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Summit Up

Good morning, and welcome to Summit Up, the world’s only daily column trying to regulate its nervous system.

While most of you are sleeping off hangovers or trying to ignore the fact your parents raised you in a religion that makes sleeping in on Sunday a sin, we’re here pumpin’ out words so you have something to choke down your morning coffee with.

Only problem is, we’ve been thinking too much about sleep lately. A lot of us are insomniacs. We work hard and play hard, which means, when it comes to sleep, it’s, well, hard.

We know we’re not the only ones. We commiserate with all those restaurant workers who serve burgers and brews all day – and again all night in their sleep.

But the real problem occurs when our nervous systems slow down enough to let us sleep.

Or, more accurately, when we innocently walk in to get a massage and the “health care professional” decides he’s going to “wind down” our nervous system without our consent.

We walk out of our massage singing “the hills are alive with the sound of music,” only it’s not Julie Andrew’s high-energy version. It’s toned down by the natural endorphins that oozed out when he cranked on our muscles to release scar tissue from the time we sprained our thumb when we fell into a huge hole on a powder day at the Basin in the early 1990s.

So, fresh from our massage, we walk into work – where everyone’s buzzing with caffeine and adrenaline – and we’re utterly useless. All we can think about is staring at the pretty sparkles bouncing off of Lake Dillon.

And, we wonder, what would the world come to if everyone got massages?

First of all, everyone, would, talk, as, if, commas, were, their, favorite, punctuation. As it is today, when someone talks to us – especially if it’s not about sparkling lakes – it’s like listening through a wall of mush.

Second, people would tend to stare into space or become engrossed in tiny white glare spots on each letter of their computers’ keyboards. (We know we’re not supposed to look, but we cheated in high school when they taught us to type without peeking.)

Third, they wouldn’t really care about anything except hanging out, and it wouldn’t matter where (the nearest couch sounds good).

They wouldn’t even care enough to attempt pretending to fit in with all the other overly productive people in the world.

They would just BE, in the fullest sense of Ram Dass’ acid-dripping illustrations.

It wouldn’t bother them if they’re on the bus or off the bus, either.

Speaking of road trips, we’re thinking of driving down to Boulder to hang out and OHHHMM with the hippies on Pearl Street, only it would require an active commitment to go from Point A to Point B, and right now, we’re not sure we could make it through the tunnel without opening and closing our eyes really fast just for effect.

And we’re sure this time we’d ignore the “no parking” signs on Interstate 70 when we come upon that cool watermill – which now has an even cooler pumpkin face stretched over it. We may even start talking with the buffalos down the road – which would be disastrous, because inevitably they’d tell us they don’t want to be turned into ground meat. And that would be the end of our red-meat consumption.

Then we’d have to move down to Boulder and join the nearest vegetarian commune for sure. And that’s a problem when you’re somewhat of a loner.

So, our only hope is to embrace the philosophy we found on a T-shirt one day while thumbing through one of those useless mail-order catalogues.

If our over-taxed memory serves us correctly, it went like this:

Socrates: “to do is to be.”

Plato: “to be is to do.”

Sinatra: “do-be-do-be-do.”

We think Sinatra’s wisdom holds the secret to ultimate balance. We’ve already babbled about how the lack of sleep in SummitUp Land stems from too much Do-Do-Doing. And, we’ve outlined the dangers of Be-Be-Being too much.

So, our wish to you on this fine Sunday morning is to do-be-do-be-do throughout the day.

Give it a try, and tell us how it goes.

Or, if you have a better musical philosophy for us to try, drop an e-mail at summitup@ or call (970) 668-3998, ext. 237, and sing us into a state of alert relaxation.

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