow. More than likely bird poop deposited the seeds for them to get started and, even though they look delicate, they have enough gumption and grit to keep going.

This is what dawned on me while on my guilt induced walk: it doesn’t matter how you got there, or what you have to work with, do the best you can, with what you have, right where you are.

A habit established by an endorphin rush or not, I should keep on walking. There’s a lot to learn out there.

Sitting at a grade school talent show, inspired by a rousing piano rendition of Ode To Joy, skits written by fourth graders, and a boy bouncing on a pogo stick the whole four minutes and three seconds of Van Halen's song Jump, I had a flashback. Not like a Van Halen type flashback, but a nostalgic one. As the emcee announced the ensemble of two, third grade girls on the violin and saxophone and Jackson Brawner on the trumpet, the same butterflies started flapping that always surfaced when Jason Brawner’s name was ever announced.

For Jackson, this was serious business and he didn’t miss a note of Bugler’s Dream, better known as the Olympics song. I was amazed and instantly felt that sting behind my nose signaling tears are next. Honestly, keeping it together at an elementary school program should not be a struggle. Why is it things connected to childhood stir emotions in even the most stoic adult? Something about the setting took me on a memory trip to high school. Where did all this come from?

That I was stronger than some of the guys on the real football team and could even out-run a few of them wasn’t glamorous, but it did get me the fullback position on the powderpuff team. My friend Ginny who, on the other hand, was petite, beautiful and defined femininity, shocked everyone with her throwing arm so she was named quarterback. What impressed me more than her arm was she cut off her perfectly manicured nails to get a better grip on the football. For Ginny, like Jackson, this was serious business.

Because the big game was a fundraiser, parents, teachers and the student body came out to see how much the cheerleaders actually knew about football. Trailing by a few points with just a few seconds left on the clock, Ginny called one of the secret plays we had only run in practice. Surely this was the magic. Ginny would hand me the ball as I went opposite of the flow of players and hopefully they would be fooled.

Then it happened, our semi reverse worked! I took off like never before. Now it had become serious business for me.

When I was about five feet from the goal line, the referee’s whistle blew. Confused, I stopped because no one had my flag. No one was near me so why was the whistle blown? Then a girl from the other team flew past me like The Roadrunner snatching the flag off my belt. The sidelines roared and I was still confused.

As I headed to the sidelines, John, the coach who was one of the real football players, pointed to his watch. The whistle I heard was to only signal time had expired off the clock. I stared at him in disbelief as tears leaked. I had stopped 5 feet short of victory for my team. How could the girls ever forgive me? How could I ever forgive myself?

My friend John, in all of his 17-year-old wisdom, hugged me and said what I have always remembered, “It’s OK Suzette. Just remember this: Next time don’t stop until you get to where you’re going, even if you hear a whistle.”

How many times do we stop five feet short of the goal because we are worn out, or distracted, or confused? We give up on projects, we give up on dreams, and we give up on people. What’s really sad is, if we give up, we’ll never know how good it feels to do the victory dance in the end zone, even if it’s only in our minds.

The applause, cheering and whistling brought my attention back to the school auditorium. Jackson had the victory dance going on in his smile; satisfaction of a job well done. Oh, the things you can be reminded of watching a grade school talent show.

Don’t stop until you get to where you're going.

Among the twinkling Christmas lights and chocolate I stood staring at the display of canes in the durable medical equipment section of Walgreens acting like I knew what I was doing. Jim Brawner had an old knee, worn out from years of running 10ks and marathons, replaced with a shiny, new titanium one. So there I was, choosing a cane so he could transition off a walker.

Like everything else, there are so many cane choices; 4 prong or single, fashion color, animal print, plain black or Moses-like. Since he had tolerated my decorating his walker with garland and flashing LED mini lights, I figured he most likely would rather have the plain black one.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw an older gentleman watching me sort and think. I looked at him and smiled hoping he could offer some advice. Startled that I had caught him staring, he quickly said with a sheepish grin, “There’s nothing like a good cane. I have several.”

I squinted trying to understand. “Really?”, I asked.

“Nothing like a good cane. That’s kind of like saying there’s nothing like a good bra; it’s necessary,” I thought, but didn’t say out loud.

After a 5 minute story about every cane he had, I chose the plain black one and thanked him for his help. And on the way home I thought about the wisdom of the cane man.

Without even knowing it he reminded me, in all the madness and chaos this time of year, not to forget about the simple ‘there’s nothing like a good ________ fill in the blank. There’s nothing like a good cup of coffee. There’s nothing like a good night’s sleep. There’s nothing like a good friend.

So as you dash around today, in the competition of finding a parking spot and the wrestling for the last Wii game, take a deep breath and think about all your nothing is as good as things. It might adjust your perspective.

