I got an Apple Watch this last Christmas.

Well, by “got.” I mean “bought from a friend.”

And really, “bought from a friend” translates into “a long con from my fiancé to get the watch that I was wearing by convincing me to buy the better and newer watch so she could ‘inherit’ the old one.”

This means, everyone now has an Apple Watch and is happily altogether too connected.

ALL OF THAT TO SAY:

Did you know there is a noise alert on smartwatches to politely let you know when the world you are in is too loud?

Did you also know that, apparently, every day of my life is FAR too loud?

I find this most humorous when teaching. I’ll be calling class and invariably get a buzzing sensation from my wrist: “Loud Environment: Sound levels hit around 90 decibels.”
That was me, watch. I’m the one hitting around 90 decibels by counting to four with GREAT conviction, or by saying GO with such power and verve that you can feel it in your chest while ALSO, APPARENTLY, BEING BAD FOR MY HEARING.

It’s in the diaphragm, fam.

So, can one’s own voice be the affecting agent in hearing loss? I have no idea. But I also know that I’m loud as hell when I try and it’s a skill honed by literal decades of teaching huge groups of small kids in big rooms. And, those small kids tend to have a habit of talking quietly. Which means, I now just touch my ear when people under 4 feet talk to me about anything. I feel a little like the guy in the old-time movie with an ear horn yelling, “EH?!” at the main character.

This habit of touching my ear has started to make its way into my conversations with adults. Though, I usually catch it and just act like I’m fiddling with my earring. However, to the tiny humans attempting to communicate with me, I touch my ear to let them know that I have no idea what they said at small volumes while looking in the completely opposite direction and could they please repeat in my general direction?

For the most part, they repeat themselves at a FAR louder volume.

New problem.

But, being so loud I’m bad for myself tosses back to a time when I was in Nepal (because I AM that guy). I was in a conversation with a monk who was also drawing a tattoo for my partner at the time (long story, not interesting, slightly maudlin), and in the course of his art-making, we chatted while leaning on a railing at the monastery and generally watching the Himilayas to make sure they didn’t suddenly get taller.

He asked me about my martial arts, at the time (as in every time) I was working on some sort of injury and mentioned it. He nodded and told me that we sacrifice for the things we love. Knowledge, skill, and expertise all come with a price. And it could be my price was physical.

It gave me cause to think. And some of those thoughts were not ones that 24-year-old Corey was incredibly interested in. But, 10 years later, things are different and while I don’t always remember everything about Nepal, I remember that afternoon like it was set in crystal.

I hear echoes of that monk every day. We sacrifice for the things we believe in. We give small pieces of ourselves for whatever we value and decide is worth our heart. Our love. Or, our cartilage.

So, when my watch buzzes cheerfully to let me know I might go deaf if these self-inflicted volumes continue.

I smile, I think of the Himalayas racing the clouds for height on a beautiful spring day, and count my blessings that I have found the life I’m in.

Even if it’s incredibly loud.