Jim Brawner most likely will never say, “There’s nothing like a good cane.” He can’t wait to get rid of it. But, you might hear him say, “There’s nothing like a good knee.”

In school, along with English 101 and American History, How To Wait Well should be required. I’m not sure the title is proper or correct, but if it was called How To Be A Good Waiter, things could get real confusing.

I’ll admit, I stink when it comes to being gracious when waiting is involved. Recently, though, Droid kept me calm and helped me endure 15 minutes in the express lane at the Super Center. Since there was obviously nothing express about it, I was able to check and reply to all my email and as a bonus catch up on reading the magazines in the check out line.

I’ve made an unsettling discovery about myself while waiting; I want everything to happen my way, on my schedule, which means sooner than later. Obviously, I don’t wait well. A few days ago I wanted so desperately to throw in the towel and just go sit down. I’m tired of waiting. Quitting is so tempting, not just in Walmart, but in several areas of my life.

The next day I found myself waiting again, this time at Jiffy Lube. I’d already checked email and there wasn’t a rack of magazines to distract me to, so I flipped through an app on Droid that I’d stumbled across. It offered important facts like, “The 7-Eleven Extreme Gulp is 50% bigger than the human stomach!” and “Punctuation was not invented until the 1500’s.” But I stopped and reread the next one three times: “Elvis Presley made a ‘C’ in 8th grade music.” Really?

Elvis making a ‘C’ in music falls into the category of Michael Jordan being cut from the high school freshman basketball team ... absurd! As weird as it sounds, reading that was comforting in a strange way. Everyone has to wait.

Timing is involved in most things in life, whether it’s shooting a 3 pointer, holding a note or potty training. If they’re rushed, it’s usually disastrous. Maybe we have to wait because it’s just not quite the right time or we need more practice. Maybe there’s a specific reason we’re unaware of for the wait.

The plastic molded chair at the Jiffy Lube is a perfect place to think. I wondered how many others had sat right where I was, teetering on giving up on one thing or another. I smiled and determined myself to press on. I also considered how the 8th grade music teacher felt in 1954 when she heard Elvis on the radio for the first time.

If you think about it, quitting requires no special talent. History repeatedly confirms that those who succeed in life are the ones who refuse to sit down and quit. Last week I realized I’m not making a ‘C’ in waiting, I’m flunking. What’s interesting is, in order to wait better, I’ll have to experience more waiting to learn how. So if you see me in the express lane with Droid in hand you’ll know I’m doing my homework.

I’ve never worked in customer service, but I’ve been a customer ... thousands of places. That has to count for something. I have a great idea, but it seems the old fashioned suggestion box, like to face to face communication, is no longer the norm.

I read an article the other day that recommended if you want to communicate with a 20-30 year, old don’t email or call, text. Calling is so last decade and email is so five years ago. If I had the contact info for the customer service representative of every fast food restaurant in the country, I would text this message: “For better service and less customer frustration implement a “beverages only” line.”

I do consider the fact I live in a tourist town and in the summer it’s just easier to drive to another town for anything, but drive-through and walk-up counter service everywhere would work so much better if there was a separate line for those only wanting something to drink.

The other day I was going to drive-through McDonalds and the line was so long I parked and went in. Big mistake. Longer lines were inside probably because is was a toasty 103 degrees outside. I was actually running 20 minutes ahead of schedule so I took a deep breath and got in line.

After a few minutes the woman ahead of me turned around smiling and said, “Wow this is crazy, where are you from?”

“Right here in town,” I smiled back.

“Really? You live here. I’ve never met anyone who lives here,” she looked surprised.

I hear that a lot and wonder how people think the town operates if everyone is a visitor.

She told me about all the shows she and her friends had seen, every restaurant they had eaten in and that they would be headed back to Iowa later that afternoon. We both agreed the heat made most folks irritable, especially if they had screaming, hungry kids.

I ran my “beverages only” line idea by her and she thought it was fabulous. “It could be like the returns line at TJ Maxx,” I explained. “When no one is returning anything the clerk jumps over to the purchase register and rings customers up. So if no one wants a beverage only the server could move to the regular register to take orders. There are always at least two idle registers at every fast food restaurant I’ve ever been in anyway.”

“You are so right!” she said as she finally placed her order. “You should make that suggestion somewhere.”

I felt so validated.

After my 15 second exchange at the counter of my $1.09 and the large Styrofoam cup I knew my suggestion would be a good one because it had been 15 minutes since I had left my car in the parking lot.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m put into situations to strengthen my underdeveloped spiritual gifts. Instead of working on patience, I usually dream up ways other people can do things better. I don’t like that about myself and it stings a bit when I realize I need to refocus.

I still think my “beverages only” line is a good idea.

Have you ever thought something sounded like a good idea, but then it played out differently than you imagined? I found myself right there recently. While flipping through the Sunday paper I saw a coupon for the Shrine Circus; one free kid’s ticket with one full paid adult ticket. I could take two of the grandkids for the price of one. I’m a sucker for coupons and I hadn’t been to the circus in over 20 years, so I carefully tore along the dotted lines.

The following Friday, Jackson, Mollie Jane and I were off to the 4:30 matinee at the Shrine Mosque, Abeem-Aboom-Something-or-Other. I’ve decided the Shriners make up names to challenge us civilians. The circus raises thousands of dollars for the Shriners’ Hospitals to help kids secure needed medical help they might not otherwise be able to have. Once outside Mazzio’s Pizza, ten-year-old Travis was walking funny because he had spilled Coke in his lap during lunch when he was goofing around with his friend Ross. A man approached Jim Brawner and said, “I’m a Shriner. I can help your son. Here’s my card if you want to give me a call later.”

Jim smiled, thanked him and bit his lip to keep from saying, “You want to give it a try?”

The fellas in the maroon tasseled hats guided us in the ticket buying process and through the maze up to the front door. The minute I stepped in, the smell of cotton candy, popcorn, and elephant, transported me back in time.

Two sodas, one bag of popcorn, a snow cone, and cotton candy in hand we headed for the seats. But wait, there were really cool lazar swords and butterflies we couldn’t pass up. Juggling our goods we finally settled in. Wow, three rings, clowns, elephant and pony rides had all three of us staring with our mouths open.

“Sue Sue, can we get our faces painted too?” Jackson asked, bringing me back.

“Let me see,” I said as I dug through my wallet.

“Oh Buddy, I don’t have enough money left and these guys won’t take my debit card. They want cash,” I said in disbelief realizing I only had a five dollar bill left from the $80.00 I had punched out at the ATM.

“That’s OK. We can do that next year,” he smiled as he bit into the cotton candy.

While I was silently trying to figure out how I had just spent $75.00, the lights lowered and the crowd cheered. The Ringmaster stepped into the spotlight in the traditional too-tight pants and tailed jacket, “Laaadiees and geeentelllmen, boooys and girrrls ....” Are you kidding me? It’s as if those words hit a button in my memory and here came the tears. I instantly needed my Dad.

Suddenly I realized Mollie Jane was watching me. Come on Suzette, get it together! “What’s wrong Sue Sue,” she asked?

“Oh, I think I got popcorn salt in my eye. It’s OK now. Wow, would you look at that!”

Two hours later we slowly walked out with the crowd discussing if the lions were really mad or just pretending, how scary it was to watch the guy on the high-flying wheel and the reason our feet were sticking to the floor.

When I tore the coupon out of that Sunday paper I never planned on what I was really going to experience.

Two admission tickets, one coupon $28.00

Popcorn, cotton candy, sodas and a snow cone $17.00

A lazar sword and a lazar butterfly $30.00

Memories ..... old and new Priceless!

Each year in grade school we had election of officers. Of course there were the glamorous positions of president, vice president, secretary and treasure. They all had the normal responsibilities someone in that office would be expected to fulfill. But, the office with the most important responsibility was fire Marshall. He or she got to go to a meeting in the principal’s office at the first of each month to decide when the fire drill would be for that month. That person also got to boss everyone, including the teacher, when the fire drill siren when off. I thought it would have been really cool to be the classroom fire Marshall. It was the bossing part I wanted to do, I’m quite sure.

Now the warning systems set in place in schools and in communities are a bit more sophisticated. This time of year tornado warnings are frequent. When we were in Mexico in the fall, the minute the hurricane warning was issued everyone jumped into action to prepare. Fortunately it by-passed us. We have flood warnings and fire warning we evacuate for. But, the one thing that hits without warning is an earthquake.

The only time I even got a hint of what an earthquake felt like was from a slight tremor when I was visiting California. Honestly I thought I had just had too much morning coffee, but the suddenness of it made me realize there is no warning. For one who has borderline control issues, that is an uneasy feeling.

The horrific destruction from the earthquake that hit Japan is mind boggling. They had no warning. Then the tsunami hit with short warning. The devastation and loss of life are more than I can wrap my brain around.

Watching the new reports and reading the different accounts are a bit overwhelming. My friend Jack asked the other day if I had noticed a thread running through all the reports. He went on to point out how calm the Japanese people seemed waiting for water and supplies in single file lines. When questioned some had been waiting for 2 days but answered they were sure they would have water in a little while. There was no looting, no shouting, no swearing at the government for not moving fast enough. There was no sense of entitlement, but of gratitude for help when it did arrive.

I’ve always heard if you want to see the true character of a person watch what spills out when he gets bumped. The Japanese people have not been bumped, but slammed and to watch what spills out of them is convicting to say the least.

Warning ... maybe we need to learn a thing or two.